Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Pietro hadn’t needed a father in all his eight years. Not when his name had to change to Peter, and Wanda became Wendy to avoid taunts and jeers. Not when his mutation emerged, making the world a blur as he sped through it alone. Not even when his mother’s anger first lashed out at him, his cheek stinging red like the bow Wanda always wore in her curly hair. But Wanda was different. Wanda longed for a father—not just in name, but as a presence, a hand to steady her, a voice to assure her that everything would be okay.

Since her mutation appeared, Wanda craved stability, a sense of safety that Pietro tried, in vain, to provide. She’d see through his forced reassurances, preferring the family that existed only in her mind: a stable mother, a father who hadn’t abandoned them, and a twin who didn’t treat her as if she were fragile glass, moments away from shattering. The chaos within her was palpable and terrifying, and Pietro felt it every day. He’d find her sitting on her bed, wide-eyed and distant, clutching a photograph that, to her, held the face of their father. The picture had appeared after one of Wanda’s dissociative episodes, and from that day forward, it was always with her, a talisman she’d take to school and keep close every night beneath her scarlet pillow. The colour coding had been their mother’s idea, from the days when she still loved them, when her stories about their father had softened the hurt. Pietro still remembered those days, running around with magnets with Wanda, pretending they could move metal like him.

The man in the photo, Wanda insisted, must be their father. He shared her auburn hair, though his eyes were a pale green that seemed almost blue under Wanda’s nightlight. Pietro was less convinced. He shared his mother’s brown eyes, though hers were edged with fury, while his held only sorrow. He looked like their mother, and perhaps because of this, she could stand to look at him. But Wanda, who carried their father’s features, had only to walk into a room for their mother to recoil, her rage exploding as she flung anything at hand—a bottle, a book, a plate. Pietro’s mutation, if it served any purpose, was his ability to shield Wanda in these moments, moving fast enough to intercept objects before they could hit her. Afterwards, he’d hold her as she cried, drowning out their mother’s shouts with soft reassurances, though Wanda never gave up trying to win her mother’s affection. Wanda was too attached to her vision of a perfect family and would risk anything to make it real, much to Pietro’s despair.

Wanda’s visions, though, were dangerous. Sometimes she would fall into a spell of unresponsiveness, and Pietro had to shake her out of it, fighting through waves of crimson energy that crackled around her. During one particularly intense episode, Pietro had been thrown across the room, waking to find Wanda’s tear-streaked face leaning over him, begging him to open his eyes. She had blamed herself, convinced she’d almost killed him, and Pietro spent hours comforting her. It was one of the only times he’d seen her smile falter.

Normally, Wanda was all smiles—the picture of an angel, even after their mother slapped her. She’d emerge from the room with a forced grin, the imaginary family in her mind calming her. Pietro, on the other hand, wore his defiance-like armour, a smirk that he flashed at anyone who’d challenge him. He couldn’t control his restless urge to take whatever he wanted, and he never tried. It hurt him more to stay still than to bear the sting of a slap.

One evening, returning home with a pilfered box of Twinkies in hand, Pietro’s world shattered. He’d heard his mother on the phone, her voice cutting through the quiet hallway. No one ever called their landline, so he hid by the basement stairway, listening. “How soon can you come to collect her?” she asked. Pietro’s heart stopped. Her? She could only mean Wanda. “Tomorrow?” His mother’s voice held an edge of relief. “Perfect.”

Ignoring the rest, Pietro bolted up to their bedroom. Wanda was on the floor, clutching the photograph in two torn halves. She looked up, her wide green eyes brimming with tears. “She ripped it, Pietro,” she said, holding up the broken pieces. “She tore him in half.”

Pietro barely heard her, his mind racing. Tomorrow, Wanda would be taken away from him. “Who cares about the stupid photo, Wanda!” he snapped. Wrong thing to say. Red energy crackled around the room as Wanda’s belongings began to levitate, her anguish filling the air. “They’re going to take you away!” Pietro shouted, his voice breaking. The objects dropped, and Wanda looked up, horror dawning in her eyes. “What?” she whispered.

“We have to leave now,” he urged. “Before they take you away from me.” He began packing, throwing their belongings into a pile as Wanda watched him, stunned.

“I know somewhere we can go,” Wanda said suddenly, holding up the newly mended photograph. “It’s safe there.”

Pietro glanced over, his eyes narrowing as he took in the picture. It had changed. Next to their father stood a smiling man with bright blue eyes and an arm draped over his shoulders. Behind them, a grand mansion rose like a fortress of dreams. “See?” Wanda whispered, pointing at the cursive writing below the picture: Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters, Westchester County, NY. “My magic showed it to me, Pietro. It has to be safe.”

Pietro had no arguments left. Wanda’s hopeful face was enough, and so they packed what little they owned. She made sure to include their photo album. “So he can see what he missed,” she explained, carefully placing it in the bag. Pietro couldn’t help but laugh. Wanda was certain her father would care about those lost years.

And so, carrying his sister in his arms, Pietro dashed into the night. Their mother’s shouting faded behind them as they sped through the quiet streets. Wanda held on tight, her eyes squeezed shut, while Pietro, for the first time in years, felt something close to hope.

And that is how two eight-year-olds, bound by blood and survival, found themselves on Charles Xavier’s doorstep.

Chapter Text

Pietro skidded to a stop outside the rusted iron gates, lowering Wanda onto the grass. She let out a small grunt as she landed, giving his ankles a playful swipe in retribution. Pietro danced out of reach with a smirk, his attention drawn upward to the sprawling mansion before them. It was far larger and grander than the photograph had shown, an endless expanse of stone walls, towering windows, and ivy-covered facades. Beside him, Wanda slowly rose, her eyes widening as she took in the estate’s sheer size. She held onto Pietro for support, entranced, while he rattled the gates impatiently, jarring her from her awe.

“Come on!” Pietro nudged her forward, ignoring the faded Private Property sign that warned trespassers to stay away. They shared a glance—neither had any intention of heeding the warning. After Pietro shook the gates a few more times, Wanda reached out tentatively and pressed her hand against the iron bars, watching as the gates creaked open as if on cue.

Pietro darted through, catching Wanda off guard. She stumbled, her foot grazing a plaque partially buried in the overgrown grass that bore the mansion’s name: Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters. Pausing to right the plaque, Wanda then hurried down the gravel drive after her brother, past a neglected fountain with water no longer trickling down its cracked tiers, and up to the massive wooden door.

“Finally,” Pietro exhaled, turning to Wanda. “You were taking ag—” He stopped mid-sentence, his expression shifting to a scowl.

“What?” Wanda asked, startled. She touched her face instinctively, only to flinch in pain as her fingers brushed her swollen eye.

“You have a black eye!” Pietro blurted, alarmed. Wanda winced, her hand hovering near the bruise as a fresh wave of panic took hold.

“They’re not going to want us here now!” she cried, her voice high with worry as red mist began to swirl around her, laced with her distress.

“Calm down,” Pietro murmured, gently lowering her hand. “Maybe they’ll feel sorry for you and let us stay. Besides, it’s not like we have anywhere else to go.” He offered a half-hearted smile. Wanda exhaled, the mist dissipating as his words reassured her.

“Good point,” she nodded, relaxing. “Maybe I should even cry a little. Make them feel really bad,” she added, wiping her eyes dramatically. Pietro stifled a chuckle as Wanda scrunched up her face, tears gathering in her green eyes.

“Genius,” he muttered approvingly, though both twins stared nervously up at the looming front door, suddenly unsure of what might be waiting behind it.

“Go on, knock,” Pietro whispered, nudging her closer.

“You do it,” Wanda protested, scrambling back.

Pietro rolled his eyes and pushed her gently forward. Wanda sighed in defeat, stretching up on her tiptoes to reach the heavy iron knocker. She let it drop twice, its echo reverberating through the empty space. Brushing dust off her dress, she stepped back to stand beside Pietro as they waited.

“Maybe knock again,” Pietro muttered, the silence stretching.

“No, that’s rude,” Wanda insisted, clasping her hands in front of her, determined to wait.

They were debating whether to knock a second time when the door creaked open, causing both twins to turn and stare up at the tall, lanky figure who appeared in the doorway. The man wore glasses that glinted in the low light, his expression a mix of surprise and curiosity.

“Can I help you?” he asked, after a few awkward seconds of silence.

Wanda cleared her throat, stepping forward as she straightened her dress. “Hi, I’m Wendy, and this is Peter. We’re twins.” She flashed a strained smile.

Pietro chimed in, “I’m twelve minutes older though!” earning him a quick elbow in the ribs from Wanda.

The man, still processing the strange sight before him, offered a small smile. “I’m Hank,” he introduced himself. “Nice to meet you, Wendy and Peter. Now, can I ask why you’re here?”

“We’re looking for a Mr. Charles Xavier,” Wanda said, her voice filling with cautious hope as her gaze met his.

Hank’s expression softened, though he glanced at her black eye with evident concern. “Yes, Professor Xavier does live here,” he said carefully. “But… what happened to your eye?”

Wanda shifted uncomfortably, but Pietro answered for her, his voice unexpectedly sharp. “Our mom did it,” he said, his expression hardening. Hank’s gaze grew even more troubled as he took in the two of them standing there, weary, bruised, and visibly worn out.

“Well,” Hank said, clearing his throat, “why don’t you come inside.” He stepped back, holding the door wide open for the twins, who exchanged a look of relief before following him inside.

As soon as they crossed the threshold, Pietro noticed how dusty the room was. The floorboards, the drapes, and even the large, arched windows were covered in a thick film, clouding everything in a pale layer of neglect. Each step the twins took stirred little clouds of dust into the air, which swirled lazily in the sunlight that strained through the windows. Wanda coughed as Hank led them to a worn sofa in the middle of the grand but gloomy room. Pietro had already zipped through the house, catching a glimpse of its quiet, empty spaces. To him, it looked like no one had properly lived here in a long time.

Wanda threw Pietro a glance to see if Hank had noticed his quick disappearance and reappearance, but Hank’s gaze remained steady, oblivious. Pietro’s firm presence at her side kept Wanda’s nerves at bay, the chaos of her emotions receding slightly with her brother near.

Hank motioned to the sofa, watching as the children sank into its worn cushions. For a moment, he hesitated, memories stirring. Once, this mansion had been filled with laughter and voices, children tumbling through the halls at all hours of the day. But that had been years ago, before... everything changed. Now, the silence felt almost oppressive.

Pietro, clearly uncomfortable with the quiet, blurted out, “So, where’s Charles?” He scanned the room as if half-expecting the man to appear at any moment. Wanda’s eyes widened slightly at Pietro’s bluntness. “I’m really sorry about him, Mr. Hank,” she quickly apologized, her voice small but earnest.

Hank waved her apology aside, though he could barely keep up with his own thoughts. He was so focused on the unexpected arrival of these children that he had forgotten why they were even here. They were looking for Charles. But how could he explain to these two small figures the truth of what Charles had become, and how deeply he’d fallen? One glance at Wanda’s hopeful, wide-eyed expression was enough to make Hank question everything. He couldn’t bear to snuff out that fragile spark.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” he asked instead, almost stalling, hoping for another solution to reveal itself. Pietro leaned forward, ever-protective, speaking for them both. “Wendy's looking for our dad. And…we need somewhere to stay.”

Hank’s heart sank. Please don’t let it be Charles, he thought. It can’t be Charles, But as Wanda pulled a photograph from her pocket and reached up to him, he felt his throat tighten.

He took the photo from her outstretched hand. There, staring up at him, was a scene that flooded him with rage and sorrow. Erik, with his arm draped over Charles’s shoulders, both of them younger, unburdened by the years of conflict and loss that had followed. The memories came rushing back in a painful wave. For a moment, his anger rose to the surface, flickering in his blue-tinged skin as he glared down at the image. He had thought he would never see Erik’s face again after that day on the beach. He hadn’t even let himself imagine otherwise.

As his gaze drifted up, he saw Wanda shudder, clutching her head as if pained. Pietro’s arm went around her, pulling her close, his eyes narrowed with suspicion as he looked up at Hank.

“So much anger,” Wanda murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. Tears glistened in her eyes as she looked at Hank, whose face softened instantly. He hadn’t meant to frighten them. Wanda seemed to steady, her breathing evening out as she nestled beneath Pietro’s arm, leaning into his protection. She reached forward to retrieve the photograph, her gaze holding traces of Erik’s stubbornness.

It was undeniable. Wanda had Erik’s deep auburn hair and his piercing green eyes. And Pietro—the boy was Erik’s spitting image. Erik’s fierce expression, his tall frame, the hardened look Hank had only ever seen on Erik’s face before.

Hank’s heart twisted. Part of him wished, if only for these children’s sake, that they could be Charles’s. He would rather have seen traces of Charles’s kindness, his understanding than Erik’s intensity staring back at him.

“Please,” Wanda said, her voice tiny but resolute. “Can we stay?”

Hank swallowed, all the words of refusal dying on his tongue.

He held Wanda’s gaze for a long moment, seeing both Erik and something entirely her own in those green eyes. He could sense her desperation, masked behind a brave front. His mind raced, grappling with the memories that image had stirred, the years of separation, and the painful reminder of how much had been lost. Still, he couldn't ignore the plea in her voice, or the fierce loyalty between these two siblings who had, evidently, only had each other for so long.

Finally, he took a slow breath and gestured to the sofa. “You can stay here… for now.” His voice was gentler than he’d intended, the weight of his conflicted feelings wrapped around each word. “But… you’ll need to meet with Charles.”

At the mention of Charles, Wanda’s expression flickered with uncertainty, a trace of doubt mingling with her initial hope. Pietro shifted beside her, his fingers tightening around her hand as if bolstering them both.

“When can we see him?” Wanda asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Hank hesitated, unsure of how to shield them from the full truth while not raising false expectations. “Charles… isn’t the man he used to be,” he began carefully. “He’s been… unwell.”

A shadow of disappointment crossed Pietro’s face, though Wanda seemed to digest the words, her gaze steady, unflinching. She nodded slowly, her small face setting with a look of resolve beyond her years.

“It’s okay,” she said quietly. “We can help.”

Hank’s chest tightened at her words, so simple and yet filled with a belief he couldn’t bring himself to question. As he looked at the twins—Wanda with her determined, hopeful gaze, and Pietro with his protective vigilance—he found himself wishing, for the first time in a long time, that perhaps they could help Charles, even if only by reminding him of the world he had once cared so much for.

For now, though, he simply nodded. “Alright then,” he murmured, glancing toward the grand staircase where he knew Charles was waiting, locked in his private sanctuary above. “Come with me.”

The staircase spiralled upwards in a haunting rhythm, the dust lifting from the bannister in soft clouds as Wanda and Pietro climbed. The dim light filtering through the cracked windows cast long, wavering shadows that danced across the worn carpet, and the air grew colder with each step. Pietro’s heart pounded as he cast a sidelong glance at Wanda. Her wide, hopeful eyes traced the lines of the mansion’s grand architecture, oblivious to the cobwebs and the decay. But Pietro couldn’t shake the dread settling over him like a weight; he knew what was at stake.

Wanda was leaning on this meeting with all she had, piecing her sense of self around the idea of belonging, of family. If Charles rejected them, Pietro feared it would be the final fracture in her fragile mind, forcing her to escape from the world completely, away from him, into a place where he couldn’t follow.

He clenched his fists as they reached the top of the staircase, looking to Hank for reassurance. But Hank’s face was sombre, almost mournful, as if he too understood the gravity of what lay ahead.

They stopped before a large oak door, its wood darkened with age and scuffed at the edges. Hank paused, his hand hovering over the brass handle, glancing back at them with a look that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand hesitations. “I’ll be right here,” he whispered, more to himself than to them, as he slowly turned the handle.

As the door creaked open, a thin slice of golden light spilt into the hallway, illuminating their faces. Wanda took a deep, trembling breath and squeezed Pietro’s hand. He held on tightly, his jaw set, ready to face whatever—or whoever—lay on the other side, knowing he’d protect her from anything, even from disappointment if he had to.

The room was thick with the scent of stale whiskey and cigarette smoke, an oppressive fog hanging in the air. Shadows clung to the corners, obscuring the peeling wallpaper and worn-out furniture. Wanda held Pietro’s hand tighter, her fingers trembling as she tried to keep her footing among the scattered bottles littering the floor. Pietro’s lip curled in disgust, barely masking his disappointment. This dishevelled figure—a man lying slumped on a four-poster bed, lost somewhere between a stupor and sleep—couldn’t possibly be the Charles Xavier Wanda had spoken of with such reverence.

Charles’s hair hung limp, greasy strands framing a face marked with the weight of something raw and unhealed. A stained robe and faded wifebeater clung to his gaunt frame, their tatters mirroring his unkempt state. But it was his eyes that held them captive as he finally looked up, glazed and distant, yet shockingly, unmistakably blue. Those eyes were a shadow of the brilliance that once filled them—a ghostly echo of the man he must have been.

Wanda took a hesitant step forward, her gaze never leaving his face. Pietro shifted beside her, his jaw clenched, struggling to reconcile this crumbling figure with the image Wanda had built up in her mind. This wasn’t a saviour, a guide, or the compassionate teacher she had dreamed of meeting. He looked like someone who’d lost his own way long ago.

"Are you... Charles Xavier?" Wanda’s voice was barely more than a whisper, fragile and wavering.

The man looked at her, his unfocused gaze slowly sharpening, recognition stirring somewhere in the depths of those glassy eyes. But he didn’t respond, just blinked at her as if she were a memory he couldn’t quite grasp.

Pietro took a step forward, standing protectively between Wanda and the man on the bed. "Is this really him?" he muttered under his breath, his voice dripping with disdain. "This is the guy who was supposed to help us?"

A flicker of something—regret, perhaps, or sorrow—passed through Charles’s eyes. Hank moved forward, placing a reassuring hand on Wanda’s shoulder. "He’s had… a rough few years," he said softly as if trying to smooth over the scene before them. "But he hasn’t forgotten how to help. There’s still wisdom in him, even if it’s buried."

But Pietro wasn’t so easily convinced. He crossed his arms, standing defiantly. "I don’t see how a washed-up drunk is going to save anyone, let alone us."

Charles’s gaze finally focused, and he looked at Pietro with a weary understanding. “Sometimes, it’s the broken things that hold the most strength,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and strained. “Strength you’ll only understand once you’ve had to find it yourself.”

“These are Erik’s children, Charles. They need your help.” Hank said. A subtle but chilling shift came over Charles. His once glassy, detached expression twisted into something colder, sharper. The softness in his icy blue eyes froze, hardening to an almost hostile look. Any hint of compassion seemed to evaporate as he turned away, his back now firmly to the twins.

Wanda, feeling the rejection like a physical blow, sank to her knees, her slender frame shaking as a red mist seeped from her in fractured waves. Tears spilt down her cheeks, mingling with the strange, crimson haze that pulsed from her, an outward manifestation of her pain and confusion. Disjointed memories crashed over her—scenes of a beach, her father, a flash of metal, the echo of a scream. She could almost feel the bullet herself, ripping through her mind as if it were tearing through her own body, piercing into her spine with an agonizing clarity. The agony was overwhelming, a visceral ache she couldn't escape, not even in the depths of her mind.

Beside her, Pietro's body began to tremble, vibrating with a fear he couldn’t control. His form wavered, blurring as he stood frozen between the urge to comfort his sister and the impulse to flee. His hands shook, fingers blurring into streaks as he struggled to contain the dread building inside him, turning him into an indistinct, shivering shape.

Hank took a hesitant step forward, his gaze darting between Charles’s hardened stance and the devastated twins before him. He hesitated, unsure if Charles’s bitter resolve could be softened, if there was any chance that he would acknowledge the children and offer the help they so desperately needed.

Charles’s voice was like ice, sharp and unyielding as he uttered, “Get them out of my sight, Hank.” The command was absolute, a cold dismissal that felt as final as a door slamming shut. Wanda, still on her knees, let out a soft, wounded groan as another wave of pain rolled over her, this time mingled with a raw, seething fury that she couldn’t contain. The red mist thickened around her, pulsing in tandem with her grief.

“Don’t ever speak his name again,” Charles spat, his voice trembling slightly as if the mere mention of Erik had shattered something within him that he’d fought hard to keep intact. Wanda’s gaze flickered, catching a fragmented flash of memory—a fleeting kiss, warmth against bitterness, a single moment that hinted at something more between her father and this broken man. And just as quickly, the chaos began to dissipate, the scarlet mist fading into the air as her anguish started to retreat.

Pietro sensed it, the first hints of calm settling over Wanda, and he gripped her shoulder gently but firmly, coaxing her back to her feet. His eyes never left Charles, narrowed in a mix of contempt and disappointment, but he knew they had to leave. Without a word, he began to pull Wanda away, his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders as they stumbled back toward the door, leaving the dark, unwelcoming figure of Charles Xavier behind them.

Hank trailed closely behind Wanda’s trembling form, his mind occupied less by Charles's bitter dismissal than by the unsettling effects of the twins' powers. He could see the lingering haze of red mist hovering around Wanda, faint but volatile, as if responding to her every emotion. It worried him—how her distress seemed to fuel that strange energy, making it flare and pulse in sync with her pain. Pietro’s speed, too, had been unusually erratic, driven by anxiety and frustration, almost vibrating the space around him.

As they descended the dim hallway, Hank felt the urge to say something, anything, that might bring comfort or at least reassurance. But no words came; he was too aware of how precarious the situation was, of how the twins’ powers seemed to lash out when their emotions spiralled. They were young, yet already bearing heavy burdens they couldn’t fully understand. The world they’d been forced into, the trauma that flickered just beneath the surface—it made them volatile in a way that left Hank both fearful and resolute.

In the silence that followed, he quickened his pace to walk alongside them, offering a steadying hand near Wanda’s shoulder, his eyes carefully avoiding Charles’s door as they made their way down the stairs and back through the shadows of the mansion.

Hank allowed himself a sliver of hope, imagining that the sight of Erik’s children might rekindle some spark of warmth within Charles. Perhaps, he thought, seeing these pieces of Erik—a shared life and history standing before him—would crack open the hardened shell that Charles had retreated into. He could almost picture it: the old professor with his twinkling blue eyes, the quiet humour, the steady kindness he’d once shown to all the young mutants who had looked to him for guidance.

Surely, given time, Charles could come to see something worth cherishing in Wanda and Pietro. They were Erik’s, yes, but untouched by old feuds and free of the resentment that had poisoned the past. Hank held onto the idea that Charles might look beyond his pain, that perhaps he’d remember how deeply he had once cared for Erik, no matter how fiercely he tried to deny it. If anyone could break through his bitterness, it would be these two children who embodied the very best and worst of everything he and Erik had fought for.

And yet, as Hank cast a glance back at Charles’s closed door, he felt the weight of uncertainty settle heavily on his heart, knowing that it would take more than hope to heal the scars that ran so deep.

Hank watched Pietro pace, his movements almost too fast to follow, the faint blur around him revealing his agitation. Wanda sat on the sofa, her fingers trembling slightly as she pulled the red bow tighter in her hair, as if grounding herself. Her eyes were rimmed red, and she kept glancing at the floor, avoiding anyone’s gaze.

Hank’s voice softened as he approached them, wary of upsetting them further. “Are you guys okay?” he asked, though he already knew the answer from the wounded expressions on their faces.

Pietro stopped mid-step, clenching his fists. He looked at Hank, his eyes blazing. “Look at what he’s done to Wendy!” he spat out, pointing toward his sister. “She came here to find a father, and that... that’s what she gets?” His voice cracked slightly, but the anger in it was unmistakable, his expression a near mirror of Erik’s, fierce and unyielding.

Wanda rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand, wiping away the remnants of her tears. She wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. She felt raw, her emotions twisted by the harsh rejection they had just endured.

Wanda’s gaze dropped, her fingers tracing the edge of the bow in her hair as she tried to process what she had felt. “He’s in so much pain. All the time,” she murmured, her voice filled with a strange mix of empathy and exhaustion. “I felt it.”

Pietro’s hands clenched at his sides, frustration simmering beneath his words. “That doesn’t excuse anything!” he snapped, his eyes narrowing as he tried to catch her gaze. “Wanda, he just turned his back on us—on you. You should be angry, not... not making excuses for him.”

But Wanda’s face only softened further, as if the anger Pietro tried to instil couldn’t find a place in her heart. She seemed to carry the weight of Charles’s sorrow alongside her own, absorbing it like a sponge, letting it settle into the quiet sadness that lingered beneath her gentle expression.

Pietro looked away, his jaw tightening. He had always struggled to understand Wanda’s way of feeling, her refusal to bear grudges, her tendency to absorb pain rather than to lash out. He worried sometimes that she would one day become lost in all the hurt she took on, that it would swallow her whole if he wasn’t there to pull her out.

Hank watched the twins in silence, his heart heavy as he took in their tired, defeated forms. Wanda’s gaze stayed lowered, her fingers still fidgeting with her bow, while Pietro, jittery and tense, kept pacing around the sofa like a wound-up spring.

Clearing his throat gently, Hank stepped closer. "It’s been... a long day for both of you," he said quietly. "Why don’t I show you to a room where you can rest?"

Pietro stopped pacing, his eyes still blazing with frustration, but the weariness was clear in his posture. Wanda simply nodded, her expression solemn, as she released the bow from her fingers. Neither twin said a word as they followed Hank, moving silently up the stairs and into the dim hallway lined with forgotten portraits and dusty curtains.

Hank led them to a small room tucked away at the end of the corridor. It was simple—two narrow beds with worn covers, an old dresser, and a single lamp casting a warm, gentle glow. Wanda walked in first, her shoulders drooping as she gazed around. She crossed over to one of the beds and sat down, the exhaustion evident in her eyes.

"Try to get some sleep," Hank murmured, standing in the doorway. "Tomorrow, things might seem... clearer."

Pietro gave a half-hearted shrug, though he was already glancing toward the bed opposite Wanda’s. He muttered a gruff "Thanks," before he too sat down, finally allowing himself to feel the exhaustion that had been gnawing at him all day.

With a quiet nod, Hank closed the door, leaving the twins alone.

They listened to Hank's footsteps fade into the silence of the old mansion, the walls seeming to press in on them now, heavy with the weight of all they’d seen. Pietro turned toward Wanda, his jaw tight and eyes sharp.

"I don’t get why you’re so okay with Charles," he blurted, his voice low and harsh.

Wanda stared down at her hands, her fingers nervously tracing over the bow she’d retied. She seemed to consider his words carefully, letting the silence stretch between them before she finally answered. "I think... I think he loved our dad. Like, a lot. That’s why he’s so angry," she whispered. "Our dad left him."

Pietro’s face softened, the tension momentarily giving way to something deeper, a hint of the hurt he always tried to keep hidden. He let her words hang in the air, then gave a slow nod, looking away.

“Like he left us,” he finished quietly, his voice just a whisper.

The words settled heavily between them, raw and unspoken until now. They both sat in silence, feeling the quiet ache of that truth.

Wanda broke the silence, her voice trembling slightly. "Charles still kinda scares me, though. He smells like Mom."

Pietro looked at her, surprised but relieved to hear she felt the same. "I thought that too," he admitted. "He even sounded like her a bit... hoarse."

They sat there, the echoes of their past intertwining with the unfamiliar darkness of this new place. The air felt thick, both of them keenly aware that the memory of their mother lingered here, in the smell of stale smoke and bitter regret.

Pietro resolved to keep Wanda away from Charles as much as he could. He was wary, sensing the unpredictable danger lurking behind Charles’s vacant eyes and bitter words. There was a high chance Charles could hurt them too, and Wanda didn’t need that—not after everything they’d already been through. He glanced at her, catching the slight tremor in her hands as she adjusted her bow once more.

They settled into their beds, the weight of the evening pressing heavily on both of them. Pietro stared up at the cracked ceiling, fists clenched at his sides as he tried to push down the anger still simmering from their encounter with Charles. Wanda lay in the bed next to him, eyes wide open and unfocused, as though she were still absorbing the whole experience.

After a few minutes of silence, Wanda’s soft voice broke through the darkness. "Do you think he'll be different tomorrow?"

Pietro sighed, turning to face her, unsure how to answer. "I don’t know. But whatever happens, we’ll be okay. Just… try not to think about him too much. You’ve got me, and that’s what matters."

Wanda gave a small nod, pulling her blanket tighter around herself. "Maybe you're right."

Pietro watched her for a moment, relieved to see her closing her eyes at last. He let out a long breath, feeling his own eyes grow heavy. No matter how strange and unsettling this place was, at least they had each other. For now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

It felt strange to be preparing breakfast for children. Hank hadn’t done it in so long—most of the children he’d cared for in the past had been old enough to handle such things themselves. The routines had been familiar: their shuffling footsteps, the quickness with which they went about their morning rituals. But Wanda and Pietro were still so young, and the responsibility of feeding them seemed... foreign. The twins had already learned to fend for themselves long before this, after all. They wouldn't have survived without that skill, having always been left to their own devices, so it was odd, almost unsettling, to see them wake up and find breakfast waiting.

The kitchen was quiet save for the soft hum of the kettle and the occasional clink of silverware as Hank moved about. He didn’t mind, of course; it just felt… wrong, in an inexplicable way. These weren’t his children, not in the way he’d once imagined raising a family. There was no joy in this moment, just a quiet obligation to do what was needed for these two fragile souls, who had already known too much hardship for their age.

Wanda and Pietro shuffled into the kitchen, their movements sluggish, as though the weight of yesterday still hung over them. They were still dressed in the same clothes from the night before, their tired faces lined with the traces of their struggles. Pietro's hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction, while Wanda absentmindedly tugged at the ribbon in her hair. They didn't speak much at first, their mumbled "thank yous" soft and unconvincing, more a reflex than anything else. It was hard for Hank to tell if they appreciated the gesture, or if it simply felt as alien to them as it did to him.

They each grabbed a bowl of cereal, moving with a kind of automatic precision, their faces still blank from the weight of everything that had unfolded the night before. Hank couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt, watching them as they sat down quietly, eating in the same silence that had permeated the house since their arrival. It wasn’t just that they were strangers to him—it was that he was a stranger to them too. And as much as he wished he could take away their pain, he knew it wasn't that simple. Not with their history.

He couldn’t help but notice how small they looked sitting at the table, the way their hunched postures seemed to make them shrink further into themselves. It was as if, without realizing it, they were becoming even more fragile, even more distant from the world they’d come from. He wondered what kind of future they would have here—if he could somehow offer them something more than just a roof over their heads and an occasional meal.

Hank took in the twins' dishevelled states as they sat at the kitchen table, each lost in their own thoughts, their faces still etched with the heaviness of the previous night. His gaze lingered for a moment on their worn clothes—so out of place in this quiet, almost sterile house. The sleeves of Pietro’s shirt were frayed at the edges, the fabric stretched and faded from constant wear. Wanda’s dress, though simple, was starting to show signs of age, the once-vibrant colours now dulled. He noticed how they both seemed to shrink into their clothes as if the worn fabric was an extension of their exhaustion, their sorrow.

It struck him then that they needed more than just food or shelter. They needed some semblance of normalcy, a sense of security, and yes—comfort. This wasn’t just about survival anymore; this was about healing. And Hank, despite the swirling chaos of his own thoughts, knew he couldn’t let them go on in these tattered clothes. They were children, after all, even if they felt anything but.

He glanced around the kitchen, his mind already shifting to the practicalities. There had to be something somewhere. A box or two of old clothes, left behind by students who had moved on or outgrown their things. Clothes that no longer fit their owners’ journeys but might offer the twins a small sense of comfort, a way to feel a little less out of place in the mansion.

He'd seen boxes like that before—left in corners of the house or tucked into closets, a byproduct of the constant turnover of students and visitors. He would find them, rummage through them, and make sure the twins had something more fitting, something that wasn’t weighed down by yesterday’s hardships.

He considered for a moment the act of letting the twins go through those boxes, picking out whatever they liked. Maybe it would offer them some enjoyment, a rare moment of control in a world that had taken so much from them. It was a small gesture, but one he hoped might help them feel a little less like strangers in the house, a little more like they belonged. They needed time, time to adjust, time to process everything that had happened. Proper shopping could come later when the world wasn’t so chaotic. For now, hand-me-down clothes would have to suffice.

The kitchen was still quiet, the air thick with the weight of unspoken words as Wanda and Pietro slowly ate their breakfast. Hank could feel the strange heaviness that seemed to hang around them, and despite the ordinary morning rituals, the sense of urgency never quite lifted from the air. He watched as they silently spooned cereal into their mouths, their movements mechanical—no longer the innocent motions of children, but those of survivors, hardened by too many years of struggling alone.

He didn't know if they even realized they were eating, or if the food in front of them was simply an afterthought. The twins' minds were miles away, perhaps still locked in the chaotic storm of emotions they had felt the night before. The anger, the confusion, the crushing sadness—Hank could see it in their eyes. They weren't like normal kids, not anymore. And yet, here they were, still kids—just in need of something basic and simple, like a meal, or a pair of clean clothes, or just a safe space to breathe.

But the safe space Hank had been offering them was, like everything else in the mansion, still so cold. There was an unspoken distance between them, a wall built by years of trauma neither of them could yet articulate. Wanda, sitting closest to him, didn't look up as she pushed her spoon through the cereal, eyes focused on some invisible point. Pietro’s gaze darted from the walls to the window, always on edge, always alert. Hank had learned enough about the twins by now to know they were both highly attuned to the world around them—perhaps even more so than most. It was a survival instinct, something honed by years of hardship.

The thought of their mutations lingered in Hank’s mind, the one thing he hadn't yet addressed. He had been observing, and analyzing in the back of his mind ever since he saw them, but hadn't had the chance to ask any questions yet. He knew there was more beneath the surface of their carefully controlled exterior, something that had to do with the strange powers they both wielded, powers that were almost palpable in the air when they moved. But Hank didn’t want to rush them. He knew better than anyone the delicate balance between curiosity and intrusion, especially when it came to mutants who had been through the kind of trauma they had endured.

Pietro broke the silence first, his voice cutting through the air, almost too loud for the quiet kitchen. “So, when are we getting out of here?” he asked, the words sharp, impatient. He wasn’t one to linger in the silence, not when his mind was running a thousand miles a minute.

Hank glanced over at him, then at Wanda. Wanda’s eyes flicked briefly to her brother before she looked down, her fingers absently playing with the edge of her cereal bowl. The contrast between them was striking—Pietro, always on edge, and Wanda, still a shell of the girl she used to be, searching for a way to feel whole again.

"One step at a time, Peter," Hank said softly, but the words felt hollow in his mouth. He couldn’t help but wonder if they had heard it a thousand times before. "You’re not just here for a place to sleep. There’s a lot more to discuss."

Pietro’s eyes darkened as he glanced up. “What, like some kind of therapy? A group session with Charles?”

Hank sighed inwardly. This was going to be harder than he’d anticipated. He hadn’t planned on pushing them today, but the situation was growing more complicated by the second. "No," he answered carefully. "What I mean is, we need to understand your... abilities. Your mutations. I’m sure you’ve noticed things are different. Here, we can help you understand them, understand yourselves."

He tried to make his voice as gentle as possible, but it still sounded too clinical, too cold for what the twins needed. The last thing they probably wanted to hear right now was more talk of their powers.

Pietro’s eyes narrowed. "I already know what I can do." His voice was quiet but fierce, as though daring Hank to press further. "And I’m fine."

Wanda didn’t speak, but her eyes flickered towards Hank, a silent plea hidden behind the surface of her calm. Hank knew she wasn’t as confident as her brother, and he knew that even if she didn’t show it, her powers—whatever they were—terrified her. It was clear in the way she moved, how she reacted to even the slightest touch of emotion, the way she seemed to push things away before they could hurt her.

"Perhaps," Hank began, still unsure how to approach the topic, "we could just start by talking about what you’ve felt—how it happens. If you’re both willing, we can begin looking at ways to... control it. To make it easier for you."

There was a long pause. Pietro shot Hank a look that was more guarded than angry. Wanda just kept her eyes on her cereal. The silence stretched between them, and for a moment Hank wasn’t sure what would happen next. Then, Pietro spoke again, his voice softer now, with a trace of doubt.

"Fine," he muttered. "We’ll talk. But don’t expect me to put on a show for you."

Hank nodded, relieved. "Just tell me what you feel," he said gently. "I’m not here to judge you. I just want to understand."

Pietro seemed to hesitate before he started speaking, his words rushed, spilling out in a flood. "It’s... hard to explain. It’s like there’s always this... pressure, you know? Like everything’s moving around me all the time, and if I don’t move fast enough, everything just crashes." He clenched his fists, and for a moment, Hank thought he saw the faintest flicker of something—energy, maybe?—surround the child.

Wanda’s voice cut through before Hank could respond. "I feel it, too," she said quietly, the words barely above a whisper. "Not the same way. Mine is... more like things in my head, spinning out of control. I can’t make sense of them sometimes. The feelings, the thoughts—they all come at once, and I don’t know how to stop them. I—" She stopped abruptly, her breath catching in her throat.

Hank leaned forward, intrigued by the confession, but also concerned. "Wendy, it’s okay. You don’t have to—"

"No," she said quickly, shaking her head. "I have to understand. I want to."

Hank watched as she swallowed hard, steadying herself, before looking back at him. "I can’t control it, Mr Hank. It feels like the world’s collapsing inside my head, and I’m supposed to... fix it, somehow." Her hands trembled slightly as she placed them on the table, and Hank could see the strain in her eyes.

"That’s why I’m here," Hank said, his tone firm but kind. "Together, we can figure it out. One step at a time."

For a moment, there was quiet again. Hank had said what needed to be said. They would need time, yes, but Hank was confident that with care and patience, the twins could begin to understand their abilities. As daunting as it seemed, he had seen others work through it before. And he would be there, with them, every step of the way.

Hank had never been comfortable in the role of a mentor, at least not in the way Charles had embraced it. Usually, Charles was the one to guide the young mutants, gently steering them through the turbulence of their emerging abilities, offering not just expertise but reassurance and understanding. Hank, on the other hand, had always been more at home in his lab, surrounded by equations, formulas, and the hum of scientific machines. He taught a class here and there, but that was hardly the same as the constant, compassionate guidance that Charles had provided.

But with Charles unavailable for the unforeseen future, the responsibility now fell on Hank. His heart sank at the thought, the weight of it pressing down on him. He wasn’t sure he was ready for this—at least not in the way Charles had been. He didn’t know how to offer the emotional support the twins needed, not with all the emotional baggage he carried himself. But there was no avoiding it. Wanda and Pietro were vulnerable, their powers unstable, and they needed direction.

Hank couldn't ignore the gnawing concern for their wellbeing. They were both still so young, and from the brief glimpses Hank had already seen, their abilities were dangerously unpredictable. Wanda, in particular, was a puzzle. Her power to manipulate reality itself was something that could easily spiral out of control without the proper guidance. Hank knew all too well what it was like to lose control of one’s abilities. He had his own mutation to contend with, one that had twisted his body beyond recognition, and he feared the chaos that lay beneath the surface of the twins’ powers.

It was hard for Hank to even wrap his mind around the idea of stepping into Charles’s shoes. But there was no choice now. The twins needed him. Even if he felt more comfortable in the safety of his lab, surrounded by controlled experiments and logical reasoning, they couldn’t be left to flounder in uncertainty.

With a deep sigh, Hank pushed the thought of his discomfort aside and focused on what he could do to help them now. He might not be the nurturing presence that Charles had been, but he had knowledge—knowledge that could hopefully keep them safe.

First things first, Hank thought, his mind already whirring with plans to help the twins. The morning had already presented its challenges, and now there was the matter of getting Wanda and Pietro into clothing that was at least a little more appropriate than what they had slept in. He couldn’t leave them wandering around the mansion in yesterday’s clothes, especially after everything they had been through. The least he could do was offer them some semblance of comfort and stability.

He walked down the hall, his footsteps heavy on the creaky floorboards. There were a few rooms on the floor, many of them filled with supplies from students long gone. Old boxes of clothes, some folded neatly, others haphazardly thrown together, were scattered about. Most of the clothes in the boxes had once belonged to students who had either outgrown them or left them behind for whatever reason. Some would fit Wanda and Pietro perfectly, others might be a little too big or too small, but at least it would be a start.

Hank found the closet-like room where the boxes were kept, pushing the door open to reveal piles of old clothes, ranging from the practical to the whimsical. Most of them were from younger students, but there were a few larger-sized items that could work. He turned to find Wanda and Pietro lingering just outside the door, peering in with a mix of curiosity and wariness. Their expressions made Hank pause for a moment.

"Would you like to pick out some clothes?" he asked gently, trying to make the task as easy as possible. "It’s probably better than wearing the same things for too long."

Wanda hesitated, her eyes flicking between Hank and the piles of clothes. Pietro, ever the more impulsive of the two, darted into the room before his sister could respond, digging through the boxes with surprising speed. Hank couldn’t help but smile at the contrast between the twins. Wanda, though usually more reserved, took a step forward, more cautious, but she followed her brother into the room nonetheless.

Hank could feel the tension in the air, the heavy silence between the twins as they sifted through the clothing. He moved to the side, allowing them the space to decide what they needed. The old boxes of clothes were cluttered and unorganized, but there were enough options to give them a choice. Wanda picked up a soft sweater, running her fingers along the fabric before slipping it over her head, her eyes flicking to Pietro, who had already found a pair of faded jeans and a shirt that looked a bit too large for him but would do for now.

They worked silently for a few moments, as though lost in their own thoughts. Hank stayed out of the way, watching them quietly, feeling a mix of concern and hope. It wasn’t much, but for now, it was something.

Finally, Wanda and Pietro stood together, their new outfits slightly mismatched but functional. It was a small victory in an otherwise difficult morning.

“Better?” Hank asked, his voice softer now, as he looked at them both with a small, approving smile.

Wanda nodded shyly, her lips curling into a small smile for the first time since they had arrived. Pietro, for his part, seemed more at ease, though there was still a hard edge to his expression. Hank could see the weight of everything they had gone through in their eyes, the fatigue, the confusion, and the quiet sadness that still clung to them.

“Thanks,” Pietro muttered, though it seemed more out of habit than real gratitude.

“It’s the least I can do,” Hank said. “Now, what do you say we get started on figuring out how to keep these powers of yours under control?”

Wanda tugged at the sleeves of her new sweater, still unsure, but slightly more comfortable than she had been before. Pietro, now looking a little more put together in his oversized shirt and jeans, gave Hank a sceptical look.

“I’m not sure how this is going to help,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “You saw what happened last night.”

Hank took a slow breath, choosing his words carefully. “I know,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “But what you felt last night, that wasn’t just anger or fear—it’s something else. Something we can work with. We just need to understand it better.” He gestured toward a quiet corner of the mansion, where a small, empty study room sat. “Why don’t we go somewhere more comfortable to talk about it?”

Wanda and Pietro exchanged a brief, uncertain glance, but they nodded in agreement. Wanda gave Hank a small, tentative smile as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and Pietro, despite his usual guarded demeanour, seemed willing to go along with it—though he didn’t fully trust the situation yet. Still, he followed Hank as he led them to the study room, his fingers still twitching slightly, as if itching to move too quickly.

The study room was quiet, with large windows that let in the soft morning light, casting long shadows over the worn leather chairs and wooden desk. It felt like a safer space, one less associated with the chaos of the previous night.

“Sit down,” Hank said gently, motioning toward the chairs. “This won’t be like anything you’ve experienced before. I’m not here to lecture you or treat you like experiments, I promise. I just need to understand what’s happening, and to do that, we need to take a look at your powers—slowly, carefully.”

Pietro rolled his eyes but sat down reluctantly, while Wanda perched on the edge of a chair, her hands clasped tightly together in her lap. She was still looking at Hank with a mixture of curiosity and caution.

“I know this must all be overwhelming,” Hank continued, “but the first step is simple: understanding your abilities. Everyone has their limits, their triggers, and we’ll find yours. But to do that, I need to see what you can do—just a little demonstration.”

Pietro scoffed. “You want me to do something—here?” He gave Hank a pointed look, clearly not eager to put himself in a vulnerable position, especially after the events of the night before.

Hank nodded slowly. “Yes. It’ll help us both figure out how to manage things. The sooner we know what’s going on, the sooner we can move forward.”

Wanda’s gaze was on her brother, and Hank could almost feel the quiet connection between them. She seemed to be waiting for him to take the first step, and when he finally sighed in resignation, she relaxed just a little.

“Fine,” Pietro muttered, standing up and moving a few paces away from the others, his arms crossed. “But I’m not doing anything crazy.”

Hank gave a reassuring smile, nodding. “Take your time. Just try to focus on what you’re feeling right now, and see if you can tap into it. Don’t force anything.”

Pietro narrowed his eyes, clearly unsure of where to begin. He took a deep breath and, after a moment’s hesitation, he began to move. His body blurred with speed, zipping around the room in a dizzying circle. Hank watched closely, paying attention to the way his movements began to distort the air around him, creating small gusts of wind in his wake.

It wasn’t nearly as fast as Hank had expected, considering Pietro’s usual abilities, but the speed was still impressive. His movements were less frantic than Hank had imagined, more controlled, even if just for a few seconds.

“Good,” Hank said, speaking calmly but with genuine approval. “Now slow down. Focus. Find a balance.”

Pietro skidded to a halt in front of him, breathing heavily, his face flushed with the effort.

“See?” he said with a hint of frustration. “This is all I can do without losing control.” He sounded defensive as if he were trying to prove something to Hank.

Hank nodded thoughtfully. “It’s a start. And that’s important. The fact that you can control it for even a moment means you have more power over it than you think.”

Wanda, who had been watching quietly from her seat, spoke up softly. “But... what about me?” Her voice was quiet, unsure, her eyes flicking from her brother to Hank. “How can I...”

“Wendy,” Hank said gently, “I haven’t forgotten about you. But before we focus on your abilities, we need to get a better sense of your triggers. You both experienced something last night, and I think it’s connected to emotions—fear, anger, maybe even just a sense of powerlessness.”

He moved closer to her but kept a respectful distance. “Can you remember anything specific from last night? Anything that might help us understand?”

Wanda’s gaze dropped, and her hands trembled slightly. “I felt... everything. The anger. The pain. And when it stopped, I felt... empty.”

Hank’s expression softened. “I understand. Sometimes, emotions like that can trigger something powerful, something dangerous. But that doesn’t mean we can’t manage it.”

Wanda hesitated but then nodded. “I’ll try,” she whispered.

“Good,” Hank said, smiling warmly. “You’re not alone in this. We’ll figure it out together, one step at a time.”

And for the first time since they’d arrived, Hank saw a glimmer of hope in their eyes—small, but there.

Hank could feel the tension in the room, thick and palpable. As he looked at the twins, he realized how much pressure they were under. Despite their extraordinary abilities, they were still children—children who had seen things no one should have to endure. And now, here they were, sitting in front of him, barely able to trust anyone around them. His heart ached for them.

He turned his attention back to Wanda. Her eyes were distant as she stared down at her hands, still trembling. She wasn’t ready to face the full extent of her powers just yet. But Hank could sense it, the potential that lay dormant within her—an unpredictable, uncontrollable force that could either be their greatest asset or their greatest danger.

“We’ll take this slow,” Hank assured, trying to keep his voice steady. “No rush. Just focus on your breathing for now. Take a deep breath, Wanda. In through the nose… and out through the mouth.”

She followed his instructions, though her breath still came in ragged gasps. Pietro, who had been standing nearby, watching his sister with intense scrutiny, now stepped closer. He wasn’t as willing to open up, not yet. His guarded demeanour hadn’t softened, and Hank knew it would take time before he felt comfortable enough to trust anyone again.

Hank looked over at him. “Pietro, if you’re ready, we can try something for you as well. The control you showed earlier was a good start. Let’s see if we can build on that.”

Pietro glanced at him, still unsure. His eyes flickered between Hank and Wanda, before finally meeting his gaze. “I don’t know if I can do it, Doc. What if I just… lose it again?” His voice was filled with uncertainty, but there was an edge of pride in his tone. He wasn’t used to feeling vulnerable.

Hank offered a reassuring smile. “It’s normal to be unsure. But remember, I’m not asking you to do anything you can’t handle. It’s about finding the right balance. Just like your sister.”

Pietro hesitated before taking a seat next to Wanda, looking at her for a moment before his attention shifted back to Hank. Wanda, in turn, reached out and placed her hand over his, offering him the slightest bit of comfort. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes.

“Alright,” Hank said, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s start with something simple. Pietro, focus on your speed, but try to control it this time. Don’t let it consume you. Keep it contained.”

Pietro nodded slowly, before standing up again. He glanced at Wanda one last time, the worry in his eyes softened by her presence. Then, with a deep breath, he started to move. This time, instead of the blur of lightning-fast motions, his steps were measured, and deliberate. He was holding himself back, working against the natural urge to let his body fly at full speed.

For a few moments, nothing happened. Then, with an almost imperceptible shift, the air in the room began to ripple. Hank watched closely, his sharp eyes noticing the small tremors that ran through Pietro’s body as he fought to maintain control. It was nothing like the chaotic flashes from before. Instead, it was steady, focused—almost graceful.

“You’re doing it,” Hank murmured, stepping forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “Keep it going.”

Pietro’s face contorted with effort, his teeth clenched, but the strain on his features slowly eased as he got the hang of it. He took a few more steps, slowly at first, then a little faster, but always with restraint. It wasn’t effortless, but it was progress.

Hank could see it now. Pietro wasn’t just fast. He was learning to master his speed, to bend it to his will. The small victories were what mattered right now, and this one felt like a breakthrough.

Finally, Pietro stopped, breathing heavily but with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Well, that wasn’t so bad,” he said, his voice a little shakier than usual. But there was a pride there, too.

Hank grinned, nodding approvingly. “That was great, Peter. You’ve got more control than you think.”

Wanda, watching her brother, let out a breath of relief. She smiled softly at him. “You did it.”

Pietro gave her a quick glance, his expression softening for just a moment. Then, he turned his attention back to Hank, his walls coming back up again. “So, what’s next?”

Hank’s eyes flickered over to Wanda, who had been sitting quietly, watching her brother. He could tell that she was still uncertain, but the progress with Pietro had given her hope.

“Next,” Hank began, “we turn to you, Wendy. I know your powers are different from Pietro’s, but that doesn’t mean they’re any less important. You’ve already shown us that you can influence things around you. Let’s start by seeing how far you can push that.”

Wanda looked up, her emerald eyes clouded with uncertainty. “I… I don’t know. What if I can’t control it?”

“You can,” Hank reassured her. “But we’re going to do this together. One step at a time.”

Wanda nodded, taking a deep breath, her hands once again shaking slightly. She closed her eyes and focused, her concentration almost palpable. The faintest flicker of energy seemed to stir in the air around her, though Hank could tell it wasn’t as powerful as it had been the night before.

“Good,” Hank said softly, encouraging her. “Keep going. Let the energy build, but control it. Focus on what you want to affect. Not just everything around you. Focus on one thing.”

Wanda’s lips parted, and she reached her hand out. A single teacup sitting on the table in front of them began to wobble, slowly rising off the surface. Her brows furrowed as she concentrated harder, the teacup trembling in the air before it gently floated back down.

Hank’s eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he nodded in approval. “That was incredible, Wendy. You’re learning to focus, and that’s the first step to control.”

Pietro, who had been watching in silence, raised an eyebrow.

Wanda gave him a slight nod, but she didn’t speak, still trying to steady her breathing. She was exhausted, her power taking a toll on her body, but she was also proud of herself. It was a small victory, but it was hers.

“You’ve both made great strides today,” Hank said, moving to sit down beside them. “The road ahead won’t be easy, but if we take it step by step, we’ll get there.”

Pietro sighed, his body still vibrating with tension, but there was a softness in his eyes now. “I guess... maybe I don’t mind being here so much after all.”

Hank let out a soft sigh as he observed the twins. There was something powerful in their bond, a connection that seemed to give them strength when they needed it most. Watching them lean on each other, Hank felt a pang of nostalgia. It was the same bond he had once shared with Charles before everything had changed. Before the mansion had become more empty than he could ever have imagined.

But there was no time to dwell on the past. Not now. Not when the twins were learning to harness powers they barely understood.

"Alright," Hank said, his voice firm but gentle. "I think we’ve made some good progress for today. But before we go any further, I want to talk to you both about something. About your abilities, and how they can affect you if you don’t stay aware of your limits."

Pietro’s gaze flickered toward him, though his face remained impassive. Wanda looked down, suddenly quiet again, as if the weight of Hank’s words had settled over her.

Hank looked at each of them carefully. "Wendy, with your powers, it’s not just about moving things. It’s about influencing things around you, altering their nature, controlling their flow. You can warp reality in subtle, and sometimes not-so-subtle ways. That means it’s easy to lose control without even realizing it."

Wanda’s brow furrowed as if she were still trying to grasp what Hank was saying. Her hands were fidgeting again, playing with the ends of her bow.

"And Peter," Hank continued, turning his attention to him, "speed may seem like a straightforward power, but it's not. The faster you go, the harder it is to keep track of your surroundings, your body’s limitations. You might think you’re invincible, but everything has its cost."

Pietro snorted, a look of defiance flashing in his eyes. "I can handle it. I always have."

Hank couldn’t help but smile faintly at the typical response, but he held the boy's gaze, unwavering. "It’s not about handling it, Pietro. It’s about respecting the power you wield. And learning when to slow down, when to stop. The last thing I want is for either of you to hurt yourselves—or each other—by accident."

There was a long pause as the weight of Hank’s words hung in the air. Pietro’s jaw tightened, and Hank could tell that the reality of their situation was starting to sink in, albeit slowly. Wanda, on the other hand, had taken his words to heart, her eyes shining with a quiet understanding, though the uncertainty still lingered there.

"I know this isn’t easy," Hank said softly, his voice full of empathy. "You’ve both been through so much. And it’s going to take time. But you’re not alone. I’m here to help guide you through this. We’ll go slow. We’ll take our time. But you have to trust me. Trust yourselves."

Pietro shifted uncomfortably, but there was a flicker of something deeper in his eyes now—something that suggested he was starting to accept the offer of help, even if he didn’t show it outwardly.

Wanda took a deep breath, looking up at Hank with the slightest hint of hope in her gaze. "I want to learn," she said softly. "I want to understand. How to... control it."

Hank smiled warmly, his heart swelling at her words. "That’s all I ask. And we’ll get there. One step at a time."

He stood up, motioning for them to follow him as he led them back toward the training room, a more controlled space where they could continue their work without distractions. "Let’s start with something a bit more challenging," Hank suggested, his voice lifting with a spark of enthusiasm. "How about we combine both your powers?"

Pietro raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued, while Wanda's expression remained focused. They were both silent for a moment, but then Wanda nodded slowly. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Hank began, adjusting his glasses and pausing for a moment to think, "let’s see how you can work together. Pietro, you’ve got the speed. Wanda, you’ve got the ability to manipulate the environment around you. Let’s see if you can create something together—something you can control."

It was a bold suggestion, one that would require the twins to truly sync their abilities. But Hank had a feeling that if they could pull it off, it would give them a deeper understanding of their powers—and of each other.

Wanda and Pietro exchanged a look, and for the first time that morning, there was a glimmer of excitement in their eyes. They weren’t just learning to control their powers individually anymore. They were learning to work as a team.

"Alright," Pietro said, his voice filled with determination. "Let’s give it a try."

Hank stepped back, giving them space. He could feel the anticipation in the air as the twins took their positions. Wanda closed her eyes, focusing as her powers began to ripple through the air around her. Pietro’s body shifted, his stance more measured now, ready to move.

With a shared look, they began.

Pietro darted forward, moving faster than the eye could follow. As he did, Wanda stretched out her hand, her concentration intense. The environment around her began to shift, distorting as she altered the fabric of reality itself. As Pietro moved, the air around him seemed to bend, as if he were running through a corridor of shifting light and shadow. The world around him warped in real time, his speed leaving trails of energy that faded as soon as he passed.

For a moment, it was chaos—Pietro zipping through the altered space, Wanda trying to keep up with the changes, adjusting her power to match his speed.

But then, it clicked.

Pietro slowed, but only just enough for the effect to stabilize. The world around them stopped warping, the air clearing. They had managed to create a controlled space, a moment where Pietro’s speed didn’t throw Wanda’s powers into disarray. The balance was delicate, but it was there.

Hank watched, impressed. "You did it," he said quietly. "Both of you. That’s a perfect example of how you can work together."

Pietro grinned, though it was a little breathless. "Not bad," he said, looking over at Wanda.

Wanda, her expression a little dazed but proud, nodded. "We did it."

Hank smiled, feeling a rare sense of accomplishment. "This is just the beginning. But it’s a huge step forward."

They weren’t there yet, not by a long shot. But for the first time since they had arrived, Hank felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, these two children—no, these young mutants—could find their place in this world.

And maybe, together, they could heal.

Just as the twins began to gather their breath, Pietro looked over at Wanda, his face softening, but before he could say anything, a loud, frantic voice interrupted the moment.

"Get it for me!" Charles’ voice echoed down the hallway, thin and frantic as if his very life depended on it. "I need it! Now! Where’s my dose?!"

Wanda’s face went pale. Pietro’s hands balled into fists, the tension in his body stiffening once again. The warm, tentative atmosphere that had begun to build around them shattered like glass. The brief respite they had found, the spark of accomplishment and teamwork, was now clouded by the distant, painful reality they had tried to escape.

Hank's breath caught in his throat. He had forgotten. While trying to help the twins, to focus on them and their powers, he had forgotten about Charles. Forgotten about his need for his daily dose to stave off the mental and emotional breakdown that had begun to consume him since the fall. The chaos, the mess of it all, had clouded his mind.

Pietro turned away, unable to hide the bitter look that crossed his face. His whole body trembled, not from fear, but from the frustration that had been building since they arrived. Wanda squeezed her eyes shut as if trying to block out the sound of Charles' panicked cries. It felt like a reminder of everything they had lost—of the man who had once been their hope, their mentor, their refuge, now reduced to a hollow shell of himself, screaming for something to keep him alive, to keep him together.

But Wanda and Pietro didn’t know the man Charles had been before. They only knew him as he was now—fragile, desperate, addicted. They had no memory of his previous warmth, his passion for teaching, his hope for the future. To them, this frantic man was the only version they had ever known.

Wanda’s voice trembled as she spoke, barely above a whisper. "He... he needs you, doesn't he?"

Pietro’s face hardened, his voice low with anger. "Yeah. And he expects everyone else to fix him, doesn’t he? To clean up his mess." He clenched his fists tighter, frustration seeping through every word.

Hank closed his eyes briefly, not knowing how to answer. How could he explain what had happened? How could he explain the loss of control, the addiction, the emotional fracture that had begun to eat away at Charles’ ability to lead them, to be the man they once believed in?

Instead, Hank took a deep breath and cleared his throat. "I’ll take care of it," he said, his voice steady but not without its own pain. "But first, I need to make sure you two are alright." He glanced back at the twins, seeing the pain still etched into their faces, their bodies still taut with the tension of Charles' call. "You’ve been through a lot. And I’m here for you. But I need you to stay with me, just for a little while longer, okay?"

Wanda’s eyes flickered up to meet his, and for a moment, Hank saw a glimpse of the trust she had once extended so easily. It was faint, but it was there. "We’re... we’re fine," she said, though the words felt empty even as they left her lips.

Pietro, on the other hand, remained distant, his anger simmering beneath the surface. He didn’t want to be fine. He wanted to be angry. He wanted answers. But Hank could see that he was holding back, trying to keep himself composed.

"You’re not fine," Hank said softly. "Not yet. But we’ll get there. I promise."

Wanda nodded, though she didn’t seem convinced. "Just... just do what you need to do, Hank. We can handle it."

With a deep breath, Hank turned away from them, his mind racing with everything he had to do. He had to calm Charles down before he caused further damage—physically, emotionally, or worse. But as he walked toward the door, he paused, glancing back one last time at the twins.

Wanda’s eyes had lost some of their spark, and Pietro stood there, rigid with anger. It hurt Hank more than he cared to admit, seeing them like this. But there was little he could do about Charles right now. He had to act quickly.

"Stay here," Hank said gently, his voice firm, as much to himself as to them. "I’ll be back in a minute."

Before they could respond, Hank stepped out of the room, heading toward the stairs, the faint sounds of Charles’ frantic cries echoing in his mind. As much as he wanted to be with the twins, to help them, he knew he had to confront this problem first.

The hallways of the mansion were eerily quiet as Hank made his way toward Charles’ room, the walls lined with faded portraits of old students, some of whom had left long ago. The silence reminded him of how much things had changed. How much everything had broken down. But even with all that, he still had a responsibility to Charles, to these children—these lost souls who needed someone to hold them together.

And Hank knew, deep down, that despite everything, he was the only one left who could try.

Hank stepped cautiously out of Charles' room, the air around him thick with the weight of the situation. He felt the sharp sting of regret lingering in his chest, and the strain of responsibility weighed heavier with every step. His mind was still on Charles, something in the quiet caught his attention. Pietro was watching him with a sharp gaze, his usual irritation tempered with something else now—something Hank couldn't place.

"Where's Wendy?" Hank asked, his voice low, searching for a distraction.

"She's downstairs. Finding her bow," Pietro replied flatly, though his tone seemed to carry an undercurrent of worry.

Hank nodded, but his concern remained fixed on the twins. There was more to their story than just this disorienting chaos. He’d known it for a while, but Pietro’s eyes now held something that Hank couldn't ignore—guilt, maybe, or exhaustion, perhaps both.

Pietro hesitated before speaking again, his voice quieter this time weighed down with unspoken frustration. "She’s not... well, Hank. She’s not the way she seems."

Hank raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Pietro ran a hand through his messy hair, his gaze flicking away. "You think she’s just upset about Charles, about everything that’s happened? She’s... she’s like this all the time. I try to keep her together, but I don’t know how much longer I can do it."

Hank took a small step closer, listening intently. "Peter, what’s going on with her? What are you trying to keep her together for?"

Pietro looked at him, his eyes darkening. "Wendy, she—" He stopped himself, sighing deeply before continuing. "She sees things. Sees things that aren’t real. It’s like... like a constant echo of things that happened before. Of things she can’t understand."

He paused, clearly struggling with how to explain it. "There are times when she... she doesn’t even know where she is. She’ll stare into space, and I can’t get through to her. She gets lost in whatever’s in her head—her illusions of what was, what could have been. And it terrifies me, Hank. I can’t stop it."

Hank’s heart twisted as he listened, knowing too well the kind of emotional strain Pietro must have been carrying. He stepped forward, his voice softer now, "Peter, this sounds like dissociative episodes. She’s losing touch with reality for short periods of time, and her mind... it’s trying to protect her from everything she’s been through."

Pietro nodded, his face tight with frustration. "I’ve tried to explain it, but she won’t hear me. She’s convinced that she’s living in some... some twisted version of the past where everything was better. A stable mother, a father who never left us, and me." He clenched his fists, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. "I don’t know how to fix it. She holds onto these things, Hank. She clings to that picture of him, our dad. That stupid picture that showed up one night after one of her episodes, like it was the only thing she could grasp to make it all make sense."

Hank’s eyes softened as he listened. "She’s not holding onto the past because she’s stuck there, Peter. She’s holding onto it because it’s all she has. That picture, that moment—it’s her way of feeling connected to a father who she’s convinced abandoned her, to a version of herself that felt safe. But that’s not real, Peter. And it’s breaking her apart."

Pietro’s voice cracked slightly as he continued. "It’s dangerous, Hank. You don’t get it. Sometimes, when she gets like this... her powers flare up. When I try to snap her out of it, she gets overwhelmed. Last time, I thought she nearly killed me."

Hank’s brows furrowed with concern. "What happened?"

Pietro swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. "One of her episodes—she just started glowing, this red mist around her, like she was losing control. I tried to shake her out of it, but it wasn’t enough. She didn’t even know what was happening until I was thrown across the room. When I woke up, I found her kneeling beside me, her eyes full of tears, begging me to open my eyes like it was her fault. She thought she’d killed me, Hank." He exhaled slowly, the weight of that memory sinking in. "It’s one of the only times I’ve seen her break down. I had to comfort her for hours, telling her it wasn’t her fault. I don’t know what else to do, Hank. I just... I don’t know."

Hank stood silently for a moment, taking it all in. His heart broke for both of them. For the twins, for Wanda, who was still a child inside, struggling to understand her own power, her mind splintered by the trauma they had all endured.

"You’re doing the best you can, Peter," Hank said quietly, his voice gentle but firm. "But you’re right. Wendy needs help. And I think you need it too."

Pietro shook his head, his eyes burning with frustration. "I can’t fix her. I can barely keep myself together. We’re just... broken, Hank."

"You’re not broken," Hank replied softly, stepping closer. "But you can’t do it alone. We’re a team here. You, me, and Wendy. And I won’t let either of you fall apart without trying everything I can to help. But we need to start small. One step at a time."

Pietro looked away, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—maybe hope, maybe just the slightest glimmer of relief. He didn’t say anything, but Hank could feel the weight lifting from his shoulders if only a little.

"Let’s help Wendy first, okay?" Hank said, his voice steady and calm. "One step at a time."

Pietro nodded slowly, his expression unreadable but somehow softer. "Yeah. One step at a time."

Hank placed a reassuring hand on Pietro’s shoulder, his grip firm yet compassionate. "Peter, the fact that you’re here for her, that you care this much—it counts for more than you realize."

Pietro let out a short, humourless laugh, shaking his head. "I’m the one who caused half of this, Hank. If I hadn’t been so focused on pushing her, she might not be this way. Maybe if I hadn’t been so... so angry, she would’ve been different."

Hank sighed deeply. "Peter, you can't shoulder all of this alone. It's not your fault. But now, it's about how we move forward. You’re right to worry about Wendy, but you have to remember, you're not the only one with power here. She has the potential to heal. If we give her the space to do that, she might just surprise us."

Pietro looked at him, eyes weary but searching. "How can you be so sure?"

Hank smiled, though it was tinged with sadness. "Because I’ve seen it before. People are resilient. And you’re not alone in this. Neither of you are."

The words hung in the air for a moment, as if both of them were trying to digest the weight of what Hank was saying. Finally, Pietro let out a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Okay. I’ll try. But if she breaks again... I don’t know what I'll do."

"You won't let her break," Hank replied firmly. "And neither will I."

Just as the conversation seemed to settle, there was a soft thud from downstairs. The sound of footsteps quickly followed, and Wanda appeared at the top of the staircase, clutching her bow in both hands. Her expression was still fragile, her eyes darkened with the exhaustion that had been creeping in over the past few days.

Hank immediately noticed how the soft glow of her powers seemed to linger around her, a faint red aura that she couldn’t fully control. It was like a storm that was waiting to be unleashed, but for now, it was contained, even if just barely.

Wanda looked at the two of them for a long moment, as if searching for something in their faces. Her gaze settled on Pietro first, and she slowly made her way down the stairs, her footsteps tentative. "Are you both okay?" Her voice was quieter than usual, soft, almost vulnerable.

Pietro gave her a small, weary smile, trying to mask the concern he felt. "Yeah, just a lot to figure out."

Wanda nodded slowly, a flicker of something like understanding crossing her face. "I know," she murmured, her fingers tightening around her bow. "I’m... I’m sorry."

"You don’t have to apologize, Wendy," Hank said gently, watching her carefully. "We’re all trying to make sense of this. And we will. Together."

Wanda looked down at the floor, her lips trembling, before she shook her head slightly. "I don’t want to be like this anymore," she whispered, the words barely audible. "I don’t want to feel like I’m... broken."

Hank’s heart broke at the sight of her, but he knew that this was just the beginning. There was no quick fix, no magic cure, but there was hope. And hope was something he could work with.

"You’re not broken, Wendy," Hank said softly, stepping closer to her. "You’ve just been through more than anyone should ever have to. But you’ll get through it, I know you will. We’ll help you."

Pietro watched silently, his face a mixture of relief and deep concern as Wanda allowed herself to lean into Hank’s steady presence. Her powers shimmered faintly in the air, but they didn’t spark into chaos. For a moment, there was a brief, fragile sense of peace.

Wanda took a shaky breath, her voice barely a whisper. "I want to try. I want to be okay."

Hank smiled, though it was small, bittersweet. "That’s all any of us can do."

Pietro stepped forward, his usual defiance replaced by something softer, something warmer. "Then we’ll try. Together."

The three of them stood in the doorway for a moment, the weight of their past and the uncertainty of their future hanging in the air. But there was a quiet strength in the room now—a tentative hope, perhaps—but one that they could all grasp.

And for the first time in a long while, Hank allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, they could heal.

Chapter Text

It had been a week since the twins arrived, and the mansion had already taken on a different energy. The once-silent hallways echoed with the twins' light steps and occasional, whispered conversations. Though Hank was no stranger to young mutants, he still found himself disoriented by their presence, unsure how to fit himself into the new routine of looking after them.

Wanda and Pietro, however, had settled quickly, spending their days testing their powers in hidden corners of the grounds. Hank would catch glimpses of Wanda's red aura sparking along her fingers and Pietro darting around as a silver blur. They’d been ignoring Charles’s muttered complaints and distant groans drifting through the walls, focusing instead on the thrill of exploring their abilities.

Hank wondered if they’d even noticed his pained calls or if they’d just learned to tune them out. Either way, there was a strange comfort in their apparent ease, like they were finally allowed to be children.

Wanda had started to come out of her shell if only a little. She was beginning to look more like a kid and less like a haunted shadow. She hadn’t slipped into one of her dissociative states since they’d arrived, and for that, Pietro was immensely relieved.

Her giggles, bright and unexpectedly soft, would ring through the hallways whenever he did something to amuse her. It was a rare sound, one he’d always tried to bring out but hadn’t heard often enough. Those small bursts of laughter flooded the mansion, filling the empty spaces with warmth, even if just for a moment.

Despite her giggles, Wanda’s thoughts drifted back to Charles, no matter how hard Pietro tried to keep her distracted. He’d pull her away from the steps leading to Charles’s room, dragging her off to explore some hidden corner of the mansion or show her strange things he’d found stashed away in dusty cabinets. But even when they discovered old trinkets or chased each other through the halls, her mind wandered back to that dark room, to Charles lying on the bed, so broken, so helpless, and so full of unspoken pain.

He scared her, that much was true. But beneath that fear was a flicker of something else—a need to help him, if she could. She didn’t understand why Pietro seemed so unaffected, so unconcerned by Charles’s suffering. He didn’t even talk about Charles. It was as though Pietro didn’t care, or worse, wished Charles would just vanish. But Wanda couldn’t let go of the image of him, alone and hurting. Maybe she could help him. And if she could, maybe then she’d finally understand why they were here, in this strange mansion, where so many memories seemed to lie just out of reach.

There was no way Wanda was going to walk into Charles’s room and ask him directly what was wrong—too many unknowns, too much tension. No, she would ask Hank. He was always so kind to them, so patient. Surely he wouldn’t mind telling her what was really going on. After all, he’d been the one to answer their questions when they first arrived, and he had always seemed like someone they could trust. There was no way he’d say no.

With a determined glint in her eye, Wanda set off to find him. She pulled Pietro along beside her, her stubbornness—undoubtedly inherited from their father—starting to show. Pietro grumbled under his breath but followed anyway, the kind of protectiveness he had for Wanda making him unwilling to let her go alone.

By the time they reached Hank’s lab, Wanda had filled him in on her plan, explaining with a quiet urgency. As if she were ever going to try it alone. She would need him to help, even if she didn’t quite know how. She was certain Hank had the answers. He always seemed to have something figured out, and for once, Wanda wasn’t content to let the mystery linger. She needed answers—not for herself, but for Charles.

They found Hank bent over a test tube, watching intently as the liquid inside shifted from clear to a bright, almost neon pink. The sudden sound of footsteps startled him, and he spun around, eyes widening at the sight of the twins. In his surprise, he pulled his lab coat tighter around himself, the familiar barriers he built slipping just slightly as he took in their expectant faces.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice steadying, though he still felt the flutter of being caught off guard.

“Wendy wants to ask you something,” Pietro cut in quickly, making it clear he’d rather be anywhere else. He seemed tense, glancing from Hank to the door, hoping, it seemed, that Wanda’s question would be brief.

With a child’s bluntness, Wanda looked Hank straight in the eye and asked, “Why doesn’t Charles love our Papa anymore?”

The words hit Hank like a punch. He froze, the cheerful pink of the test tube now feeling strangely incongruent with the heaviness of the room. He hadn’t expected that—hadn’t even considered it. How could he possibly explain what happened on that beach in Cuba to two eight-year-olds without tearing apart the delicate images they held of their father? How could he tell them about Erik’s actions that day—how he had chosen his ideals over Charles, leaving a wound so deep it had never truly healed?

Hank’s mind drifted to that chaotic day: Erik turning against Charles, Raven caught between them, the tragic bullet that had shattered their love and left Charles paralyzed. It had all come crashing down then, and in the aftermath, he had created the serum that had cost Charles even more. To explain all of this to Wanda and Pietro, he realized, would mean explaining a world of betrayal, grief, and anger—a world he wasn’t sure they were ready to know.

He swallowed, searching for words that wouldn’t break their young hearts. "Wendy," he started, his voice soft, "it’s... complicated. Your dad and Charles—they cared about each other very much. But sometimes, people can have different ideas about what’s right, and it can pull them apart." He paused, the memories flooding back. "Charles’s feelings… well, they’re tied up with a lot of pain, things that happened long ago."

Wanda frowned, not quite understanding but sensing the weight of what Hank was leaving unsaid. “But he’s hurting so much now. Couldn’t Papa come back and make it better?” Her voice was so soft, so full of hope, and Hank felt a pang of guilt.

Pietro, ever guarded, was quick to speak, pulling Wanda closer to him. “If he’s in so much pain, why doesn’t he just move on? Isn’t that what grown-ups do?”

Hank smiled sadly. "Sometimes... it’s not so easy. Some memories are hard to let go of."

Hank took a deep breath, glancing between the twins. Wanda had been so eager to understand this fractured world they’d been thrust into, and it pained him to break any of the illusions she might hold. But maybe, he thought, there was a way to tell her a version of the truth that could make sense to them.

“Your father and Charles…” Hank began carefully, watching Wanda’s earnest, questioning face and Pietro’s guarded expression. “They wanted to change things for people like us—mutants. But they didn’t always agree on how that change should happen.”

Wanda’s brow furrowed as she processed his words, while Pietro’s posture remained tense, his arms crossed as if he were bracing for a blow. Hank continued, measuring each word. “Your father, he… he believed in doing things in a way that was very… strong. He thought that fighting back was the only way to keep mutants safe. But Charles—he believed in peace, in trying to work together with humans.”

Pietro scoffed under his breath, but Wanda just nodded, her face clouded with concern. She was taking in every word, her mind piecing together a picture she had never quite understood.

“The last time they saw each other,” Hank continued, a haunted look flashing in his eyes as he remembered, “there was… an accident. Charles got hurt. And that… that’s why your father isn’t here now.” He avoided mentioning the bullet, the beach, and the betrayal that had left Charles crushed in more ways than one. “He’s in prison because of what he did afterwards.”

“Because of what he did?” Pietro’s voice cut in, sharp, protective. “You mean, he was fighting for us—for people like us.” There was a challenge in his gaze as he looked up at Hank, daring him to refute it.

Hank nodded slowly, knowing there was more to say but holding back for now. “Yes. He thought he was protecting us. But it hurt people. And… it hurt Charles too.”

Wanda lowered her eyes, a flicker of sadness crossing her face. She still seemed determined, though, as if each word Hank shared only added to her quiet resolve to understand Charles more fully.

As if on cue, Charles's voice echoed down the hall, hoarse and insistent, calling out for his next dose. Hank's head snapped up, tension flooding his features as he hurried to his feet.

“I have to go help him,” Hank murmured, a mixture of concern and guilt in his eyes. Without another word, he turned and quickly strode toward Charles’s room, leaving the twins standing in the stillness of the lab.

Pietro sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. “He’s always like this,” he muttered, half to himself. “Always so… helpless.”

Wanda looked down, twisting her ribbon in her hands as she thought. The revelation of Charles’s suffering weighed heavily on her, and she found herself feeling an unexpected tug of sympathy despite everything. “I think... I think he’s in so much pain, Pietro,” she said softly. “Maybe that’s why he’s like this.”

Pietro scoffed but didn’t respond, his eyes focused on the doorway where Hank had disappeared. Charles’s weak calls could still be heard faintly in the background, muffled but constant. They lingered in the lab for a moment longer, the sounds of Hank and Charles’s muffled conversation filling the silence.

“Let’s get out of here,” Pietro said finally, taking her hand and leading her out of the lab. Wandering down the hall, they found themselves back in the empty corridors of the mansion, a place both familiar and alien to them now, filled with ghosts of a past they could only begin to imagine.

As they walked, the echoes of Charles’s pleas faded, but their impact lingered, weaving a new layer of complexity into the world around them.

Hank braced himself as he listened to the twins’ footsteps fading down the staircase before he turned his attention back to Charles, taking in the laboured breaths and distant look in Charles's eyes as he held the syringe. With each dose, Charles seemed to slip further away from the man Hank once knew—the hopeful professor, the caring mentor. As he administered the shot, he decided it was time to speak, hoping that some part of Charles might still be listening.

“You would be so proud of them, you know,” Hank began, his voice low but unwavering. He was met with a sceptical scoff, but he continued, pressing on with quiet insistence. “Charles, they’re remarkable. You should see them with their powers. They’re naturals, fully in tune with what they can do. They’re Erik’s, yes, but there’s something about Wendy…”

Charles’s eyes were sharp, yet distant, his voice tinged with bitterness. “Proud of Erik’s children? I think you’ve got the wrong man, Hank.”

Hank clenched his jaw, holding back frustration. “They’re Erik’s, through and through, but they’re more than that. Wendy's powers—her focus—it’s something I only ever saw in you.” He paused, searching Charles’s face for any flicker of understanding. “She’s got your kind of intensity. Your potential. And Peter… he’s got Erik’s tenacity, that much is true, but the way he guards her, the way they rely on each other… it’s like you and Raven.”

The mention of Raven hung in the air like a wound reopened. Charles’s face twisted, a mixture of pain and anger surfacing. He turned away, voice hardened. “Don’t bring her into this, Hank.”

Hank’s heart clenched as he continued, his tone almost pleading. “But it’s true. You and Raven were family to each other once, just like Wendy and Peter are. Charles, these children—they don’t hate you. They’re confused, maybe. Hurt. They’re trying to understand why you’re like this. They look at you and see someone who could help them. They want to understand, Charles.”

For a moment, Charles’s hardened expression faltered, his gaze softening, but he closed off again, his face unreadable. “They’ll never be mine, Hank. They don’t belong here.”

“They do belong here,” Hank insisted, his voice breaking under the weight of the conversation. “You’re shutting yourself away from them. But if you would just… if you’d let them in, even a little, you might see what they could mean to you. They don’t have Erik, and they don’t have anyone else. All they have is us.”

Charles’s voice grew quieter, his tone distant and resigned. “They’re a reminder of everything that was taken, of everything that fell apart, Hank. I can’t look at them and not see Erik. And I don’t want to see him.”

Hank’s shoulders slumped. He’d hoped—he’d truly hoped—that something would break through to Charles. “They’re a reminder, yes, but they could also be a way forward. A way to mend some of what’s broken. Charles… isn’t that what you wanted once, for mutants to be together?”

But Charles simply turned his gaze to the window, lost in his own thoughts, his face steeled against Hank’s words. The silence between them was thick with years of unresolved grief and bitterness, and Hank felt any last remnants of hope slip away. With a heavy heart, he set down the empty syringe and turned to leave, letting Charles’s silence echo in the empty space between them.

As he walked out, he thought of Wanda and Pietro, wondering if there was anything left to save for them here.

Charles lay motionless on the bed, his eyes locked on the framed photograph of Raven, still and unchanging. It was the only picture he had left of her—frozen in time, a quiet reminder of what he had lost. A sister who had been so much more than that, who had been his anchor when everything else seemed to slip away. The ache in his chest deepened as he stared at the image, a wound that never healed, just a constant, dull throb beneath everything else.

The house was too quiet, too still, but for the distant sounds of the twins’ laughter rising from below. It was an odd sensation, hearing their voices echo through the halls. Their joy was so raw, so unrefined. They had come from nothing, from chaos, and yet they somehow seemed to fill the space in a way that he couldn’t quite place. It was strange, unsettling even, but also… oddly familiar.

What would Raven think? he wondered. She had tried to warn him, to guide him in his friendship with him, but Erik was always an enigma—someone so close yet always just out of reach. But the twins—Wanda and Pietro—they weren’t that. They weren’t Erik. They weren’t even his to claim. And yet, as their laughter filtered through the air, something in him stirred something that made him want to reach out to them. To help them.

His thoughts flickered back to Hank’s words.

Was Hank right? Were they, in some way, like him? Maybe it’s the power, he thought, reflecting on Wanda’s abilities, the way she could bend reality, and shape it to her will. It was so much like his telepathic abilities, so much like the control he had once had over his mind before everything shattered. She didn’t even realize the magnitude of her power. Wanda and Pietro both lived with that constant uncertainty, that fear of their powers spinning out of control.

Charles turned his gaze away from the photo and let his eyes drift to the window, the dim light of the morning spilling into the room, casting long shadows across the floor. The twins, though so young, had already endured so much. They had never known their father, thrown into a world they didn’t understand, and yet they had adapted. Why should I keep them away? Charles wondered. What’s the point of pushing them out when they’re just as much victims of this war as anyone else?

But the pain of his own memories held him back, each recollection of Erik’s betrayal a fresh wound, every reminder of his past with Raven, so deeply tied to their shared history, a knife to the heart. Erik had chosen his path, had walked away from him, and the betrayal had crushed him. It had set him on a path of self-doubt, of pain that he could never quite escape. He had tried to rebuild, tried to move past it, but with every reminder—every new face, every new betrayal—he seemed to sink deeper.

And the twins… Wanda, in particular, seemed to press against his defences. There was something about her, something that made him want to reach out. Perhaps it was because she reminded him of Raven—her quiet intensity, the way she observed the world from a distance, hesitant yet full of potential. What if I could help her? What if he could guide her, help her make sense of this power inside her?

But then he remembered Erik’s face—his anger, his pride—and it became clear to him once again. No matter how much he might want to help, no matter how much he might want to pull them in, there was still so much he couldn’t let go of. I can’t do this, he thought, his mind reeling. I can’t open myself to them. Not after everything.

He closed his eyes tightly, trying to block out the noise in his head. But it was no use. The twins’ laughter, the sound of their voices, kept creeping back in, each moment of joy a sharp contrast to the isolation he felt within himself. Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe I’m just afraid. Afraid of what they might mean for him, for his fractured mind. Afraid that if he let them in, he might lose himself entirely.

But another part of him—another, quieter part—wondered if that was the way forward. Maybe I need them. His thoughts slowed, and for a moment, he allowed himself to rest in the possibility. The twins were not just reminders of his pain, not just reflections of his brokenness. They were, perhaps, his chance at something more. A chance to heal, not just himself, but to help them heal as well.

The sounds of their laughter continued to echo through the walls, and for the first time in a long while, Charles felt a strange warmth spread through him. It was a tiny spark, but it was enough—enough to make him reconsider, enough to make him hope that maybe—just maybe—he could learn to love them as his own.

Chapter Text

Pietro had never been the type to worry. At least, not outwardly. His natural restlessness and speed usually kept him ahead of problems, outrunning any anxious thoughts before they could fully form. But now, each day brought a slow, simmering concern that he couldn’t just shake off. He was more worried about Wanda than ever before. At first, he’d thought the mansion would be a fresh start for them, a place where they could shed the shadows of their past and finally have some semblance of normalcy. And yet, since settling in, he noticed her slipping—no, drifting—back into that faraway, unreachably distant state he remembered so well.

He’d often catch her standing at the bottom of the grand staircase, shoulders hunched, head tilted up toward the silent, ominous door that led to Charles’s room. Wanda’s face would be blank, her lips slightly parted, as if listening to secrets hidden in the walls. Pietro could almost feel her pull away in these moments, as though her thoughts were slipping into a world he couldn’t enter. Even the faintest sounds from Charles’s room seemed to anchor her there—a low groan, the scratch of movement, a muttered word she couldn’t quite make out but clung to all the same.

Her attention to it unsettled him. It was as though Charles’s struggles were a magnetic force that drew her closer, into realms of memory and empathy he didn’t fully understand. But Pietro had long since learned to see beyond his sister’s surface expressions. He knew that beneath her wide, bright smile was a thin layer of uncertainty—a cover she put on whenever she sensed he was near. Each time he announced his presence, Wanda would blink, snapping out of her trance with a sharp, almost startled movement. Then she’d turn toward him, a quick grin spreading across her face, deliberately too wide to be natural.

The grin, though, didn’t reach her eyes. That familiar spark was missing, replaced by a subdued, almost strained brightness that felt painfully wrong to Pietro. He wanted to call her out on it, demanding to know what she was hiding, but the words always stuck in his throat. She had her ways of pushing him away, of quietly letting him know she didn’t want to discuss the weight she carried.

If he didn’t know better, Pietro would have thought she was… haunted. That maybe, in some strange, invisible way, she was reaching out to Charles, driven by the empathy that had always run deeper in her than it did in him. But there was also the unease he felt just watching her drawn back into that fragile, glasslike state. And all of it, everything—Charles’s hollow voice, the door at the top of the stairs, Wanda’s silent worry—seemed to wrap itself around her mind.

Pietro noticed something else that troubled him deeply: Wanda had begun to disappear for long periods. It was out of character for her, and it unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. They were twins, bound together by a connection that went beyond words. He was so used to her constant presence—whether it was her hand gripping his arm, her steady footsteps just behind him, or simply the feeling of her hovering close by. She was his shadow, his mirror, always within reach and always in his mind. He could feel her presence like a heartbeat, a part of himself he’d never been without.

But now, there were gaps. Times he’d turn around and find her missing, no trace of her laughter or her quiet hum to fill the space between them. At first, he brushed it off, assuming she was just wandering the mansion, exploring its many rooms and dusty corridors. Yet the longer these absences became, the more the hollow feeling grew in his chest. He couldn’t sense her as easily. And that feeling of being alone, of being without her, gnawed at him in a way he hadn’t experienced since they were kids.

Pietro wasn’t just worried—he felt a rising, desperate need to keep her close as if she were slipping through his fingers like sand. He tried not to let it show, burying his worry beneath his usual smirks and snappy remarks, but each time Wanda reappeared, he’d study her carefully, searching for any sign of what she’d been doing or where she’d gone. Her explanations were vague, her gaze unfocused, and there was an odd quietness in her that made him ache with frustration.

Every time he tried to press her, she would dodge his questions with a soft smile, murmuring reassurances that only deepened his concern.

With Wanda’s absences becoming more frequent, Pietro found himself drifting into Hank's lab. At first, he merely perched on the countertop, legs swinging idly as he watched Hank move through his routines, mixing chemicals and scribbling notes with an intense focus. Pietro had never been interested in science before—numbers and formulas had always seemed tedious and slow. But Hank’s lab was different, alive with possibilities, with a hum of energy that kept him from growing bored.

Over time, his curiosity got the better of him, and he began asking questions, observing Hank’s every move with a sharp eye, until Hank started to rope him into tasks. At first, it was just small things—passing instruments, fetching notebooks—but gradually, Hank let him try his hand at actual experiments. Pietro’s first attempts were clumsy, his impatience getting the better of him. Still, there was something gratifying about the process, the way Hank patiently corrected his mistakes without a hint of frustration.

One day, as Pietro analyzed a sample under the microscope, Hank told him he was exceptionally intelligent for his age. Pietro laughed it off, dismissing it as just another adult platitude. But Hank stopped him, explaining that his mutation didn’t just affect his speed—it sharpened his mind, too. Pietro’s brain was processing information nearly ten times faster than the average adult, Hank revealed a fact that surprised and unsettled him. He had always chalked up his restless energy to an overabundance of stamina, a need to be constantly on the move. But this, Hank explained, was why he was so hyper-aware, why he craved constant stimulation and ached for anything to occupy his mind.

It was a revelation that left Pietro both curious and wary. His mutation wasn’t just about running fast; it was part of the way he thought, the way he saw and experienced the world.

As Pietro left the lab, he felt a gnawing hunger creep in, his rapid metabolism demanding constant fuel. He decided to head to the kitchen for a snack, his mind still buzzing from the lab work with Hank. But halfway down the hall, something strange caught his attention.

Just as he reached the stairs, he sensed a familiar presence, something he could only describe as Wanda’s unique energy—the faint shimmer of crimson light flickering at the edge of his vision. He froze, eyes narrowing as he looked up. There, at the top of the stairs, Wanda slipped quietly out of Charles’s room, her movements cautious, every step careful to avoid the slightest creak. She eased the door shut behind her, turning the handle with such care that it barely made a sound.

Then she turned, and their eyes met across the stairwell. Wanda’s expression faltered, shock flickering across her face as she took in Pietro’s watchful gaze from the bottom step. He noticed the way her shoulders tensed, caught out in a moment of secrecy. The quiet determination in her face melted into surprise, and for a split second, he could see the vulnerability she tried so hard to conceal.

“What are you doing in Charles room?” Pietro demanded, his voice low but edged with concern. In a blur, he was up the stairs, his hand grabbing her arm and pulling her gently but firmly away from the door before she could protest. Within seconds, they were both at the bottom of the staircase again, Pietro’s intense gaze fixed on her, waiting for an explanation.

“Nothing,” Wanda replied, her voice distant, still catching up with the sudden shift in her surroundings. She blinked, slightly dazed from the abrupt change, her expression guarded as she met his eyes.

Pietro’s face softened just a bit, but he held firm. “You don’t need to hide things from me, you know,” he said quietly, a hint of frustration seeping into his tone. "Why were you in there? You know Charles doesn’t want us around.”

Wanda’s gaze shifted, her fingers nervously twisting the frayed edge of her sleeve. “I just... I wanted to help,” she murmured. “He’s so hurt, Pietro. I thought maybe... maybe I could make him feel better.”

Pietro’s mouth tightened, watching her. “He doesn’t deserve it,” he muttered, looking up the stairs as if the closed door could hear him. But Wanda’s expression remained steady, that determined, quiet resolve he’d come to know so well.

“You don’t understand, Pietro,” she said, almost pleading. “There’s so much pain in him... I can feel it. It’s like... it’s pulling at me.”

Pietro's eyes narrowed, shielding his worry. “Wanda,” he said firmly, “you’re not his nurse. You’re my sister. And I don’t want you going back in there.”

But as he saw the resolve in her eyes, he knew it wasn’t going to be that simple.

"Please don’t tell Mr Hank,” Wanda pleaded, her eyes wide and earnest. “It’s not like the professor’s awake—at least, I don’t think he is. He doesn’t talk or… anything.”

Pietro’s jaw tightened, and his eyes flashed, an inherited temper stirring that Hank had often hinted was his father’s legacy. “Why shouldn’t I tell him, Wanda?” His voice was sharp, echoing through the empty hall.

She shifted uncomfortably, folding her arms over her chest as if to protect herself from his frustration. “Because… he’d stop me. And I—I feel like I have to do this, Pietro. I can’t explain it, but… it’s like he’s calling me. He’s hurting, and I’m… I’m the only one who can feel it.”

Pietro let out an exasperated sigh, running a hand through his hair. "And what if he wakes up, huh? What if he says something, or… worse?” He glanced back up at the door to Charles’s room as if it were a barrier keeping a lurking threat at bay. “You’re risking too much, Wanda, and for what? For someone who doesn’t even want us here?”

Wanda’s expression softened as she placed a hand on his arm. “He doesn’t know he wants us here. Not yet. But maybe... maybe he just needs someone to remind him.”

Pietro groaned, looking away as he wrestled with his instincts to protect her. “You always do this,” he muttered. “You try to fix everyone else’s problems, even when it’s dangerous.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “Someone has to, Pietro.”

His shoulders slumped a reluctant understanding filling his expression. “Fine,” he said at last, his voice softening. “But if Hank finds out, or if Charles so much as looks at you wrong, we’re done with this… whatever it is you’re doing. Promise me, Wanda.”

“I promise,” she whispered, giving him a small, reassuring smile.

At this, Pietro nodded, his expression set with a kind of resigned resolve. “What are you even doing in there anyway?” he asked, voice edged with frustration. “He’s practically comatose.”

Wanda hesitated, glancing back up the stairs before answering, “I’m trying to see if… if my magic will help him. Pull his mind back together, you know? When he sleeps, it’s like his mind is more open, less clouded.” Her words carried a quiet hopefulness as if she’d found purpose in this secret mission of hers.

Pietro grimaced, folding his arms tightly across his chest. “You’re putting yourself at risk, Wanda. You don’t even know if it’s helping him.”

“I can feel something,” she insisted, voice soft but firm. “It’s like… he’s trapped, Pietro. And every time I’m in there, I feel like I’m getting closer to reaching him. I don’t expect you to understand, but I need to do this. I have to try.”

Pietro looked at her, torn between anger and concern, before letting out a sigh. “Just… be careful, alright? Don’t let him drag you down with him.”

“I won’t,” Wanda promised, though her gaze remained fixed on the staircase, her mind already drifting back to the broken man behind that closed door.

Pietro sighed, knowing that Wanda’s stubbornness was a force even he couldn’t counter. "Fine," he muttered, his voice heavy with caution, "but if Hank finds out and flips, that’s on you."

A hint of relief softened Wanda’s face as she nodded, though her gaze still lingered on the stairs. “Thank you, Pietro.”

Pietro headed into the kitchen, his mind already set on finding something to snack on to fuel his constantly ravenous energy. Wanda followed behind him, watching as he transformed into a blue blur, rifling through cupboards and the fridge at superspeed, scattering ingredients in a haphazard mess.

When he finally stopped, Pietro had assembled a bizarre collection of snacks that made Wanda raise an eyebrow. She fiddled absently with the ribbon in her hair, glancing at the odd mix he’d managed to grab. As he began wolfing down his concoction with a speed only he could manage, she spoke up.

“Do you reckon with my magic I could fly a little bit?” she asked, her voice quiet but curious.

Pietro paused, looking up at her as he processed her question. His brow furrowed with mock seriousness as he considered it. “Fly?” he repeated like it was the most outrageous thing she’d ever suggested. “Well, I mean, sometimes you float a tiny bit, yeah. But proper flying? That’s another level.”

Wanda looked down at her hands, the glow of her magic a faint memory beneath her fingertips. “I don’t know… I just feel like if I really tried, my magic could help me. It’s always there when I need it, like in the worst situations. Maybe it could make me fly if I… I don’t know, put myself in that sort of situation.”

A slow grin spread across Pietro’s face as an idea popped into his head. “What if we throw you off the balcony bit at the top of the stairs? See if your fight-or-flight kicks in.” His eyes gleamed with mischief.

She stared at him, incredulous. “You want to throw me off the stairs?”

“Well, yeah!” he said, grinning. “Your magic always saves you, doesn’t it? What better way to put it to the test?”

Wanda considered it, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “That might actually work,” she said, a glimmer of excitement flickering in her eyes. “If I’m in danger, my magic will have to kick in… pretty much.”

Pietro deadpanned. “Pretty much,” he echoed, as though that settled it.

Wanda snorted, rolling her eyes. “Only you would think that throwing me off the stairs is a solid plan.”

Pietro shrugged with a grin, already halfway through his chaotic snack. “Hey, at least it’ll be fun to watch, right?” he said, grinning around a mouthful of food.

Wanda laughed, shaking her head at her brother’s wild idea. Even though she had her doubts, it felt good to be caught up in their usual rhythm again, her earlier worries forgotten in the face of Pietro’s antics.

"Hurry up, then!" Wanda exclaimed, already halfway out of the kitchen door.

Pietro snorted, crossing his arms with a smirk. "Who are you telling to hurry up? I’m literally the resident speedster here."

Wanda shot him an unimpressed look. "Well, you’re being slow!" she taunted, her eyes alight with excitement as she bounced on her toes, clearly raring to go.

Rolling his eyes, Pietro blurred into motion, darting out the door so fast that the wind he generated sent Wanda stumbling a step back, her hair whipping around her face. She grinned, taking off after him down the corridor, her laughter mingling with his as she ran, footsteps echoing through the empty mansion.

The chase took them through long, winding hallways and up the grand staircase, Wanda catching glimpses of Pietro’s blue streak just ahead. She could hear his laughter bouncing off the walls, spurring her to push herself faster. This was familiar and exhilarating; in moments like these, it was easy to forget about everything else. They were just two siblings, racing through a mansion that felt, for now, entirely theirs.

Their laughter hadn’t gone unnoticed. Hank, hearing the commotion echoing through the mansion’s empty halls, stepped out of his lab to investigate, only to nearly freeze in place at the sight that greeted him.

Wanda was standing—no, wobbling—on the second-floor bannister, her arms stretched out for balance. Her face held a look of wild determination, her focus intense. Down below, Pietro waited with his arms open, poised to catch her if her plan failed. Hank’s pulse quickened. Pietro was only eight; how he thought he’d catch his twin from such a height was beyond Hank’s comprehension.

“Hi, Mr Hank!” Wanda called, her voice bright but slightly nervous as she gave him a small wave. She tilted a bit, causing Hank’s breath to hitch, but she steadied herself with a soft swirl of red energy around her fingers.

Hank looked down at Pietro, whose gaze was unwavering and confident. “What are you doing?” Hank asked, alarmed but trying to keep his voice even.

Pietro flashed a quick, proud grin. “We’re helping her learn to fly! Her magic just needs the right trigger, so we’re giving it a little push.” His tone was casual like it was the most logical plan in the world.

Hank’s mouth opened, but for a moment, words failed him. He looked at Wanda, her determination almost tangible as she focused, and he couldn’t help but recognize a certain boldness. Against his better judgment, he had to admit Pietro’s logic was… intriguing. He hesitated, running through the possibilities in his mind, then finally nodded, surprising even himself. “You know… that’s actually rather clever,” he said, with an admiring glint in his eye.

With everyone now caught up in the plan, Hank took a cautious step back, every muscle tense as he kept his eyes trained on Wanda, hoping—for her sake and his own nerves—that her magic would catch her if she fell.

With a resigned sigh, Hank gently moved Pietro aside, positioning himself directly beneath Wanda. The boy protested for a moment, insisting he could do it, but Hank merely patted his shoulder. "I appreciate the thought, Peter, but let’s play it safe."

Despite the serum suppressing his mutation, Hank’s build still offered a measure of reassurance; he hoped he was sturdy enough to catch her if things went wrong. He didn’t quite understand why he was entertaining this, letting an eight-year-old teeter on a bannister several feet off the ground. He was supposed to be the responsible adult here. And yet… here he was, standing below Wanda with a pounding heart, rationalizing this risky endeavour.

Maybe it was for science, he told himself. Just a little experiment, an opportunity to observe her powers under stress. Besides, Wanda’s face was alive with concentration, her eyes gleaming as she summoned her crimson energy, the small sparks of red flickering around her hands. He could see her determination, her will to push beyond her limits. Science or not, he wanted her to feel empowered.

"Alright, Wendy," he said, trying to sound steady and calm, "whenever you’re ready, let your magic do the work."

Pietro watched with excitement, clenching his fists at his side, his faith in her unwavering. Hank glanced up, waiting, bracing himself, and for a brief second, he thought, Well, let’s see if magic really can fly.

And then, without hesitation, Wanda jumped.

Time seemed to slow, her small body plummeting from the balcony, her figure a blur against the hallway light. For a moment, Hank’s breath caught in his throat. He watched her fall, her eyes wide with concentration, and it felt as if the world had paused for the briefest of moments. The wind whipped around her, her hair cascading like a dark veil behind her. And still, she fell.

Then, with a soft thud, she landed—safely, securely—in Hank’s arms.

A sigh of relief escaped his lips, but it was quickly replaced by a flicker of disappointment that passed over Wanda’s face. Her shoulders slumped, her energy fading. She looked up at Hank with a mix of frustration and confusion. "I didn’t fly…" she murmured softly, her voice tinged with regret.

Hank set her down gently, his hands steadying her small form. He could see the spark of determination still burning in her eyes, though it was tinged with a hint of frustration. He crouched down to meet her gaze.

"You did great, Wendy," he said, a reassuring smile softening his features. "You tried something new, something difficult. That’s what matters."

Pietro dashed over from the bottom of the stairs, his face lighting up when he saw that she was safe. He gave a mock pout. "Told you," he teased, crossing his arms. "Flying’s overrated."

Wanda gave him a small, reluctant smile. "I guess… but it still would’ve been nice."

Hank stood up slowly, watching the twins for a moment. "Maybe next time, huh? Or we’ll come up with a better plan."

"I wanna try again!" Wanda exclaimed, her voice brimming with determination as she bounded back up the stairs. Without hesitation, she climbed onto the balcony ledge, her tiny hands gripping the railing as she steadied herself.

Hank’s heart skipped a beat as he watched her, but he didn’t move. He knew how much she wanted this, how much she needed it, but part of him still dreaded the thought of her falling.

"Wait—" Hank began, but before he could stop him, Pietro was already in motion.

"I have an idea," Pietro whispered to Hank, his eyes gleaming with mischief. And then, in a blur of speed, Pietro dashed up the stairs after her. Hank’s voice caught in his throat, but it was too late.

Wanda focused intently on balancing herself on the ledge, never saw Pietro coming. With one quick, deft movement, he gave her a large shove.

"Wendy!" Hank called out in alarm, but it was too late.

Wanda’s scream pierced the air—a loud, terrifying cry that echoed through the mansion. Her body dropped from the balcony in a sudden, uncontrolled fall. Red mist exploded from her, swirling around her like a violent storm as her magic flared to life.

Everything seemed to freeze for a heartbeat. Hank’s pulse thundered in his ears as he watched Wanda plummet, her body twisting through the air in panic. The world seemed to tilt and tilt again as her powers fought to stabilize her. Her scream continued to echo as she fell faster and faster, and Hank’s heart raced with each passing second.

Then, with an abrupt stop, her powers kicked in. The red mist around her thickened, and Wanda came to an almost violent halt in midair. She wobbled, her small body swaying slightly in the air, her legs dangling below her. She was suspended in the air, her face stricken with a mixture of shock and awe, her breath coming out in rapid gasps.

For a moment, she hung there, unsure of what to do. The red mist still crackled around her, and her wide eyes darted around, struggling to process what was happening.

"Wendy!" Pietro yelled, his voice full of both concern and excitement.

"Do—do you see that?" she gasped, her voice breathless as she floated in place, her powers keeping her suspended. The panic was still evident in her voice, but there was a flicker of hope too, buried underneath the fear. She was flying—or at least, something like it.

"You're flying, Wendy!" Hank said, his voice filled with awe. "You’re actually doing it!"

Wanda’s eyes widened as she looked down at her feet, her body floating above the ground. A grin spread across her face, fragile and unsure at first, but it grew as the realization settled in. She was holding herself in the air, hovering with nothing more than her magic.

"I—I did it…" she whispered, her voice trembling with disbelief.

Pietro grinned widely from the balcony below. "Told you it would work," he teased, though his voice was laced with a sense of pride for his sister. "You just needed a little push."

Hank, still caught in the moment, moved closer, a mixture of relief and pride in his eyes. "You’re incredible, Wendy. That was amazing."

Wanda beamed at Hank, a new sense of confidence growing within her. "I didn’t think I could do it… but I did." Her voice was filled with wonder, but there was an undercurrent of something more powerful now—determination, maybe even a bit of joy.

Hank looked up at Pietro, who had a slight smirk on his face. "Maybe next time, we can work on controlling it a little more," he suggested with a light laugh.

Pietro nodded. "Yeah, that’s probably a good idea."

As Wanda began to float back down to the ground, still a little wobbly, Hank couldn’t help but feel a spark of pride for the children. In just a short time, they had begun to discover the limits of their powers—and it was only the beginning.

After the flying incident, Wanda was drained, her body and mind exhausted from the most chaos she had ever consciously created. Her magic had pushed her limits, and now it left her feeling empty and tired, so much so that even her usual restlessness couldn’t help her fight the fatigue. Pietro, ever the opposite, was off to stir trouble elsewhere, deciding to continue his usual mischief in Hank’s lab while Wanda recovered.

For Wanda, though, this restlessness manifested differently. With Pietro busy, she saw this as an opportunity, one she hadn’t anticipated taking, but one she couldn’t pass up. She headed toward Charles’s room, drawn to the quiet and the dark—a place where, despite its emptiness, she felt something familiar.

The room was cold and still. Charles lay there, unmoving, eyes closed as if frozen in time. She hesitated for a moment, standing in the doorway, the hum of her magic making the air feel dense. Slowly, she entered, her footsteps muffled against the thick carpet. She pulled the armchair closer to his bed, the same one she had brought in on her first visit, and sat down, wrapping herself up in the warmth of the chair’s comfort.

For a moment, all she could hear was the rhythm of his breathing, the gentle rise and fall of his chest. But there was something more to it—a subtle crackle beneath the surface of his mind. She reached out, extending her magic, focusing on the delicate thread that was Charles’s thoughts.

His emotions were overwhelming, swirling around her like a storm. He was in such a deep haze, tangled in sorrow and guilt. She could feel it—he felt everything so deeply, and the weight of it hit her almost instantly. And then she felt it.

Raven.

She could sense Charles’s thoughts drifting to her, a vision of her sister, flashing like a broken film reel. A beautiful girl, blonde and smiling wide, energetic and wild. Raven as she was in her youth—joyful, full of life. And yet, there was the other image. The one that haunted Charles’s memory. A small child, blue-skinned, out of place, uncomfortable with herself.

Sad.

Wanda felt her hands flicker with red light as she focused her magic. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to bring this to Charles, but the desire to help him focus—to stabilize his thoughts—was strong. She pushed her power gently toward him, attempting to draw him away from the darker, more painful memories of Raven. She wanted him to stay on the good parts—the happy times—the way Raven had once been.

She concentrated, her brow furrowed, her magic weaving around Charles’s memories like a delicate thread. But then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she heard it.

“Wendy?”

Wanda froze, her magic stilling for just a moment. She blinked in confusion, uncertain if she had heard him correctly. She leaned closer, heart quickening, as Charles’s voice cracked again, weak and tired.

"Wendy," he repeated, sounding more desperate this time as if searching for something familiar to anchor him. She moved closer to him, unsure of what to do, unsure if this was a lucid moment or just more of his delusion.

Charles’s shaking hand reached out, grasping at the sleeve of Wanda's jumper. His fingers tightened as if he was clinging to her as a lifeline. “This was Raven’s,” he murmured, his voice ragged with a mix of pain and longing. “When she was still a child. Not much older than you.”

Wanda felt a jolt in her chest at his words. She could sense the confusion in his mind, the merging of his memories—his sense of loss.

He clung to her tightly, almost as if she were a part of Raven, or perhaps the memory of her. “She was so sad when she grew out of it.” His voice was soft and shaky, and he gently stroked the sleeve of her jumper as if it could vanish under his touch. The delicate fabric seemed to hold some weight in his mind, like a connection he was desperate to maintain. He held it in his fingers, the softness of the wool mirroring the fragile state of his memories.

Wanda’s gaze followed his hand, and her eyes drifted to the framed picture on the bedside table. She recognized the image instantly—an adult Raven, blonde, elegant, her eyes distant like she was carrying the same weight of sorrow that Charles seemed to hold.

Charles, still holding Wanda’s jumper in a trembling grip, pulled the framed picture toward his chest. "She was always so... she never wanted to grow up," he whispered hoarsely. His fingers curled around the edges of the frame, pulling it closer to him as if trying to reconnect with a piece of something he had lost long ago.

Wanda’s breath caught in her throat. She could feel it—his grief was so palpable, so deep, and it wrapped around her like a shadow. He was comparing her to Raven, despite the differences, despite the obvious distinction between the two of them. In his foggy state, they had become intertwined in his mind, both of them children in need of something—both of them fragile in his eyes.

"Wendy," Charles whispered again, his voice now softer, but still filled with a quiet desperation. "You're so like her. So like Raven."

Wanda couldn’t help but feel a pang of something—something between sorrow and understanding. Her heart twisted as she gazed at him, his face contorted with the weight of his delusion. She knew he wasn’t seeing her. He was seeing the girl he had lost.

Her magic hummed softly around her, still focused on keeping Charles’s mind from splintering completely. She wished she could fix it all. She wished she could restore Raven to him, even though she knew she could never be her. And yet, there was something in her that couldn’t help but feel a strange kinship with this broken man in front of her. She wasn’t Raven. She never would be. But she could try to help him, in the way she could.

Wanda reached out slowly, her hand brushing Charles’s frail fingers. “I’m here,” she whispered gently, trying to anchor him, to pull him back to something grounded, something real. “I’m here, Charles. You’re not alone.”

Wanda stayed there for a long moment, her hand resting gently over Charles’s, trying to bring him back from the haze of his confusion. She could feel the pulse of his grief, deep and heavy, vibrating through her own chest. It was almost as if his pain was hers, mingling with her magic. But she knew she couldn’t fix it. She wasn’t Raven.

The room was silent except for the soft sound of Charles’s breath and the gentle hum of her magic. Wanda felt her own heartbeat slow, her exhaustion creeping in as her body longed for rest. But she couldn’t leave him like this—not yet.

“Professor,” she whispered again, her voice softer, trying to pull him back from whatever fog he had sunk into. His hand remained tightly wrapped around the picture frame, his other hand still clutching the fabric of her jumper.

He didn't respond, but she could see the subtle shift in his expression—a flicker of recognition in his eyes like he was trying to grasp onto something familiar. Wanda stayed with him, her focus narrowing as she wove her magic around him, guiding him gently out of the fog. She wasn’t sure if it was working, but she had to try.

She wanted him to be better. She wanted to see him whole again. Not the broken, delusional version of himself that had emerged from the wreckage of his mind.

It felt like an eternity before his grip loosened, his breathing evening out, and his eyes closed again, finally drifting into a more peaceful state. Wanda sighed, a mix of relief and sorrow flooding through her.

As she stood to leave, she glanced back at the picture on the nightstand. She could still feel the weight of his thoughts on Raven, and the way he had merged them with her own presence. She couldn’t shake the strange sensation of being pulled into his memories, into his grief, as if she were becoming part of that puzzle he couldn’t quite piece together.

She moved quietly toward the door, casting one last glance at Charles’s form, now more still than ever. The soft light from the hallway filtered through the door, casting a faint glow over him.

Wanda hesitated for just a moment, feeling the weight of everything that had passed between them.

Then she left, closing the door gently behind her.

In the hall, she felt the familiar hum of Pietro’s presence as he came to a halt beside her, his sharp eyes scanning her face for any sign of what had transpired inside.

“How is he?” he asked, his voice low, careful.

Wanda glanced up at him, offering a quiet nod. “Better,” she said softly. “For now.”

Pietro studied her for a moment before nodding, sensing that there was more, but not pushing. He was silent for a beat before a slight smirk appeared on his face.

“You know, we could always test that flying thing again,” he said, his tone light, trying to bring some levity to the situation.

Wanda rolled her eyes, though a small smile tugged at her lips. “I think I’ve had enough of that for one day,” she replied.

The two of them stood there for a moment longer, the tension from the room with Charles still lingering, but at least for now, they had each other. They were a team.

Pietro broke the silence again, his voice warmer now. “You did good in there, Wanda,” he said.

She nodded again, but this time her smile was more genuine. “I just… I just want to help,” she murmured, her eyes distant.

Pietro didn’t say anything else, but there was a moment of understanding between them. It didn’t need to be said aloud, but they both knew—this was just the beginning.

With a final glance at Charles’s door, Wanda turned away, and together, they walked down the hall, the sound of their footsteps the only thing breaking the silence.

But Wanda’s mind was still with Charles. It wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Chapter Text

Pietro tapped his foot against the polished floor of the living room, each tap so fast it sounded like a faint hum. The motion was nearly imperceptible, but the sound was relentless, like a persistent insect trapped in a jar. Wanda sat curled up on the couch with one of the professor's books on mutant genetics, the massive volume almost dwarfing her small frame. She’d been trying to focus on the dense text, but her twin’s restlessness buzzed in her mind like static, tugging at her concentration.

“Can you stop that?” she muttered without looking up, turning a page with deliberate slowness as if to emphasize her point.

“Can’t,” Pietro replied, his voice tinged with apology but mostly irritation. “If I don’t move, I’ll combust. Pretty sure that’s a thing that could happen. Speedster anatomy and all.”

Wanda sighed heavily, finally snapping the book shut with a loud thud. A thin wisp of red energy flickered at her fingertips before disappearing. “You’re not going to combust,” she said dryly, though her lips twitched with the beginnings of a smile.

“Maybe not,” Pietro retorted, leaning back in the armchair and lacing his fingers behind his head, “but I’m wasting my potential. What’s the point of being fast if I don’t do anything cool with it?” He darted a glance at Wanda, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve got the shiny red chaos magic. What do I have? Fast legs. Great. Real superhero material.”

Wanda tilted her head, considering him with a mixture of amusement and sympathy. Pietro was never one to admit outright that he wanted more, but she could sense it in him, feel the itch of frustration that matched the hum of his speed.

“I could help with that,” she said suddenly, her tone so casual it almost went unnoticed.

“What, with your magic?” Pietro shot her a sceptical look. “What are you gonna do? Make me slower? Sounds like a blast.”

“No, stupid,” Wanda replied, rolling her eyes as she rose from the couch. The red sparks danced along her fingertips again, brighter now. “I could use my powers to slow things down—around you, not for you. Give you time to think while you’re running. You’re always crashing into things because your brain doesn’t keep up with your legs.”

“Wow, thanks for the glowing review,” Pietro deadpanned, though there was a flicker of interest in his voice.

“I’m serious,” Wanda pressed, stepping closer. “It’s like you’re a hammer. You hit hard, but you’re not precise. You want to do more? Get better? Then we figure out how to make you sharp. A scalpel instead of a hammer.”

Pietro regarded her for a long moment, the gears in his mind turning at super speed. The corner of his mouth lifted into a grin, the competitive spark igniting in his bright eyes. “Fine,” he said, standing up so fast the chair wobbled dangerously. “You think you can keep up with me, Wanda?”

Wanda’s red aura swirled around her hands in a playful response. “You said you wanted a challenge. Think you can handle it?”

“Handle it?” Pietro echoed with mock indignation, his grin widening. “Wanda, I’m the resident speedster of this mansion. You’re about to see why.”

He was a blur as he disappeared from the room, leaving a gust of wind in his wake that rustled Wanda’s hair and sent the book tumbling from the couch. Wanda followed the sound of his laughter, her magic coiling around her like a second skin. She was ready for whatever chaos they were about to unleash.

The twins made their way to the expansive ballroom at the back of the mansion, its polished floors and towering windows now serving as their makeshift training ground. Pietro zipped into the room first, his blurred figure coming to an abrupt stop at the far end. Wanda followed at a more measured pace, her hands glowing faintly with magic as she prepared herself.

“Alright,” Wanda began, her voice echoing faintly in the cavernous space. “The idea is simple: I’ll use my magic to slow down the space around you. You keep running, but this time, you focus on control. Think about your movements, not just speed. Got it?”

Pietro gave a mock salute, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Got it, coach.”

Wanda rolled her eyes, extending her hands outward. Her magic flared brighter, red energy rippling like liquid fire. The air in the room seemed to thicken, the light refracting oddly as her power took hold. Pietro felt it immediately—a strange drag against his limbs, like running through molasses.

“Whoa,” he muttered, shaking out his arms. “This feels... weird.”

“It’s supposed to,” Wanda called, her focus sharp as she maintained the spell. “Now go. Show me what you’ve got.”

Pietro didn’t need to be told twice. He bolted across the room, his form a streak of blue and silver. The resistance was noticeable but not overwhelming—it forced him to think, to calculate the arc of his movement, the distance between his feet and the ground.

“Faster!” Wanda urged, pushing her magic harder. The drag intensified, and Pietro stumbled slightly before catching himself.

“Easy for you to say!” he shot back, gritting his teeth as he pushed through the invisible wall of her power.

He darted left, then right, weaving between the imaginary obstacles Wanda conjured in her mind. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but a grin spread across his face. For the first time, he felt like he was running with purpose, each movement deliberate, each step part of a larger plan.

Wanda watched him closely, her hands trembling as she struggled to keep the spell steady. Pietro’s emotions buzzed faintly at the edge of her consciousness—determination, exhilaration, a flicker of self-doubt quickly overshadowed by pride. It bolstered her and gave her the strength to keep going.

Suddenly, Pietro stopped in the centre of the room, breathing hard but grinning ear to ear. “Okay,” he panted, holding up a hand. “That was insane. Let’s do it again!”

The ballroom grew quieter as the twins prepared for their next round of training. Pietro stood at one end, shaking out his limbs like a runner at the starting line. Wanda remained at the other, rolling her shoulders to ease the strain of her earlier spellwork.

“Okay,” Pietro said, his grin mischievous. “This time, let’s make it interesting. I’ll dodge whatever magic you throw at me.”

Wanda smirked, her hands lighting up. “You mean like before? When you almost tripped over your own feet?”

“That was tactical tripping,” Pietro shot back, crouching low. “Go ahead, Scarlet. Give me your best shot.”

Without warning, Wanda launched a bolt of red energy toward him, the crimson tendrils crackling as they soared through the air. Pietro darted to the side, the burst missing him by inches.

“Too slow!” he called out, zipping around the room.

Wanda didn’t respond, narrowing her eyes in concentration as she unleashed another attack. This time, her magic arced across the floor, creating a shimmering wall that Pietro narrowly ducked under.

The game escalated quickly. Pietro zigzagged unpredictably, pushing his speed to its limits, while Wanda’s spells grew more creative, filling the room with flashes of light and bursts of sound.

“Stop moving so fast!” Wanda yelled, her voice tinged with frustration.

“Stop being so slow!” Pietro retorted, his laughter echoing.

It was Wanda’s next move that changed everything. With a surge of power, she created a wave of force meant to corner Pietro. But he was too quick, dodging at the last second and careening straight into a stack of heavy chairs stored against the wall.

The resulting crash was deafening.

Wood splintered and metal clanged as the chairs collapsed in a chaotic heap, the sound reverberating through the mansion. Wanda gasped, her magic fading as she rushed to Pietro, who was sprawled on the floor amidst the debris.

“Are you okay?” she asked, panic creeping into her voice.

Pietro groaned, brushing dust off his clothes. “I’m fine. Just bruised my ego.”

Their relief was short-lived.

From above, the creak of floorboards signalled movement. Then came the slow, deliberate sound of footsteps descending the grand staircase. The twins turned toward the doorway, their hearts pounding.

Charles appeared at the entrance to the ballroom, his expression a mixture of irritation and disbelief. His hair was tousled, his robe slightly askew, and his hands clutched the doors for support as he leaned heavily against it.

“What,” he began, his voice gravelly but commanding, “are you two doing?”

Neither twin spoke, both frozen under his piercing gaze.

“I don’t know what’s worse,” Charles continued, his tone sharp, “the fact that you thought it wise to destroy a part of my home or that you’re clearly using your abilities in the most reckless way possible.”

Pietro opened his mouth to respond, but Wanda elbowed him sharply, silencing him.

“We were just practicing,” Wanda said meekly, her hands fidgeting. “Trying to... improve.”

Charles scoffed, running a hand through his dishevelled hair. “Improve? By nearly bringing the roof down?”

Pietro couldn’t help himself. “It wasn’t the roof—it was just some chairs.”

Charles’s eyes narrowed, and Pietro immediately regretted speaking.

“I suggest,” Charles said slowly, his voice low and laced with menace, “that the two of you find a better use for your time. Perhaps something quieter. Or,” he added, his gaze flicking pointedly to Wanda, “you can clean up the mess you’ve made.”

With that, he turned and began ascending the stairs, his movements slow but steady.

As his figure disappeared, Pietro turned to Wanda, a sheepish grin on his face. “Well... that went better than I expected.”

Wanda glared at him, smacking his arm lightly. “Don’t make me throw you into the next pile of chairs.”

The sound of Hank’s footsteps echoed through the hallway before the door to the ballroom swung open. His eyes immediately scanned the room, landing on the wreckage of the chairs scattered across the floor. Then they fell on the twins.

Pietro had slumped onto the floor, rubbing his side, his face scrunched in pain. Wanda was kneeling beside him, her expression a mixture of concern and guilt. Both of them looked as though they were waiting for the inevitable fallout.

But Hank wasn’t immediately concerned with the chairs. He took a quick step forward, his eyes flicking between the two of them, his face paling. “Peter?” he asked, his voice suddenly edged with panic.

“Nothing,” Pietro muttered, forcing a weak grin. “Just a little banged up.” He gingerly shifted to stand, wincing as his muscles protested.

“Don’t lie,” Hank said, his tone uncharacteristically sharp. “You’re hurt. I can see it.”

Wanda stood up too, her own guilt gnawing at her. “We didn’t mean for this to happen,” she murmured, her voice low. “We were just training, and Peter—he—”

“We were stupid,” Pietro cut in, his voice lacking its usual cocky bravado. “We got carried away. It was... my fault.”

Hank moved closer, kneeling down in front of Pietro and gently taking his arm, helping him steady himself. “You two always push yourselves too hard,” he said softly, his worry evident in his voice. “What were you thinking, training like that?”

Wanda’s eyes flickered to the mess around them, the chaos they’d caused. “We didn’t mean to make such a mess,” she whispered, voice cracking slightly. “And... and I didn’t mean to hurt Peter, Mr Hank. I was just trying to help him with his mutation, just like we talked about.”

Hank’s gaze softened. He didn’t want to add to their guilt, but it was clear they were feeling it already. They had always been reckless in their pursuits, but this time felt different.

“I know, Wendy,” Hank said gently, brushing a lock of hair from her face. “I know you were trying to help. But you’ve got to be careful. Powers like yours—and Peter’s—are dangerous when you don’t take precautions.” His eyes softened a deeper concern in them now. “I know it’s hard to control the impulse to push limits, but sometimes you need to slow down. Look what happened.”

Pietro shifted uneasily. “I didn’t mean to cause a disaster.”

“You didn’t cause a disaster,” Hank reassured him, his hands steadying the boy. “But you are both lucky it wasn’t worse.” He paused, letting the silence hang in the air, then sighed deeply. “It’s not the chairs I’m worried about. It’s you two. I care about your well-being far more than anything else in this place.”

Pietro looked up at Hank, eyes wide with realization. “You—care about us?” he asked quietly, his usual cocky demeanour slipping as he absorbed the weight of Hank’s words.

Hank met his gaze, his expression softening even more. “Of course, I do. You’re like family to me. Both of you.”

Wanda looked up at him, her voice small. “We didn’t mean to cause you any trouble.”

Hank let out a breath, then shook his head. “It’s not about trouble. You’re allowed to make mistakes—” He glanced at the chairs again. “Well, maybe not this kind of mistake, but—” He grinned lightly, easing the tension in the room. “What matters is that you’re okay.”

Wanda gave a small, relieved smile. “We’ll be more careful next time.”

“Good,” Hank said, standing up. “Now, let’s get you checked out, Peter. And I’m going to need you two to help me with cleaning up this mess later, okay?”

Pietro gave a reluctant nod, his pride a little bruised but grateful for Hank’s concern.

Wanda took a deep breath, her hand lingering on Pietro’s shoulder. “Thank you, Mr Hank. Really.”

Hank looked at them both and nodded. “I’m just glad you’re both safe. Let’s get you patched up and get back to the basics, alright?”

As Hank led Pietro toward the hallway, Wanda lingered for a moment, looking at the chaos they had caused. But as her eyes flicked toward the stairs, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief that Hank hadn’t focused on the damage.

It was a small victory, she thought. A moment of care that both of them desperately needed after their reckless play.

As the night settled over the mansion, the guilt gnawed at Wanda. She couldn’t shake the image of the chairs splintering, of Pietro wincing in pain, of Hank’s pale, worried face. Most of all, she couldn’t shake the fleeting glimpse of Charles, his tired, hollowed eyes filled with irritation as he lingered in the doorway before retreating back into his room.

It had been her idea. It had spiralled out of control because of her. And though Pietro was just as much a part of the chaos, she felt the weight of responsibility squarely on her own shoulders.

Pietro had gone to bed early, nursing his bruises, while Hank fussed over him. Wanda had taken refuge in the quiet of the living room, but no amount of silence could drown out the voice in her head urging her to do something.

Eventually, she found herself standing outside Charles’s door, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her fingers hovered near the doorknob, trembling slightly as she gathered her courage.

Taking a deep breath, she turned the handle and pushed the door open just wide enough to slip inside. The room was dark, save for the faint light of a bedside lamp casting long shadows across the walls. Charles lay where he always seemed to be, his eyes half-closed, his face lined with exhaustion.

“Professor?” Wanda’s voice was barely above a whisper.

Charles’s eyes flicked open, his brow furrowing as he turned his head slightly toward her. “What is it, Wendy?” he asked, his tone as gruff as ever, though not outright angry.

“I—I just wanted to say...” Wanda stepped closer, wringing her hands nervously. “I’m sorry. For earlier. With the noise and... and the chairs. And everything. It was my idea, and I shouldn’t have—” She stopped herself, biting her lip as she realized she was rambling.

Charles sighed, closing his eyes for a moment before gesturing weakly for her to continue.

“I mean, Peter got hurt, and then Mr Hank was so worried, and then you—you came out, and you looked so angry, and I just—” Her words tumbled out faster than she could stop them, her nerves getting the better of her. “I didn’t mean for it to get so out of hand. I was just trying to help Peter with his powers, and I thought it would be fun, but then it all went wrong, and I—”

“Wendy.”

Charles’s voice, though soft, carried enough weight to make her pause mid-sentence.

She looked at him, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I’m really sorry,” she said again, her voice quieter now.

For a moment, Charles didn’t respond. He simply studied her, his expression unreadable. Then he let out a low, weary sigh. “You’re not the first young mutant to make a mistake,” he said, his voice grumbly but not unkind. “And you certainly won’t be the last.”

Wanda blinked, unsure if that was an absolution or a reprimand. “I just didn’t want you to think we don’t respect you,” she said quickly. “Or this place. Or—” She hesitated, glancing down at her hands. “Or what you’ve done for us.”

Charles’s expression softened ever so slightly, though his voice retained its edge. “Respect isn’t something you prove through perfection, Wendy. It’s something you show by learning from your mistakes.”

She nodded quickly, her guilt still evident on her face. “I will. I promise.”

There was a long pause, the weight of her words hanging in the air. Finally, Charles spoke again, his tone quieter. “For what it’s worth... I appreciate you coming to apologize. It shows you care.”

Wanda looked up at him, startled by the faint trace of warmth in his voice. “You’re not mad?” she asked hesitantly.

“Oh, I’m mad,” Charles replied, a faint hint of dry humour in his tone. “But not entirely at you.”

Her brows knitted together in confusion.

Charles sighed again, his eyes drifting toward the ceiling. “It’s... complicated,” he muttered, almost to himself. “But for now, just... try not to destroy anything else, would you?”

A small, nervous smile tugged at Wanda’s lips. “I’ll try.”

“Good.”

As Wanda turned to leave, she hesitated at the door, glancing back at him. “Thank you, Professor. For not... hating us.”

Charles’s lips twitched, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “Get some rest, Wendy.”

She nodded, slipping out of the room and closing the door softly behind her.

Charles stared at the closed door for a long moment, the echoes of her words lingering in the quiet. Then, with a heavy sigh, he closed his eyes once more, his thoughts turning to the strange, complicated bond forming with the children he never asked for—but couldn’t seem to ignore.

Wanda returned to the room she shared with Pietro, her footsteps soft against the hardwood floor. The door creaked faintly as she pushed it open, revealing her twin lying sprawled across his bed. Despite his closed eyes, she knew he wasn’t asleep. Pietro rarely slept easily—it was hard for him to wind down with his mutation keeping his mind and body in constant motion.

He cracked an eye open as she entered. “Where’ve you been?” he muttered, his voice groggy but laced with curiosity.

“I went to see the professor,” she admitted, perching on the edge of her own bed. She fidgeted with the ribbon in her hair, twisting it between her fingers.

Pietro sat up slightly, his silver hair tousled. “You what?”

“I... apologized,” Wanda said softly, her eyes flicking to him, then away.

He groaned, flopping back onto his pillow dramatically. “Why would you do that? He was unnecessarily rude. You didn’t owe him anything.”

“Pietro—”

“No, seriously,” he cut her off, sitting up fully now, his temper rising. “We’re the ones who got hurt. Hank was worried about us, not the stupid chairs. And Charles? He couldn’t care less. He barely even looked at us when he came out of that room.”

Wanda sighed, her hands gripping the edge of the mattress. “He’s not like that, Pietro. He’s... complicated.”

“Complicated?” Pietro snorted. “He’s grumpy, and he hides in his room all day. That’s not complicated—it’s just annoying.”

Wanda shot him a sharp look. “He’s going through something. I can feel it—his sadness, his anger... it’s overwhelming, Pietro. It’s like he’s drowning in it.”

Pietro raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “So what? We’re supposed to tiptoe around him and pretend it’s fine for him to treat us like intruders. He’s the one who decided to take us in, kinda.”

“I know that!” Wanda snapped, her voice rising slightly. Then she softened, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I know that... but maybe he didn’t have a choice. Maybe he’s just trying his best.”

Pietro crossed his arms, leaning back against the headboard. “Doesn’t mean he gets a free pass to be a jerk. If he can’t handle us being here, maybe he should’ve said no in the first place.”

“He didn’t say no, though,” Wanda said quietly. “And he’s still letting us stay.”

Pietro’s scowl deepened, but he didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he watched her, noting the way her shoulders slumped under the weight of her guilt. Finally, he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You’re too nice, you know that?”

Wanda gave him a small, tired smile. “Someone has to be.”

Pietro rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. “Fine. You did your apology thing. But don’t expect me to do the same.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Wanda said, her tone lightening slightly.

A comfortable silence settled between them, the tension from their earlier argument fading. Pietro stretched out on his bed again, while Wanda curled up under her blanket.

“Goodnight, Pietro,” she murmured, her voice soft in the dark.

“Night, Wanda,” he replied, his tone gruff but affectionate.

As the quiet of the room enveloped them, Wanda felt a small sense of relief. Despite Pietro’s grumbling and Charles’s cold demeanour, she knew she had done the right thing. Even if it wasn’t easy.

Chapter Text

Charles’s sudden presence in the kitchen was a disruption to the mansion’s usual routine. Wanda had darted out of the room screaming, her voice echoing down the hall. “Mr Hank! Mr Hank! There’s someone in the kitchen!” she yelled, her panic rising with every step.

The kitchen, which had been quiet except for the soft clinking of a glass being filled, was now chaotic. Charles raised an unimpressed eyebrow at the commotion, his hand steady as he poured himself a drink. His dishevelled appearance and tired eyes didn’t help matters, making him look more like a stranger than the head of the house.

Wanda’s scream still echoed faintly in the hallway as she lingered just outside the kitchen, peering cautiously back inside. Her pulse raced, and she half-expected Hank to barrel around the corner any moment. But as her mind pieced together the scene, the embarrassment hit her like a wave. It wasn’t a stranger in the kitchen. It was Charles.

Her breath hitched as she stepped back into the doorway. He stood at the counter, glass in hand, his appearance far from the composed figure she’d expected. His hair was unruly, his face gaunt with exhaustion, and his robe hung unevenly off his shoulders. He looked more like a ghost than a leader.

“You’re… out of your room,” she mumbled, her voice unsure.

Charles turned his head slightly, raising an eyebrow in her direction. “I am,” he replied, his voice calm but clipped, as though her observation barely deserved acknowledgement.

“I… I didn’t think you’d ever come out, not on purpose” she stammered, stepping fully into the room now.

Charles didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he turned his attention back to his drink, swirling the liquid as if it were far more interesting than her. The silence stretched until Wanda fidgeted with her sleeve, glancing toward the doorway.

Suddenly, a blur of silver appeared by her side. Pietro materialised, his face twisted into a scowl as he took in the scene. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, his arms crossing over his chest protectively.

Charles’s gaze flicked up to meet Pietro’s, sharp and unyielding. “This is my kitchen,” he said simply, as though the question itself were absurd.

“And yet, you’ve hardly used it,” Pietro shot back, his tone laced with suspicion.

“Peter!” Wanda hissed, elbowing him sharply in the ribs.

Before the tension could boil over, Hank arrived, his footsteps hurried. His lab coat fluttered behind him as he skidded into the room, his expression a mix of alarm and disbelief. “Wendy, what’s—” His words caught in his throat when he saw Charles standing there.

Hank froze, blinking as though he couldn’t quite trust his own eyes. “Charles?” he asked cautiously, his voice soft with disbelief.

Charles sighed, setting his glass down with a faint clink. “Good morning to you too, Hank,” he said, his tone dry and weary.

Hank’s gaze flickered to the twins, who stood on edge. Pietro was rigid with defiance, while Wanda looked torn between wanting to bolt and staying to make amends. Hank stepped forward cautiously, his hands open in a gesture of peace.

“You’re… up,” he said finally, his words laden with an unspoken mixture of relief and concern.

“I needed a drink,” Charles replied curtly, gesturing at the glass with a small wave of his hand.

Hank’s eyes narrowed. “You could have asked,” he said gently, though there was a hint of reproach in his tone.

“And yet, I didn’t,” Charles countered, his voice steady but biting.

The air in the room thickened, tension building between Charles’s quiet resentment, Pietro’s barely contained hostility, and Hank’s cautious diplomacy. Wanda shifted uncomfortably, the weight of her earlier outburst still heavy on her shoulders.

“I didn’t mean to scream,” she blurted out suddenly, her voice breaking the silence. All eyes turned to her, and she flushed under their collective gaze. “I didn’t think you’d… well, I didn’t think you’d ever come out of your room.”

Charles’s expression softened, just barely. He looked at her for a long moment, his tired eyes searching her face. “No harm done,” he said finally, his tone quieter.

Pietro scoffed, breaking the fragile peace. “You could’ve at least told someone you were planning on joining us peasants for breakfast,” he muttered.

Charles’s head turned sharply toward him, his gaze like ice. “I wasn’t aware my movements needed to be cleared with you, Mr. Maximoff,” he said coldly.

“And I wasn’t aware this was still your mansion,” Pietro shot back, his words like a spark threatening to ignite a larger fire.

“Peter, stop!” Wanda hissed, tugging at his sleeve.

Hank stepped forward, inserting himself between the two before things could escalate further. “Alright, that’s enough,” he said firmly, glancing pointedly at Pietro. “Charles is here now. Let’s focus on moving forward instead of tearing each other down.”

Charles sighed, the weight of the room’s tension clearly wearing on him. He picked up his glass again, finishing its contents in one smooth motion. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, his voice heavy with finality. “I believe I’ve had enough family bonding for one day.”

As he left the kitchen, his footsteps fading into the hallway, Wanda let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Pietro muttered something under his breath, still bristling, while Hank stared after Charles with a look of cautious hope mixed with frustration.

“Well,” Hank said finally, breaking the awkward silence. “That could’ve gone worse.”

Neither of the twins replied. But Wanda, her gaze lingering on the doorway Charles had disappeared through, couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning. For better or worse, the professor was back—and nothing would be the same.

Wanda’s smile stretched wide, her eyes sparkling with an unshakable optimism. “He called us family,” she said softly, almost to herself, her tone carrying a kind of reverence that Pietro found utterly baffling.

“So?” Pietro’s voice was sharp, incredulous, as he turned to face her fully.

Wanda’s expression didn’t falter. If anything, her smile grew as she explained, “It’s very nice of him.”

“Nice?” Pietro repeated, his voice rising. He gestured toward the doorway Charles had disappeared through, his frustration spilling over. “That’s what you’re taking away from this? That he was ‘nice’? He’s a grumpy old man who barely tolerates us!”

Wanda tilted her head, undeterred by his outburst. “He’s been through a lot,” she said simply. “You can feel it. The way he speaks, the way he carries himself—it’s all there. He’s hurting, Peter.”

“And what, you think it’s our job to fix him?” Pietro shot back, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

Hank, who had been watching the exchange with careful neutrality, stepped in before the argument could spiral further. “Alright, let’s take a breath,” he said, holding up his hands. “I think you both have valid points here.”

Pietro turned to Hank, his eyes narrowing. “Oh, do we?”

“Yes,” Hank said firmly, though his tone was patient. “Wendy’s not wrong—Charles did call you family, and that’s not nothing. It’s a step, however small.” He glanced at Wanda, whose smile flickered into something more fragile. “But Peters’s right too. Charles… well, he’s not exactly the warm-and-fuzzy type right now.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” Pietro muttered.

Hank gave him a pointed look before continuing. “What I mean is, you’re both seeing different sides of the same person. Wendy, you see the Charles he used to be—or maybe the Charles you want him to be. And Peter, you’re reacting to the Charles we’ve got right now, which, admittedly, isn’t his best self.”

Wanda glanced down, fiddling with her sleeves. “I just think… maybe if we show him kindness, he’ll come around,” she said softly.

Pietro groaned, running a hand through his silver hair. “You’re too forgiving, Wendy. You always see the best in people—even when it’s not there.”

“That’s not true!” she said, her tone defensive but lacking heat.

“It is,” Pietro insisted, his frustration giving way to a flicker of concern. “And it’s going to get you hurt.”

“Okay, okay,” Hank interjected, his voice firm but kind. “Let’s not turn this into a sibling war.” He looked at Wanda, his expression thoughtful. “You’re not wrong to hope for the best in Charles, Wendy. But Peter’s caution isn’t misplaced either. Maybe we take things one step at a time. Let him come to you, in his own way, instead of trying to force it.”

Wanda nodded slowly, though her expression remained conflicted. “I just want him to feel like he’s not alone,” she murmured.

Pietro sighed, the fight going out of him as he slumped against the counter. “He’s got you for that,” he said quietly, his tone begrudging but honest.

Hank smiled faintly, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “And maybe, with time, he’ll realize that’s exactly what he needs.”

The three of them stood there in silence for a moment, the weight of their complicated dynamic with Charles settling over them. Wanda’s idealism, Pietro’s scepticism, and Hank’s attempts to bridge the gap—it was a precarious balance, but for now, it would have to do.

The mansion felt suffocatingly silent, the weight of the atmosphere thickening as Pietro stood outside Charles’s study. His patience had worn thin over the last few days—weeks, really. Every time he thought he was starting to get a handle on things, Charles would slip back into his cryptic silence, treating him like a nuisance rather than someone worthy of respect. Pietro had no intention of letting this go. He wasn’t going to just sit there while Charles pretended to be the perfect professor, the perfect mentor, the perfect father figure. It was bullshit.

He knocked once, twice. When there was no answer, he swung the door open. Charles was sitting near the large window, his face half-lit by the grey daylight. He looked up as Pietro entered, his eyes narrowing slightly, but not with surprise. He seemed… resigned.

“Come to bother me, Peter?” Charles asked, his tone flat, almost bored.

“No, I’m here to talk,” Pietro shot back, his voice sharp. “For once, I want to hear something real from you.”

Charles leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest, his expression unreadable. “And what exactly would you like to hear?”

“You’re full of rubbish,” Pietro spat out before he could stop himself, his frustration boiling over. “You pretend like you care like you’ve got everything under control, but you don’t! You don’t even care enough to try to get to know us. To really know us.”

Charles’s brow furrowed at the outburst, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, his eyes remained cool, calculating. “What do you expect me to do, Pietro? You’re here because you had nowhere else to go. Don’t think for a second that I’m under any illusion about your ‘gratitude.’ You don’t want to be here.”

Pietro’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his temper flaring. “Oh, I don’t want to be here, huh? Well, guess what? Neither do you!” He took a step forward, his voice rising. “You’re all high and mighty, acting like some big shot, but I can see through it. You’re just like everyone else, pretending to be something you’re not. Acting like you know how to fix everything when all you’ve done is screw things up even more.”

Charles’s lips curled slightly as if he was amused by the outburst. “I’m screwing things up? And what exactly have you done, Peter? You’ve done nothing but run from responsibility, from any real commitment. Do you think that just because you can run faster than anyone else, you can outrun your problems? You’re a child.”

The insult hit harder than Pietro anticipated. His chest tightened, and for a split second, he saw red. His heart was pounding in his ears, his mind racing a mile a minute. He hated it when people dismissed him, but this was different. This was Charles. The person who was supposed to be there for them, guiding them. And yet here he was, throwing his words like daggers.

“I’m the child?” Pietro seethed, his voice dangerously low. “I’m the one who has to keep everyone else together while you hide away in your fancy study, playing professor. You’re too busy in your own head, too busy licking your wounds to even notice that I’m out here trying to make something of this mess! Maybe you’re the one who needs to grow up.”

Charles’s eyes flickered, and for a moment, something dark flashed across his face. He exhaled slowly, leaning forward slightly, his tone turning ice cold. “You think I don’t know what this feels like? You think you’re the only one who’s lost something?” He paused, his gaze narrowing. “You have no idea what it’s like to lose everything. To have no one to trust, no one to turn to.”

The words struck Pietro like a slap in the face. But instead of retreating, he pushed forward, his voice rising in fury. “Oh, so now you’re playing the victim? You’re just going to sit there and tell me how hard your life’s been? You think that makes you special? Guess what, Charles: we’ve all lost something. We’ve all been through hell. But we’re still here, still trying. You’ve given up already. You’ve decided we’re nothing but charity cases. We don’t even get to matter.”

Charles’s face tightened, his jaw clenching as Pietro’s words landed. “I didn’t ask for you to be here,” Charles shot back, his voice low and cutting. “I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t ask for you, or for Wendy, or for any of this godforsaken mess. But I’m stuck with it now. And I don’t need your pity. I don’t need your judgment. Do you think you understand me? You think you’ve figured me out? You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

Pietro didn’t flinch. “I don’t need to know everything about you to see that you’re broken. You’re not the great professor you think you are. You’re just a man hiding behind his damn mind, pretending to have all the answers when you can’t even get out of your own way.” He took another step closer, his voice now dangerously calm. “You’re not a mentor, and you’re not a father. You’re a failure.”

For the first time, Charles’s composure cracked. He was up from his chair in a fluid motion, his face a mix of anger and something else—something deeper, something painful. He moved toward Pietro with a speed that caught him off guard but stopped just short of him, the two of them standing mere inches apart. The silence between them was deafening, but the anger in the air was palpable.

“I don’t have to take this from you,” Charles growled. “I don’t have to stand here and listen to you tell me how much of a failure I am. Maybe you should take a good look in the mirror before you start throwing accusations at me.”

The words hit hard, but Pietro’s pride was the only thing keeping him from lashing out. His fists clenched, but he didn’t back down. His heart was racing, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins, pushing him to say more, to hurt him the way Charles had hurt him. But something—maybe the sheer exhaustion of it all—held him back.

He wasn’t sure if it was fear or something else, but for the first time, Pietro didn’t feel like a superhero. He didn’t feel like he could outrun anything. He was just a kid, stuck in this house with a man who couldn’t seem to decide whether he wanted to be a mentor, a father, or a failure.

Without saying another word, Pietro turned and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Charles stood there, his chest heaving, his mind racing. The silence in the room felt suffocating, and for the first time in a long while, Charles was unsure of what to do next.

The mansion was still, a silent witness to the storm of emotions brewing inside Charles’s mind. The heated confrontation with Pietro had left him feeling utterly unmoored, but more than that, it had laid bare the painful truths he’d tried to bury for so long. Pietro’s words rang in his ears. They gnawed at him, a reminder of his own failures. He had always feared becoming like Erik, fearing inheriting that same furious, vengeful rage. Yet, the more he thought about it, the more he saw it in the twins, especially Pietro. That same fire. That same anger.

And it terrified him.

He was pacing now, the weight of it all pressing down on him. He wasn’t a father. He hadn’t been ready for any of this, and he hadn’t expected it to feel so heavy. The twins had been thrust into his life—into a world that wasn’t ready for them, and he wasn’t ready for them. But they were here, and they were his responsibility now. And he was failing.

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door, and Wanda entered tentatively, her eyes still carrying the remnants of the fear from the earlier confrontation. She knew something was wrong, felt it in the air around them, but there was a quiet resolve to her.

“Professor,” she started softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I think we need to talk.”

Charles blinked, looking at her with a kind of desperate, almost broken relief. He didn’t want to face it. He didn’t want to admit the truth. But Wanda’s calm presence was like a beacon to him, and he felt the weight of his guilt pull him further under.

“Wendy, I…” He swallowed hard, shaking his head as if trying to shake the words from his throat. “I’m failing you both. And I don’t know how to fix it.”

Wanda moved toward him, taking tentative steps, her eyes full of concern. She was so small, so fragile in his eyes. Eight years old, but so much older than her years. Her presence was a paradox—she was a child, but the weight of the world seemed to hang on her small shoulders. The way she looked at him, the way she held herself as if she had seen more than any child should. It broke his heart.

“You haven’t failed us,” Wanda said softly, but Charles could hear the uncertainty in her voice.

“I should have been there more,” he whispered. “For you. For Peter. He doesn’t trust me. He doesn’t think I care about him, and I… I don’t know how to show him that I do. I’ve been so focused on... on everything else. Trying to fix things. Trying to do what’s right. But I’m missing the point. I’m missing you.”

Wanda hesitated, her lips parting as if she wanted to speak, but Charles’s desperation was overwhelming. He could feel the panic rising in his chest as the floodgates opened.

“Peter is so much like Erik, Wendy,” Charles said, his voice trembling. “That anger… It burns in him. I see it, and it terrifies me because I know that fire. I know it from the inside. And I don’t know how to stop it. I don’t know how to reach him.”

Wanda’s eyes widened, her gaze steady as she met his. “But you’re not Erik, Professor,” she said softly. “You’re not like him.”

Charles’s eyes flickered with something almost painful—a mixture of sorrow and fear. “But what if I am? What if I can’t protect you both from becoming… becoming what he was?” He buried his face in his hands for a moment, his breath shaky. “I wasn’t ready to be a father. I wasn’t ready for you to rely on me. I wanted to protect you, but I’ve only made things worse.”

Wanda felt the weight of his words, understanding that, despite his efforts to hide it, Charles was terrified. Terrified of failing, terrified of becoming like the person he had spent so many years running from. She could see it in his eyes, the raw vulnerability that he tried to conceal, the cracks that were beginning to show. He was human, after all, with all the flaws that came with it. And he was trying, so desperately trying, even if he couldn’t see it himself.

She stepped closer to him, a hand reaching out, but before she could say anything, Charles stood up abruptly. His movements were almost frantic as he pulled her into a tight embrace, the kind of embrace that held nothing back. It was as if, for the first time, he was giving in. He was giving everything he had in that moment, pouring out his regret, his fear, his desire to protect them both, but not knowing how.

Wanda gasped, not expecting him to hold her so tightly, but she didn’t pull away. She stayed, her small frame trembling in his arms. Despite being eight years old, she felt too small to bear the weight of his grief. But she did because that’s what children did—they carried the weight of their parents’ pain without even knowing it.

“I’m sorry, Wendy,” Charles whispered, his voice broken, tears falling from his eyes. “I’m so, so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted to fail you.”

His tears soaked her dress, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she wrapped her arms around him, feeling the warmth of his chest against hers, his heart racing against her own.

She didn’t know what to say, but she whispered anyway, her voice quiet but steady. “I know, Professor. I know you’re trying.”

Charles’s breathing hitched, and he pulled her closer onto his lap as if he were trying to melt into her, trying to escape the suffocating guilt that surrounded him. He held her there, his sobs quiet but consuming, the guilt over everything he hadn’t been able to do flooding him in waves.

“I’m so afraid,” he whispered into her hair, her ribbon tickling his chin. “Afraid of what might happen to you both. I’m afraid of what I might do.”

Wanda didn’t say anything in response. She didn’t need to. Her presence alone was enough. And in that moment, Charles realized something he had been denying for so long—he wasn’t alone. They weren’t alone. They had each other.

And maybe, just maybe, they could rebuild from the wreckage together.

The silence between them stretched for a moment, thick and heavy before Wanda shifted slightly in his arms. Her hands, still resting on his back, gave him a soft, reassuring touch, as if saying, I’m here.

Charles remained with his face buried in her hair, his breath coming in short, shaky gasps. His heart still raced erratically, the guilt and fear pooling in his chest. He had never felt so exposed, so completely unprotected. This wasn’t just about being a father to them—it was about seeing himself for who he really was, in all his flaws and brokenness, with no way to hide.

“Wendy,” he said finally, his voice hoarse. “You should be... out playing, out enjoying yourself. You’re just a child. You shouldn’t have to carry my pain.”

Wanda pulled back just enough to look at him, her small face serious and full of quiet understanding. Her wide eyes seemed to take in everything about him—his pain, his fear, the way his body still trembled beneath her hands.

“I am a child,” she said softly, her voice almost too wise for her age, “but I’m not like other children. I know what I can do, and I know how to help. Sometimes, being here... it’s just what you need. We can help each other.”

Charles blinked at her words, his chest tightening. He wasn’t sure if he was more surprised by her maturity or by how deeply she seemed to understand him. She was only eight years old—eight—and yet, there was a depth to her that no child should have to carry. It made his heart ache in ways he couldn’t express.

“You shouldn’t have to,” he said again, his voice faltering. He gave a weak, rueful laugh, trying to mask the tremor in his voice. “But you’re right. You understand more than I ever thought possible.”

Wanda nodded, her expression softening as she gave him another comforting squeeze.

“I don’t want you to feel so alone, Charles,” she said quietly. Her use of his name—Charles—felt intimate, unspoken ground being slowly covered between them. “You’re not alone.”

Her words hit him like a physical blow. The idea that he wasn’t alone—that somehow, despite everything, he was part of something bigger than his own fears and doubts—made the tight knot in his chest loosen slightly.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and this time the gratitude was genuine, clear as crystal. “I don’t think I can ever fully explain how much you’re giving me right now, Wendy.”

Wanda shifted her position on his lap, resting her head on his shoulder as she whispered, “I think you can.”

Charles drew in a sharp breath, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He wasn’t used to showing this much vulnerability—especially not with someone so young. But there was something about Wanda, something about her presence that made him feel like it was okay to let down his walls, if only for a little while.

"I want to be better for you, for Peter. I want to be someone you can rely on. I don’t want to fail you. I can’t afford to."

Wanda’s fingers lightly brushed his arm as she tilted her head up to meet his eyes. “You’re trying. You’re here. That’s all we need.”

For a long moment, Charles just stared at her. She was so small, so fragile, yet the calm and maturity in her words seemed to shift something deep within him. He had been blind to how much she had grown, how much she had been carrying, even before they came to him.

“I’m scared, Wendy. I’m scared that I won’t be enough for you both, that I’ll let you down.”

Wanda didn’t respond with more comforting words or assurances. Instead, she simply squeezed his hand, as if asking him to trust her. And in that moment, Charles realized that maybe, just maybe, the answer wasn’t about him being enough—it was about him being there.

Without saying another word, he slowly shifted his position, gently setting Wanda on her feet. The ache in his chest had only deepened, but he didn’t want to hold her too tightly anymore. He was starting to understand. She didn’t need to be treated like a fragile thing. She was strong in ways he couldn’t quite explain.

“I think it’s time I tried to make things right,” he said, pushing himself to stand slowly, his legs a little unsteady beneath him. He hadn’t used them much today, but there was something in the moment that spurred him on.

Wanda, sensing his hesitation, gave him an encouraging smile. “One step at a time.”

Charles exhaled a long breath. One step at a time.

“Thank you,” he said again, his voice soft and sincere. “You’ve given me something I didn’t even know I needed.”

The room was quiet again, and as he turned toward the door, Wanda’s voice stopped him.

“Are you going to talk to Peter?”

Charles hesitated. The idea of facing Pietro again, after everything that had happened, was daunting. But he couldn’t let his fear stop him. Not anymore. He turned to look at Wanda, who was watching him closely.

“I will,” he said. “But it will take time. I know he’s angry, and he has every right to be. I just… need to figure out how to reach him.”

Wanda smiled softly. “You will. I know you will.”

Charles took one last look at her, a mix of guilt and gratitude swirling inside him. As he left the room, heading toward Pietro’s, he was no longer consumed by the weight of his failures. Instead, he carried with him a fragile hope that one day, they would find a way to heal together.

Charles moved quietly down the hall, his footsteps softer now, as though the weight of his past was still with him but somehow more bearable. Wanda’s words echoed in his mind as he approached Pietro’s room. One step at a time.

He paused just outside the twin's door, unsure of how to proceed. He had no idea what Pietro was feeling, or how to even begin to talk to him after everything. He took a steadying breath, reminding himself that he had a responsibility—no, he wanted—to make things right. But even as he stood there, his heart raced, the fear of failure still hanging over him like a shadow.

With a final breath, he knocked.

Pietro’s voice came from inside, sharp and questioning. "What do you want?"

Charles winced at the harshness in his tone. “Can I come in?”

There was a pause. Then Pietro’s voice, quieter but no less guarded, responded. “Whatever.”

Charles stepped in, his eyes falling on Pietro, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking less like an angry child and more like a boy who had been through too much for his age. Pietro’s eyes flicked up to him briefly, before he quickly turned away, clearly trying to avoid looking directly at him.

Charles could feel the tension thick in the air between them like a storm waiting to break. He knew he couldn’t fix everything at once, but he needed to start somewhere.

“I… I owe you an apology,” Charles began, his voice quieter than usual, full of hesitation. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you, Peter. I was frustrated, yes, but that’s no excuse for how I acted.”

Pietro didn’t respond at first, his eyes not meeting Charles’s. It was clear that Pietro was still processing everything, but his fists were clenched at his sides as if trying to hold in the anger that still simmered beneath the surface. Charles waited, letting the silence settle between them, hoping to give Pietro space to respond when he was ready.

“I know you’re angry,” Charles continued, his voice a little firmer now, “and I understand why. I don’t expect you to forgive me right away, but I do want to make things right.”

Pietro scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Make things right? You’ve never been there for us, Charles. You’re all talk. Talk, and no action.” His voice cracked slightly, betraying the hurt that Charles could sense just beneath his anger.

Charles flinched at the sharpness of Pietro’s words. He couldn’t argue with the truth of them—he had failed them. He had failed to show up when they needed him most. And in the same way that he had failed them, he had failed himself.

“I wasn’t there for you,” Charles admitted quietly, the guilt threatening to choke him. “I failed both of you. And I can’t take that back. But I can start by being better. I’m not perfect, and I know that’s not what you need from me. You need someone who can show up. And I want to be that person for you.”

Pietro’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he looked like he might snap back with something else, but instead, he stayed silent. He wasn’t ready to forgive, not yet. But there was something in his expression now—something that softened just the smallest bit.

“You’re nothing like Erik,” Charles said suddenly, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “I know you don’t see it, but you’re not. You’re not like him, Peter. I—”

Pietro’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with anger. “Don’t you ever compare me to him again.”

Charles stood his ground, despite the sudden flare of anger in the air. “I’m not comparing you to him. I’m telling you that you’re your own person. Your anger doesn’t define you. And it doesn’t make you like him.”

Pietro’s hands clenched into fists, his whole body tensed with the tension of it. He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped, his voice cracking when he did.

“I don’t want to be like him,” he muttered, almost too quietly for Charles to hear.

Charles took a step forward, his voice gentler now, knowing that this was the point where he had to keep the bridge open, not let it fall apart. “You’re not, Peter. You’re not like him, and you don’t have to carry that with you. I’m sorry for making you feel like you had to.”

Pietro didn’t respond right away. Instead, he stood up suddenly, pacing across the room, his thoughts clearly a whirlwind in his head. Charles let him move, knowing he had to give him the space to process.

Finally, after a few moments, Pietro stopped his back to Charles. His shoulders sagged as if the weight of it all had worn him down. “I don’t want to keep feeling angry. I don’t want to keep carrying this around... but I don’t know how to not be angry.”

Charles let out a deep breath, knowing exactly how Pietro felt. “Neither do I. But I’m willing to try. For you. For both of you.”

Pietro stayed quiet for a long moment, and Charles couldn’t tell what he was thinking. But when he finally turned around, his eyes were still filled with that same intensity, but they weren’t quite as hostile.

“I’m not going to say I forgive you,” Pietro said, his voice still raw but softer now. “But I’ll... try. To let you try.”

Charles nodded slowly, his heart swelling with a mix of relief and guilt. It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t even the beginning of what he knew needed to happen between them, but it was a start. A fragile one, but still a start.

“You don’t have to forgive me yet,” Charles said quietly. “But I’m here. I’ll keep trying. I’ll be the person you need me to be.”

Pietro didn’t say anything else, but for the first time in their conversation, Charles saw something flicker in his eyes—something that wasn’t just anger or hurt. It was a crack in the wall. And that was more than Charles had hoped for.

After Charles had left, Wanda came into their room, sitting on the edge of their bed, her hands resting nervously in her lap. The silence between them was heavy, almost suffocating. Pietro paced the room, as he often did when his mind was racing, his fingers running through his hair in frustration.

“Pietro,” Wanda said quietly, her voice almost uncertain. She hadn’t seen him like this before—not this lost, this conflicted. “What did he say?”

Pietro stopped pacing and looked at her, his expression tight and unreadable. “He said a lot of things. Things I’m not sure I even want to hear.”

Wanda frowned, watching him carefully. “But... what do you think?”

He scoffed, frustration lacing his voice. “What do I think? All talk, no action. It’s always ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘I’m trying,’ but I’ve heard that before. They all say that.”

“But...” Wanda said hesitantly, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. “But he apologized, didn’t he? He said he’d try.”

“Yeah, but what does that even mean, Wanda?” Pietro shot back, his voice rising. “He doesn’t know how to fix this. He can’t just show up and pretend like it’s enough. He doesn’t know what it’s like to actually be here for someone.”

Wanda bit her lip, her heart aching for Pietro. She understood the anger that still burned in him, the distrust that clouded his thoughts. But at the same time, she couldn’t ignore the small part of her that was trying to see the situation through Charles’s eyes.

“I think...” she started slowly, unsure how to put it into words, “I think he’s trying. I think he’s scared too. He’s not perfect, Pietro. No one is. But... I think he wants to be better. He wants to make up for what he didn’t do.”

Pietro paused, his jaw clenched, and Wanda could see the conflict playing out behind his eyes. “I don’t know if that’s enough,” he muttered, looking away from her. “I don’t know if I can just let go of everything he’s done. Everything he didn’t do.”

Wanda stood up, her voice softening as she approached him. “Pietro... I know. I know it’s hard. I know what it feels like to want to hate someone because they’ve hurt you. But... I don’t think he meant to hurt us. He’s not Erik, Pietro. He’s not.”

He turned sharply to face her, his eyes wide with emotion. “But you don’t understand! You don’t get it. You don’t know what it’s like to always be disappointed by people you’re supposed to trust. People you’re supposed to count on.”

Wanda flinched at his words, her chest tightening with the weight of his pain. She had heard him talk about his fears before, his mistrust of people, of family, but never quite like this. Never with this much raw emotion behind it. She stepped closer, taking a breath to steady herself.

“I do understand,” she said quietly. “I understand more than you think. You’ve been angry for so long, Pietro. I’ve seen it. I know it hurts, and I know you’re scared. But... holding onto that anger, it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t help us. It only makes everything worse.”

Pietro didn’t say anything for a long time, his gaze locked on the floor, his fists still clenched at his sides. The silence between them stretched on, but Wanda didn’t mind. She wasn’t trying to force him to feel better, or to forgive Charles. She just needed him to understand that she wasn’t asking him to forget.

“Maybe you’re right,” Pietro finally said, his voice small, almost defeated. He looked up at her, his eyes tired but softer. “Maybe I’m holding onto this anger because it’s easier. Because if I forgive him, then... what does that make me? Weak? Stupid?”

Wanda shook her head, reaching out to gently place her hand on his arm. “It doesn’t make you weak, Pietro. It doesn’t make you stupid. It makes you human. And sometimes... forgiving doesn’t mean forgetting. It just means not letting the past control you anymore.”

Pietro looked at her, his expression wavering between doubt and something else. Hope, maybe? “I don’t know if I can just let go like that.”

“I know,” Wanda said softly. “It’s hard. But... I think Charles needs us. And I think we need him too, whether we want to admit it or not.”

Pietro’s gaze flicked to the door, as though he expected Charles to walk in at any moment. He rubbed his forehead, a sigh escaping him. “I just don’t want to get hurt again. I don’t want to be disappointed. Not again.”

“I get that,” Wanda said quietly. “But sometimes, people deserve a second chance. Even if it’s not all fixed right away. We’re not fixed, Pietro. None of us are. But maybe... maybe we can help each other fix the pieces.”

Pietro’s lips parted as if he wanted to say something more, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he simply nodded, the anger finally beginning to dissipate, replaced by something else—something quieter, more uncertain.

“I’ll try,” he said after a long pause, his voice barely a whisper. “But I’m not promising anything.”

Wanda smiled gently, relief flooding through her. “I’m not asking you to.”

The two of them stood there for a moment, the weight of their conversation hanging between them like a fragile thread. But for the first time in a long while, the silence didn’t feel like a wall. It felt like something they could both work through, together.

Wanda’s voice was soft as she spoke again, almost as if she were reassuring herself too. “We’ll figure it out, Pietro. One step at a time.”

The evening had settled heavily over the mansion, its quiet halls illuminated by the dim, golden glow of the setting sun. In his lab, Hank was tinkering with a gadget that had no particular purpose—just something to keep his hands busy. He hadn’t seen Charles since the morning when Wanda’s shriek had sent the entire household into chaos, and part of him was thankful for the silence.

The creak of the lab door broke his focus. Hank looked up, his glasses sliding slightly down his nose. Charles stood in the doorway, leaning heavily against the frame. There was no drink in his hand this time, but his presence carried the same weight, the same weariness.

“Hank,” Charles began, his voice low and unsteady. He lingered in the doorway as if unsure whether to step inside.

Hank set down his tool and turned to face him fully. “Charles. What brings you here? Did you need something?”

Charles hesitated for a moment before finally entering the room. His steps were slow and measured, as though each one was a decision in itself. He settled into a chair across from Hank, his hands folded tightly in his lap.

“I wanted to talk,” Charles said, meeting Hank’s gaze with difficulty. “And to thank you.”

Hank blinked in surprise, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Thank me? For what?”

“For everything,” Charles admitted, his tone heavy with sincerity. “For looking after Wendy and Peter. For keeping this place running while I... withdrew.”

Hank crossed his arms, his expression a mix of concern and exasperation. “You don’t need to thank me for that, Charles. Someone had to step up.”

“I know,” Charles said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But it should have been me.”

The admission hung in the air between them, raw and unguarded. Charles looked away, his fingers tightening around each other. “I failed them, Hank. I failed you. And I can’t... I can’t keep pretending that everything is fine when it’s so painfully clear that it isn’t.”

Hank studied him carefully, the weight of Charles’s words settling heavily on his own shoulders. “Charles, you’ve been through a lot. No one’s expecting you to be perfect. But you can’t keep drowning yourself in—” He stopped, his eyes flickering toward Charles’s trembling hands. “—in distractions.”

Charles’s lips twitched into a bitter smile. “You can say it, Hank. Alcohol. I can barely go a day without it. And every time I tell myself I’ll stop, I... I fail.”

The honesty in Charles’s voice was startling, even to Hank, who had grown used to his friend’s deflections and half-hearted excuses. Hank uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table.

“Do you want to stop?” Hank asked his tone firm but kind.

Charles exhaled shakily, his head nodding almost imperceptibly. “I do. But I don’t know how. And I don’t think I can do it alone.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Hank’s mind raced, a mix of relief and concern swirling within him. Relief that Charles was finally acknowledging his problem, and concern for how deep the struggle had become.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” Hank said softly. “You’ve got me. You’ve got the kids. We’re all here, Charles. But you have to let us in.”

Charles’s gaze lifted to meet Hank’s, his blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “I’m scared, Hank. Scared of what I’ll find if I stop numbing myself. Scared of what I’ve already lost.”

Hank reached out, placing a steady hand on Charles’s shoulder. “You’ve lost some things, yes. But you haven’t lost everything. Wendy and Peter—they still want to know you. They want to trust you. And I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Charles let out a shaky breath, nodding slowly. “You are. And I can’t thank you enough for that.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Hank said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Just... start trying. Really trying.”

“I will,” Charles promised, his voice firmer this time. “And Hank... about Wendy and Peter I don’t know if I’m equipped to be the person they need. They’ve been through so much already, and I’m just... a mess.”

“They don’t need you to be perfect, Charles,” Hank said, his tone gentle but resolute. “They just need you to show up. To be there. That’s what matters.”
Charles closed his eyes, nodding once more. “You’re right. I’ve hidden for long enough.”

When he opened his eyes, there was a glimmer of determination behind the weariness. Hank felt a flicker of hope—small, but present.
“We’ll take it one step at a time,” Hank said, giving Charles’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You’re not alone in this.”

Charles’s lips trembled into a faint smile, his first genuine one in what felt like ages. “Thank you, Hank. For everything.”

Hank simply nodded, his own heart lighter for the first time in weeks. There was still a long road ahead, but for now, this was enough.

Chapter Text

The mornings at the mansion were still and quiet, save for the occasional sound of Hank bustling in the lab or the faint hum of Wanda’s magic, which always seemed to settle like a haze in the air. Charles had started venturing out of his room more frequently, though his appearances were sporadic and usually gruff.

Wanda sat cross-legged in the main sitting room, her hands glowing faintly red as she practised small feats of magic—levitating books, weaving invisible threads into shimmering patterns. Pietro flitted in and out of the space like a restless bird, always on edge, though quieter than usual. Their earlier confrontation with Charles still lingered in the air, unresolved but simmering beneath their interactions.

Charles observed from the doorway, unseen by the twins. He leaned heavily against the frame, his face lined with exhaustion and uncertainty. Seeing Wanda’s small form glowing with determination and Pietro’s restless energy bouncing from wall to wall filled him with a strange mix of guilt and longing. He had spent so much time isolating himself from them, but here they were—proof of Erik’s legacy and, perhaps, of his own failures.

Eventually, Charles cleared his throat. Wanda jumped, her magic flickering out like a candle blown by the wind. Pietro skidded to a halt, arms crossed as he positioned himself instinctively between Charles and his sister.

"I hope I’m not interrupting," Charles said, his voice measured but tinged with nervousness.

"Only a little," Wanda said, her tone polite but cautious. She glanced at Pietro, whose frown deepened as Charles stepped into the room.

“I thought,” Charles began, clasping his hands together as he seated himself in a nearby armchair, “that perhaps I might join you both today. It’s been too long since this house had life in it, and I’d like to... remedy that.”

Pietro raised an eyebrow. “You want to hang out with us? Thought we were just ‘children,’ too much for you to handle.”

Charles flinched but didn’t look away. “You are children, yes,” he admitted, his tone soft, “but that’s no excuse for how I’ve behaved. If you’ll allow it, I’d like to spend more time with you. Perhaps we can help each other, in our own ways.”

The tension in the room was palpable. Wanda looked between the two of them, her wide eyes flickering with hope. Pietro, however, remained sceptical, his arms still crossed, a silent wall of resistance.

But Wanda spoke first, her voice trembling slightly. “We’d like that. Right, Peter?”

Pietro hesitated his sharp tongue at war with his sister’s pleading gaze. Finally, he sighed. “Fine. But don’t expect us to make it easy for you.”

Charles allowed himself a small smile. “I wouldn’t dare.”

This tentative truce, fragile as it was, seemed to shift the energy in the room. Wanda’s magic began to hum softly again, and Pietro, though still wary, sat beside her, his restless energy momentarily stilled.

For now, it was a start.

Charles watched the twins settle back into their rhythms, Wanda’s hands glowing faintly as she practised a new spell and Pietro drumming his fingers against the armrest of the couch. Though Charles had announced his intention to join them, he felt an awkward tension hanging over his presence.

He wasn’t sure how to start. In his mind, he had rehearsed a dozen ways to engage them, to make amends for the weeks he had spent in isolation. But now, faced with their guarded expressions and subtle movements of distrust—especially from Pietro—those plans seemed flimsy at best.

“So,” Charles began, leaning forward in his chair, “what are you working on, Wendy?”

Wanda glanced at him, her expression a mix of surprise and caution. “I’m trying to get better control over my chaos magic,” she said quietly. A flicker of red danced across her fingers as she levitated a book. “Sometimes it... it gets ahead of me.”

Charles nodded, his gaze softening. “Magic like yours is a rare gift. Learning to master it takes time and patience, but from what I’ve seen, you’re already progressing faster than most.”

Wanda blinked at the compliment, her cheeks tinging with pink. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Pietro, however, didn’t let the moment linger. “So you’re suddenly interested in what Wendy can do?” he snapped, leaning back against the couch with a scowl. “What changed?”

Charles’s jaw tightened. He had expected resistance from Pietro, but it still stung. “I was wrong to keep my distance,” he admitted. “And I don’t expect my words to fix things overnight. But I’m trying, Peter. That’s all I can do right now.”

“Trying’s not enough,” Pietro shot back. “Aren’t you supposed to know how to handle people like us?”

“Peter!” Wanda hissed, her magic sparking erratically as her emotions flared.

“No, it’s all right,” Charles said quickly, raising a hand to calm her. He turned his attention fully to Pietro, his gaze steady. “I understand your anger, Peter. I’ve made mistakes—more than I care to admit—and I’ve failed people I care about before. I’m trying to be better for you and Wendy, but I won’t pretend I can undo the harm I’ve already caused.”

Pietro’s glare didn’t soften, but something flickered in his eyes—confusion, perhaps, or hesitation. For a moment, he didn’t reply, his fingers drumming faster against the armrest.

Wanda broke the silence, her voice tentative. “We don’t... we don’t need you to be perfect. Just... here.”

Her words hung in the air, delicate but firm, and Charles felt them settle like a weight on his chest. He nodded slowly, his throat tightening. “I’ll be here,” he promised.

Pietro snorted but said nothing, his gaze fixed on the floor. Wanda glanced at him, her brow furrowing in concern, but she didn’t press him.

As the room fell quiet again, Pietro’s thoughts were a whirl of frustration and defensiveness, while Wanda’s were a blend of hope and worry. It was a delicate balance, one Charles knew he had to approach carefully.

To break the silence, he shifted the conversation. “I know this house can feel... empty,” he said. “But I’d like to change that. Perhaps we could start by having dinner together tonight—all of us. Hank included.”

Wanda brightened slightly at the suggestion, while Pietro rolled his eyes. “Great. A family dinner,” he muttered under his breath.

“It’s a start,” Charles said, his tone light but earnest. “And if nothing else, it’s an excuse to have something other than Hank’s experimental meals.”

Wanda giggled softly at that, and even Pietro’s lips twitched as if suppressing a smirk.

For the first time in weeks, the tension in the room seemed to lift, if only slightly. Charles didn’t delude himself into thinking everything was resolved—but it was a beginning, fragile and uncertain, but a beginning nonetheless.

Charles let his gaze fall on the twins, noticing, for the first time, their mismatched clothing. Wanda’s shirt was a little too big, the sleeves rolling up at her wrists, and Pietro’s jeans were slightly torn at the knee, though it hardly seemed to bother him. They had both done their best to look presentable, but it was clear that they hadn’t had much guidance in that regard.

His fingers tightened slightly around his glass, but he let the thought pass before it fully solidified into guilt. It wasn’t their fault—they hadn’t had the opportunity for anything else.

“Is that... your style?” Charles asked gently, trying to sound more casual than he felt, his gaze flicking from Wanda to Pietro. He could see them both stiffen, just a little, at the question.

Wanda shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her fingers brushing over the hem of her oversized shirt. “Um, no... these were the clothes Mr. Hank showed us,” she explained, her voice quiet but calm as if she had accepted it as the norm.

Charles froze, the words sinking in. He hadn’t realized the extent to which the twins had been left to their own devices. The thought of them rifling through boxes of hand-me-downs—clothes they didn’t pick themselves, things that weren’t theirs—struck a chord with him. The mansion, once a bustling school full of students and order, had changed so much over the years, but this... this felt different. It wasn’t the world he had built here.

A distant memory flickered in his mind—one of halls filled with students laughing, learning, and running around with purpose. He’d taken pride in the way the school had felt like a family, everyone contributing to the lives of the others. That sense of togetherness was missing now.

His eyes softened as he turned his attention back to the twins. He had failed to notice so much in the past weeks.

“I... I think it’s time we changed that,” Charles said, his voice steady but sincere. “You deserve better than this. More than just what’s been handed to you.”

Wanda’s eyes widened slightly, surprised at the sudden shift in Charles’s tone. “What do you mean?” she asked, her gaze moving between him and Pietro.

Charles looked at them both, his expression softening with a mixture of guilt and resolve. “I’ve been blind to a lot of things lately. And I haven’t made enough effort to really look after you two the way I should have. I think it’s time for a change. What do you say we go shopping? Hank can help us find something... more fitting.”

At the mention of Hank, Pietro let out a low snort. “Shopping with Hank? He’s been pretty busy with his experiments, hasn’t he? Don’t expect him to suddenly drop everything for a shopping trip.”

Charles chuckled softly, the sound more genuine than he had intended. “I believe we can make it happen. I’ll talk to Hank. But the point is, I want you both to feel like you belong here. You deserve it.”

Wanda looked at Charles for a long moment, as though weighing his words carefully. Her eyes softened, and she nodded, her smile faint but growing. “I think I’d like that,” she said quietly.

Pietro, on the other hand, crossed his arms, clearly still sceptical. “I guess it couldn’t hurt,” he muttered, though Charles could see the tiniest hint of relief in his expression.

Charles couldn’t help but feel a small spark of hope rise in his chest. The idea of taking them shopping, of giving them a little bit of normalcy, was a small step—but it was one in the right direction.

“I’ll make sure Hank agrees,” Charles said, standing up and brushing his hands together. “Let’s make it happen. Consider it a family outing.”

The word “family” hung in the air for a moment, more meaningful than it had ever been before, and as Charles watched the twins, he could see a flicker of something in their eyes. It wasn’t full trust—not yet—but it was something closer than it had been before.

The next morning, Charles wasted no time. He found Hank in the lab, a flurry of papers and test tubes scattered across the table as usual. Charles cleared his throat, and Hank looked up, his expression already one of mild concern.

“What’s going on?” Hank asked, noting the serious look on Charles’s face.

Charles glanced over his shoulder, making sure neither of the twins was within earshot before lowering his voice. “I’ve decided it’s time for a change. I want us to take a trip. A shopping trip, if you will.”

Hank blinked, his expression softening as he realized the implication. “A shopping trip... for the twins?” he asked slowly.

Charles nodded. “Yes. It’s time they had more than just hand-me-downs and mismatched clothes. I think they deserve to feel... normal. And I’m not sure I’ve been doing enough to give them that.”

Hank studied Charles for a moment before letting out a long breath. “You’re right, Charles. They’ve been through enough. I’ll make sure we’re ready to go—just tell me when and where.”

“Let’s do it today,” Charles decided. “I think it’ll help.”

Later that afternoon, the three of them—Charles, Hank, and the twins—found themselves in the bustling heart of the local shopping district. The bright neon signs, the sounds of street vendors, and the music playing from radios set the perfect stage for what should have been a normal outing. But for the twins, everything felt new and overwhelming.

Wanda, for the first time in what felt like ages, let herself be swept into the excitement of it all. She hadn’t been in a proper store for new clothes before, and the thought of picking something out for herself seemed surreal. She looked at Hank, who had taken the lead and grinned. “I’ve never been shopping like this before,” she whispered to him.

Hank chuckled, his hands adjusting a pile of clothes he had picked out for her. “We’ll make sure you find something nice. You deserve to look as wonderful as you are.”

Pietro, on the other hand, was more reluctant. His arms were crossed as he halfheartedly scanned the racks, still not fully trusting the entire ordeal. He glanced at Charles, who had been unusually quiet since they left the mansion.

“What about me?” Pietro grumbled, his eyes flicking between the clothing selections. “What’s going to make me stand out in this?”

Charles raised an eyebrow, noticing the hint of frustration in his voice. He walked over, the store's fluorescent lighting flickering above him as he joined Pietro. “I think we know what might suit you already.”

At that moment, Hank wandered off toward a different aisle, and Charles seized the opportunity to walk toward the racks filled with leather jackets. His eyes scanned the collection until they fell on a silver one—a shiny, metallic jacket that screamed the 1970s. It was almost absurd in its boldness, but it would suit Pietro perfectly.

“Peter,” Charles said, holding the jacket up with a smile, “I think I found your look.”

Pietro’s eyes widened when he saw the jacket, and for a split second, something flickered behind his eyes—surprise, maybe a touch of nostalgia. He stepped closer and took the jacket from Charles’s hands, running his fingers over the shiny fabric.

“It’s... perfect,” Pietro admitted, though he quickly masked his reaction with a nonchalant shrug. “But I won’t wear it if you think it’ll make me look ridiculous.”

Charles laughed softly. “You can’t look ridiculous if you own it.”

Pietro didn’t protest any further, pulling the jacket on with a small smirk. The silver gleamed in the store’s light, and for the first time, he looked... comfortable in his own skin.

Wanda, meanwhile, had picked out a soft purple dress, one that seemed to match her more delicate side. She had held it up in front of her, looking back and forth between the mirror and Charles. “Do you think this suits me?”

Charles smiled warmly. “It suits you perfectly, Wanda.”

For a moment, she hesitated, her fingers twirling the hem of the dress nervously. “It’s different than what I’m used to. I don’t know if I should wear something this... pretty.”

Charles stepped forward, his voice was soft but firm. “You deserve to feel beautiful, Wanda. This dress is just a reflection of that.”

Wanda’s face softened, and she nodded before heading to the changing room to try it on.

When the group reconvened after a few minutes, Pietro was standing by the mirror, his silver jacket gleaming under the fluorescent lights. The sight of him in it was striking—he looked both youthful and defiant, yet somehow sophisticated. Wanda stepped out of the changing room just as he adjusted his collar, and her eyes widened at the transformation.

“You look... amazing,” she said, her voice tinged with awe.

Pietro grinned and tossed his hair, his usual cocky demeanour returning. “Told you it’d work.”

Wanda stepped in front of him, twirling in her new dress, and Pietro's jaw dropped.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” he said with a grin. “You look like a princess.”

Charles observed the exchange quietly, a sense of satisfaction building inside him. For the first time in a long while, he felt like he was giving them something that truly mattered. Not just clothes, but the feeling of belonging. The feeling that they could be themselves, without any external pressures or expectations.

“I think this is a good start,” Charles said, his voice warm as he stood between the twins.

Wanda and Pietro both looked up at him and for the first time, their expressions were soft—less guarded. A bond was forming, piece by piece.

As they continued through the store, the atmosphere shifted slightly. The fun of choosing clothes was still present, but now there was a subtle undercurrent of something else—something Charles couldn’t ignore.

He had watched Wanda carefully, noting the way she smiled when she tried on a new outfit. There was something in her expression, something in the way her lips curved upwards, that reminded him of Raven.

It wasn’t just the smile itself, though. It was the way Wanda’s eyes sparkled with a kind of innocent joy, a fleeting moment of carefree happiness that Raven had once carried. But it was also the uncertainty in the corners of her gaze, the slight hesitancy, as though the smile was a mask she didn’t always feel comfortable wearing.

Charles found himself frozen in place for a moment as Wanda stepped out of the changing room in a soft, flowing blue dress. The exact shade of blue reminded him so much of Raven’s skin, the deep, rich hue of her transformed form when she was young—the first time he’d seen her like that. The dress, like his memories of Raven, was beautiful and delicate but tinged with an underlying sadness.

Wanda twirled in front of the mirror, unaware of Charles’s conflicted gaze. "What do you think?" she asked, her voice laced with both excitement and nerves.

Charles cleared his throat, fighting the sudden lump in his throat. "It suits you," he said softly, his words filled with a quiet emotion he hadn’t intended.

Wanda caught the hesitation in his voice, and for the briefest moment, their eyes met in the mirror. Wanda’s telepathy, always present and sharp, caught the flicker of memory in Charles’s mind—the image of a younger Raven, so full of life yet so tragically conflicted, struggling with the duality of who she was.

Wanda didn’t fully understand it yet, but the sensation was there: the connection between herself and the woman Charles had lost, the sister he’d never fully accepted or understood. She saw the brief, almost imperceptible flash of Raven’s face in Charles’s expression, a ghostly imprint of something deep within him.

Wanda’s brow furrowed as she stepped away from the mirror, her telepathic connection growing stronger. “Charles?” Her voice was soft, but laced with concern. She took a step closer to him, noticing how his gaze lingered on her, too focused, too pained.

Charles turned away quickly, his face flushed with a mix of guilt and vulnerability. “Sorry, I... I was just... thinking,” he said, trying to cover his emotions. "The blue... it’s just a familiar color." He could feel the weight of his past, and the shadow of Raven's absence, pressing on him. His heart ached with the memory of his failure as a brother.

Wanda, still processing what she had felt from him, leaned in just slightly, her voice barely above a whisper. "You’re thinking of your sister, aren’t you?"

Her question hit him harder than he expected. He didn’t want to talk about Raven, not like this, not in front of the twins. But the words came out before he could stop them. "Yes," he admitted quietly. "I see pieces of her in you, Wendy. The way you smile, the way you carry yourself... it reminds me of her. And that—" He stopped himself, his throat tightening. "That's something I never fully appreciated when she was here."

Wanda’s heart skipped a beat. She hadn’t expected that—Charles, the Professor, admitting something so raw, so vulnerable. But her telepathy had given her a glimpse into the deep sorrow that echoed in his mind. She could feel his guilt, his longing, his confusion.

She stood still for a moment, trying to absorb his words. But as much as she wanted to comfort him, she also felt a pang of discomfort. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for this. She hadn’t asked to be compared to Raven, but there was a part of her that understood what Charles was saying.

The silence stretched, and Charles realized he had to clarify. He took a deep breath, his voice now quieter but sincere. “It’s not your fault, Wendy. I don’t want you to feel burdened by my memories. It’s just... sometimes, the past has a way of catching up to us in unexpected ways.”

Wanda hesitated, then asked, "Do you think... do you think I’m like her?"

Charles looked at her, his gaze softening. "In some ways. But not in all the ways that matter. You’re your own person, Wendy. I don’t want you to carry the weight of someone else’s legacy. But it’s hard not to see her in you when you smile like that. You’re more than just a reflection of her, though. You’re you. And that’s enough.”

Pietro, who had been half-watching this conversation from across the store, suddenly broke in. “Are we done with this emotional talk? Can we go grab something for me now?” His tone was light, but the undercurrent of discomfort was clear. He hated feeling caught in the middle of anything remotely personal.

Wanda gave him a small smile, grateful for his interruption. “I think we’re almost done.”

Charles’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he nodded, trying to push the weight of the conversation aside. “We’ll finish the shopping, but let’s not forget why we’re here.” He smiled at Wanda. “You deserve new clothes, not reminders of a past that doesn’t belong to you.”

Wanda didn’t know whether she believed him entirely, but she nodded, taking the moment to close off her telepathic sense for just a bit, trying to avoid digging into emotions that weren’t hers to carry.

The shopping trip continued with renewed energy, Wanda eagerly darting between racks of clothes while Pietro trailed behind, making quick, sceptical comments about her choices. Hank was busy helping her with sizes, and Charles kept a careful eye on both of them, his mind alternating between the present and the memories of when the mansion was full of children—students he had once guided and protected.

Wanda pulled a bright red coat from a rack, holding it up to herself with a small, pleased smile. “What do you think?” she asked, spinning to show it off.

“It’s... bold,” Charles said, trying to mask the slight tightness in his throat. The vibrant shade was strikingly familiar—it brought to mind Raven’s favourite scarf, a red so vivid it almost hurt to look at. But in Wanda’s hands, it wasn’t a memory; it was hers.

“You like red, don’t you?” Hank said, chuckling as he added a matching red scarf to her growing pile of clothes.

“Of course she does,” Pietro said, standing off to the side in a snug blue sweater they’d picked earlier. “She always picks red. She’s obsessed.”

“And you’re one to talk,” Wanda shot back, gesturing to his sweater. “You’re practically married to blue!”

Charles raised an eyebrow, looking at Pietro’s pile of clothes—shades of navy, cobalt, and teal dominated. “He has a point,” Charles said, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice. “You two seem to have a preference.”

Pietro shrugged, unconcerned. “We’ve always been like that. Red for her, blue for me. It just fits.”

Wanda nodded, holding the coat to her chest. “It’s always been that way, since we were babies.”

Charles and Hank exchanged a glance, both struck by the quiet significance of the statement. Charles’s gaze drifted between the twins, the stark contrast in their chosen colours now obvious. It wasn’t just a coincidence—it was a subconscious declaration of identity, a bond as twins but also a way to define themselves individually.

“It’s fascinating,” Hank murmured, adjusting his glasses. “Even without trying, you’ve found ways to express yourselves... and each other. It’s almost like a language.”

Charles chuckled softly, the first genuine laugh he’d let out in weeks. “I bet you were cute babies,” he said, his voice warm.

Wanda’s eyes lit up at the comment, and she turned to him with an excited expression. “I can show you!”

Charles blinked, taken aback. “You... have baby photos?”

“Yes!” Wanda said eagerly, clutching the red coat tighter. “We packed a photo album in our bag before we came to the mansion. I can show you when we get back.”

“After dinner,” Pietro added quickly, already moving toward another rack.

Charles smiled faintly, touched by the offer. “I’d like that.”

The mansion’s grand wooden doors creaked open as Hank, Charles, Wanda, and Pietro stepped inside, their bags of clothes rustling with each step. The warm glow of the mansion greeted them, familiar and comforting after their busy trip. The air smelled faintly of wood polish and the distant hint of dinner being prepared.

“I’ll get dinner started,” Hank said, giving them a wave as he made his way toward the kitchen.

“Thanks, Hank!” Wanda called after him, already shedding her coat as she headed into the large living room. She wasted no time, tossing the bags onto the couch with excitement, her eyes gleaming as she looked between Charles and Pietro.

“I’m going to do a fashion show!” she announced. “You’ve got to see my new clothes.”

Pietro raised an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, already smirking. “Really? You want me to critique your ‘amazing’ fashion choices?”

Wanda shot him a playful glare before turning to Charles, her eyes full of eager expectation. “Charles, you’ve got to see these outfits! You know, to make sure they’re...” she trailed off, her excitement bubbling. “Right.”

Charles, smiling fondly at her, gave a small chuckle. “Of course. I’m sure they’re all perfect.” He didn’t mention that he’d already seen each of the clothes she’d picked out—it was clear that this moment meant something more to her than just showing off her shopping haul.

Wanda zipped up her jacket with a flourish, a bright red leather jacket that clung to her slim frame, matching her red scarf. “What do you think?” she asked, spinning in place, her smile wide and full of hope.

Charles paused for a moment, letting the image settle. He could feel Raven’s presence, as though she had left some kind of mark on Wanda, as though this child—so similar to the sister he had once known—was walking through the mansion in her place. It hit him unexpectedly, a sharp pang of regret. But Wanda was smiling brightly, eager for his approval. He focused, wiping away the lingering sorrow, and looked at her, admiring her for her own sake.

“You look wonderful,” Charles said, his tone warm. He exaggerated his surprise, even though he had been there when she’d picked it out.

Wanda beamed, completely missing his subtle hesitance. “I thought you’d say that!” she said, beaming. She spun once more, the jacket swishing around her.

Next came a red skirt, followed by a matching red sweater. With each outfit, she paused in front of Charles, eagerly awaiting his approval, only to look over at Pietro afterwards for some teasing remarks.

“Red again?” Pietro asked, raising an eyebrow as he tapped his foot. “How many red outfits do you need? It’s like you’re living inside a giant tomato.”

Wanda rolled her eyes, spinning for him too. “I like red! It’s bold, it’s bright. It’s me.”

Charles chuckled, finding himself falling into the rhythm of their dynamic, watching as Wanda practically glowed with excitement, seeking his praise. He found himself playing along with the game, feigning surprise each time.

“You look lovely, Wanda. Very... vibrant,” Charles said, though the words felt almost rehearsed in his mouth.

Pietro laughed under his breath. “Maybe she’s just trying to get all of us to wear sunglasses when we look at her.”

Wanda stuck out her tongue at him before walking over to another outfit. The next one was a red dress, flowing and simple with a delicate lace neckline. She put it on, a little more nervous this time, as she slowly twirled in it, the fabric catching the light.

“Well?” Wanda asked, the slight tremor in her voice betraying a vulnerability she rarely showed. She wanted Charles’s approval more than anything, even more than she had wanted Pietro’s.

Charles smiled softly, his gaze lingering on her for a moment, his heart giving a quiet tug. “You look stunning,” he said, his voice full of genuine admiration. “It suits you perfectly.”

Wanda’s face lit up at the compliment, and she immediately ran over to Pietro, arms flailing in excitement. “See? He liked it! I knew it.”

Pietro raised his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. You’ve won this round. Just don’t expect me to start wearing red, too.”

Wanda laughed, her joy contagious. But as she started to slip out of the dress, Charles caught himself staring at her, noticing again how much of a resemblance she held to Raven. The smile she gave him... the way her eyes lit up... It was as if some part of her had unconsciously inherited it.

Charles quickly pulled himself from the thought, shaking it away. He smiled instead, at Wanda, who was now digging into her bag for the next set of clothes, eagerly showing off her purchases with enthusiasm.

As Wanda continued her show, Charles felt both a deep sense of pride and sadness—a pride that Wanda, despite her wildness, was here with him, at his side; and a sorrow that this little girl, so bright and full of life, was walking in the footsteps of someone he couldn’t save.

The evening rolled on, the laughter echoing through the mansion as the twins showed off their clothes, Hank popping in and out of the room, teasing them in between cooking. Wanda continued to search for validation, Charles offering it with a careful smile, all the while trying to ignore the bitter-sweet tug that never seemed to leave him now when he looked at her.

And through it all, despite the playful teasing, there was a deeper current that ran between them. Charles had taken on the role of something more than a mentor, more than a professor. He had become their protector, whether they knew it or not.

The dinner table was set meticulously, Hank's careful hand having arranged the plates, silverware, and glasses, making sure everything looked just so. It felt like something of a special occasion, even though it was simply a Wednesday evening. The mismatched furniture in the dining room clashed against the elegance of the polished china, and there was a sudden formality to the atmosphere that made everyone feel slightly out of place.

Charles, having never been a fan of strict formality, settled in his seat with an air of forced civility, glancing at the twins as they awkwardly climbed into their chairs. Wanda’s legs swung slightly from her chair, barely touching the ground, while Pietro slouched in his, attempting to stretch his long legs out in front of him but unable to find a comfortable position. It was clear they were both too small for the heavy, oak chairs, their feet dangling off the edges like a pair of awkward children who had been thrust into a world of grown-up expectations.

“I don’t like this,” Wanda muttered under her breath, her eyes darting toward the soft, inviting couches in the living room, where they’d normally eat their meals on the floor or perched on the furniture.

Pietro shot her a look, his arms folded across his chest. “Yeah, who decided we needed to eat here? It’s too formal. This is—" he glanced at the large, towering walls around them, "—weird.”

Charles noticed the twins’ discomfort but said nothing for the moment, instead pushing his food around on his plate, unable to fully engage with the meal. The awkwardness in the air was palpable, with everyone uncharacteristically quiet, the only sound coming from Hank’s occasional clattering in the kitchen as he finished up his own meal prep.

Hank finally joined them, taking a seat at the head of the table with a tired but contented sigh. “Alright, I know it’s a little different, but we can manage through one dinner at the table, right?” His tone was light, but there was a subtle softness in the way he spoke to the twins, clearly wanting to ease the tension.

The twins didn’t respond right away, too focused on their own discomfort. Wanda fidgeted in her seat, crossing her arms as she let out a soft sigh, glancing longingly toward the hallway where the living room was just out of sight. Pietro, however, kicked his feet in frustration and muttered something under his breath, clearly not keen on the whole dinner-table setup.

“Maybe next time we should eat in the living room again?” Wanda suggested, her voice a little too hopeful. "You know, like we used to.”

Pietro shot her a quick glance, nodding in agreement. “It’s more comfortable. I don’t know who decided we needed to eat like this. It feels like a movie scene. Like, ‘Look at us, pretending to be proper.’”

Wanda giggled softly, the tension in the air starting to break as she let out a small snort at Pietro’s dry remark. Charles caught himself smiling faintly, the corners of his mouth twitching as he watched the twins bicker. The fact that they could still argue so easily, despite everything that had happened, was a comfort—small, but important.

“Better than pretending to be a circus act,” Pietro retorted, elbowing Wanda lightly, causing her to yelp.

“Okay, okay,” Wanda muttered, trying to hold back a smile. “You’re not funny, Peter.”

“Not funny? I think I’m hilarious,” Pietro said, laughing as he jabbed her again, clearly enjoying the banter. Wanda rolled her eyes but didn’t resist as she shot a playful punch to his arm.

Charles, despite the discomfort, felt a warmth growing within him as he watched them—how quickly they fell back into their sibling dynamic, the usual bickering and teasing, making the tension of the dinner seem more like an afterthought.

Hank smiled, shaking his head as he dug into his meal. “There it is,” he muttered to himself. “Just takes a little while for everyone to get comfortable.”

“You’re right,” Charles agreed softly, glancing at the twins. “It doesn’t matter how much we try to act grown-up, sometimes it’s just... better to be ourselves.”

The twins glanced at each other, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Wanda’s eyes softened for a moment before she turned back to Charles with a slight grin. “Thanks,” she said quietly, her words surprisingly sincere.

Pietro, who had been avoiding eye contact with Charles the entire dinner, seemed to soften too. His mouth twitched, as if caught between a retort and a reluctant acknowledgement of the change. “Yeah,” he muttered under his breath, “maybe... maybe this isn’t so bad.”

The formal air of the dinner had long since evaporated, with the conversation flowing more freely. Hank, despite the setting, had managed to ease everyone back into a familiar rhythm. The occasional laughter between the twins, the teasing, the shared looks—all of it reminded Charles that they were still children, despite their maturity, despite their hardships.

As dinner continued, the awkwardness began to dissipate, slowly replaced by the ease of shared memories, the casual jabs between Pietro and Wanda, and the quiet understanding that this, at least for now, was their family. The dinner table may have felt stiff and foreign at first, but the warmth they had found in their banter was more than enough to make the evening feel like home.

Later that evening, after the dinner plates were cleared and the awkwardness of the formal setting had slowly faded into comfortable silence, Wanda’s eyes brightened as she recalled something. The photo album. The one she'd been meaning to show Charles.

“Oh! The photo album,” Wanda exclaimed, her face lighting up as she turned to Charles. “You wanted to see it, didn’t you?” She had been so excited about sharing it, but dinner had distracted her, pushing it to the back of her mind.

Pietro, overhearing this, raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Oh no, not again,” he muttered under his breath, but Wanda wasn’t deterred. She grabbed the album from her bag, which had been resting on the chair beside her, and handed it over to Charles with a grin.

“Here,” she said, beaming. “We were really cute when we were babies. I promise.”

Charles took the album gently, his fingers brushing over the cover. He smiled softly at the weight of it, the collection of memories stored between the pages. The idea of holding their childhood so carefully felt surreal, yet precious. "I’m sure you were," he said, his voice warm, eyes sparkling with curiosity.

Wanda leaned forward eagerly, her face inches from the pages as Charles opened the album. The first picture that caught his eye was one of the twins as toddlers, both in matching little outfits. Pietro, of course, wore a blue shirt, and Wanda’s dress was a bright red. The image was a burst of colors, a snapshot of innocence with both of them grinning from ear to ear.

“Oh my goodness,” Charles murmured, his voice full of awe. “You two were adorable.”

Pietro scoffed lightly, but Wanda was too absorbed in the album to notice, smiling proudly at the photo. “We still are,” she teased, but there was a slight hint of something more vulnerable in her voice as she watched Charles carefully turn the page.

Another photo emerged—this one of them even younger, both in matching red and blue pajamas, lying in a crib together, their small hands reaching out for each other.

Charles paused, his thumb lingering over the image. He couldn’t help but wonder how their mother had been. Their relationship, from what he had gathered, seemed... distant, at best. There was so much tenderness in these photos—so much love between the twins—but he couldn’t ignore the nagging question about how this childhood had unfolded outside of these tender moments.

"Did your mother... did she take these photos?" Charles asked softly, breaking the silence. His voice wavered slightly, as though the question was one he wasn’t entirely ready to ask.

Wanda’s smile faltered for just a fraction of a second, her fingers brushing over the next page. Pietro, who had been leaning against the table, crossed his arms tightly across his chest. The brief change in atmosphere didn’t go unnoticed.

“She did,” Wanda replied, her voice quiet but steady. “But she didn’t always like being in pictures. She said we were... too much.”

Charles felt a sudden, painful tightness in his chest as he listened, his heart aching for the twins. "Too much?" he repeated, his voice strained.

Wanda paused, the weight of the words hanging in the air. She seemed to struggle with the response, but then, just as quickly, she tried to push it away. “Sometimes she loved us, though,” Wanda added, her voice wavering as she quickly flicked through a few pages, moving on to another photo to distract them both from the uncomfortable moment.

Pietro, who had been silent until now, shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, sometimes she did,” he echoed, though his tone was far from warm. It was almost... hollow, the words dripping with a pain he didn’t want to acknowledge. His eyes flicked toward the photo album for a brief moment, then away, his gaze focusing on something far off in the distance.

Hank, who had been quietly watching the interaction, felt a wave of recognition wash over him. He had known something was off from the start—there had always been a coldness about the way the twins spoke about their mother, but hearing it so plainly, so matter-of-factly, stung. He swallowed hard, glancing at Charles, who looked just as shaken by the quiet revelation.

Before either of them could say anything further, Wanda and Pietro quickly shifted the topic, clearly uncomfortable with where it was headed.

Wanda flipped through a few more pages, showing Charles pictures of them at the beach, her small hands clasped in Pietro's as they built sandcastles, their faces gleaming with laughter. “Look at us,” she said, her tone playful, almost too light. “Aren’t we adorable?”

Pietro, unable to resist, leaned in closer, pointing at a particularly ridiculous picture of him with a massive, cheesy grin on his face. “Oh look, I was a professional model,” he teased, jabbing Wanda lightly in the ribs, though his eyes were still a little too distant, a little too guarded.

Wanda laughed despite herself, the lightness in her expression returning, even though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "I think I was the cute one," she said, elbowing him back. “I’ve always been the cuter one.”

Pietro shot her an exasperated look. “You wish.”

Charles smiled at the antics of the two, feeling a rush of warmth at the sight of them—so full of life despite everything. But even as they moved past the painful question, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to the twins’ story, more that they weren’t ready to share.

He closed the album carefully, setting it down between them. “You both were and still are very special,” he said, his voice soft and genuine. “I can see that. You were a family, and still are, no matter what.”

Wanda gave him a small, sincere smile, her fingers tracing the edge of the album. “We are, aren’t we?” she replied, her voice quiet but filled with affection.

Pietro, for his part, grunted but didn’t argue, though there was a flicker of something deeper in his eyes—something that spoke of the weight of the past that they had all been carrying in different ways.

As the evening stretched on, the laughter from the photo album faded into a more peaceful silence. The mansion seemed quieter now, the soft hum of the house filling the spaces where words once were. Hank had finished tidying up from dinner, leaving the kitchen in its usual order, and now he stood near the doorway, watching the scene before him.

Wanda, her smile lingering as she flipped through the photo album again, seemed to have momentarily forgotten about the weight of the conversation earlier. Pietro, ever the skeptic, had drifted back into his usual teasing mode, leaning back in the chair and throwing a playful glance at Wanda. But both twins felt the lingering warmth between them and Charles, a warmth that wasn’t entirely familiar.

Charles, still seated beside them, couldn’t help but watch Wanda and Pietro. In this moment, they seemed like any other children, caught between the innocence of youth and the weight of experiences far too heavy for their small shoulders. He had hoped that, by opening up, they would feel a little more whole, a little less burdened. But he knew it wasn’t that simple.

Wanda looked up from the album, catching Charles’s gaze, and for a moment, there was an unspoken understanding between them. She tilted her head slightly, her smile soft. "Thanks for listening," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. It was as if, with that small sentence, she was offering him a piece of herself—something vulnerable, something not so easily shared with anyone.

Pietro, catching the shift in the mood, leaned forward, his arms crossed tightly across his chest again. He studied Charles for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re not like her, you know,” he said, his tone still guarded, but his words felt different now—less antagonistic.

Charles looked at him, not sure what to say. He’d never known how to respond to such an admission, especially when it came from someone like Pietro. The boy was a mystery to him, locked behind layers of mistrust, anger, and fear. But Charles understood. He understood more than anyone how those things could shape a person.

“Not like her?” Charles asked gently, giving Pietro the chance to elaborate if he wished, but the boy simply shrugged.

“Never mind,” Pietro muttered, leaning back in his chair. But there was a softness in his voice, a slight crack in the armour that he kept so tightly around himself.

Wanda, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, smiled again. “Well, that’s enough of this old stuff,” she said, looking around at the photo album. “How about we do something more fun?”

“Like what?” Pietro asked, his interest piqued despite himself.

Wanda glanced at Charles and Hank. “I’m sure we could come up with something,” she said, already trying to move the conversation in a more lighthearted direction. The twins, despite everything, still had that spark of childish energy that never quite seemed to go away.

Charles, with his heart full, stood up from his chair. “I think that sounds like a wonderful idea,” he said, his voice full of warmth.

The twins nodded, as if the idea of enjoying the moment after the heaviness of their past and their conversation was a small victory in itself.

Hank, who had been quietly watching, clapped his hands together, a little more vigorously than usual. “All right, then! I’ll be off to the lab. I’ll leave you all to your fun. Just don’t blow anything up.”

“Thanks, Hank!” Wanda said brightly, and Pietro shot Hank a smirk.

“Maybe you’ll want to join us later,” Pietro added dryly, “if we don’t get bored first.”

Hank chuckled and waved them off, disappearing down the hall toward his lab, leaving the three of them alone. Wanda looked at the album once more before tucking it under her arm. “We’ll finish this another time,” she said with a smile, her voice carrying a note of finality, as if the memories were too precious to rush through.

As they all rose from the table, Charles watched them go, the siblings moving in sync despite their differences. They were strong, so much stronger than they realized. They had lived a life that many adults couldn’t even begin to fathom, but here they were, still smiling, still fighting for some semblance of normalcy.

He couldn’t help but think—he wasn’t just their teacher. He was something more to them now, and that realization sent a pang through his chest, a mix of guilt and hope. He had failed to protect them from their mother, but perhaps, just perhaps, he could be the one to help them heal now.

The sound of laughter, however small, echoed through the hallways of the mansion. It was the first time in a while that the house felt alive again, filled with the light of two children who still had so much love to give.

Chapter Text

Wanda woke with a tightness in her chest that lingered like something was pressing against her ribs from the inside. She blinked into the pale morning light, the room silent except for the soft hum of the mansion’s ancient heating system. But the silence wasn’t comforting—no, it was heavy, thick with something she couldn’t put her finger on.

She rubbed her face, a dull ache pulsing in her head. At first, she thought it was just a headache, something to shake off. But as she swung her legs off the bed and stood, the world tilted beneath her, like the floor had suddenly softened and become uneven. She stumbled slightly, bracing herself against the dresser. The edges of the furniture seemed to blur for a moment, like watercolours running in a too-wet painting.

It’s fine, she told herself, willing the feeling to pass. But the sensation didn’t fade; instead, it followed her, lingering at the edges of her awareness like an insistent shadow.

The tightness in her chest remained, and her heart began to beat a little too fast as if her body couldn’t quite catch up to itself.

She shook her head, feeling an unfamiliar dizziness settle in. Maybe I didn’t sleep well, she thought, but the thought offered no comfort.

Pietro hadn’t woken up yet. 

She stood a little taller, trying to ignore the sickly feeling in her stomach. Taking slow steps, Wanda crossed the room. Her feet seemed too heavy, as though the weight of the world was suddenly pressing down on them.

When she reached the door and stepped into the hallway, the feeling only grew worse. It was as if the walls of the mansion were closing in, a slight pressure against her skin, a soft hum just below her hearing. She paused for a moment, her vision swimming again, and blinked rapidly. The hallway stretched unnaturally long before her eyes. She reached out to steady herself, but the doorframe was too far away. She stumbled, catching herself on the railing of the staircase.

What is happening?

For a fleeting second, the mansion felt alien to her, like a place she had never known. The edges of the walls, the doorframes, the small objects—everything felt... wrong. She could feel the weight of it, the strangeness crawling beneath her skin.

Get it together, Wanda chided herself. It’s just a headache. Just stress.

But her heart was still racing, faster now, and the dizziness had only worsened. She tried to take a breath, but it was shallow, her lungs tight. The air itself felt different—heavier, colder like it didn’t belong.

She heard footsteps approaching and, without thinking, pressed her back against the wall, eyes wide.

“Wendy?”

Hank’s voice reached her ears. He was coming from the kitchen, his footsteps easy and measured, as always. But the moment he appeared in the hallway, she froze, her pulse hammering in her ears.

His face was... wrong. No, it wasn’t him—it looked like him, but something was off. His features distorted in a brief flash: his eyes too wide, his grin stretching too far, too exaggerated. It felt as if the world around her was warping, turning into something unfamiliar, like the images on an old film reel being stretched and altered by an unseen hand.

“Hank?” she whispered, her voice strained.

The confusion must have shown on her face because Hank’s brow furrowed. “Wendy, are you okay? You look pale.”

She blinked, and the world snapped back to normal. Hank’s face returned to its usual kind expression, but her heart was still racing.

“I—I’m fine,” she managed, swallowing hard. “Just a little tired. I’ll be okay.”

But even as the words left her mouth, they felt hollow. Her body didn’t feel like it belonged to her anymore. She felt light-headed, as though she might float away at any moment.

“Do you want me to make you some tea?” Hank offered, his voice warm with concern.

Wanda nodded absently. “Yeah. That sounds nice.”

Hank moved to walk past her, but her mind was already drifting again. The hallway stretched impossibly long before her. Her vision blurred, then snapped back to focus.

The dizziness was worsening, the ground shifting beneath her feet. She had to hold onto the railing again, her knuckles going white. Her breath hitched, shallow and quick, and the cold sweat began to bead on her forehead.

This isn’t normal.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Wanda’s stomach twisted into knots, her thoughts slipping away from her grasp as she stood there in the hallway. The mansion around her seemed to shift once more. The air felt thick, and oppressive, as if something was looming just out of sight. A slight pressure built up in her head, as though something was pushing in from all sides.

Her telepathy—her gift—had always been a part of her, something she had learned to control and tame over the years. But now, the edges of her thoughts felt sharp, jagged, as though they might tear through her consciousness at any moment. She could feel the world pressing against her mind, louder, closer until it was almost deafening.

The whispers began again. Soft at first, like distant murmurs, but they quickly grew louder, like a hundred voices speaking over one another. They weren’t hers—they didn’t belong to her, but they were inside her, all around her.

Pietro.

The name came through her thoughts in a rush of panic, though she hadn’t meant to think it.

A quick flash of his face—his confident smirk, his cocky grin, but it quickly morphed into something she couldn’t recognize. His face contorted as if twisted by the same unseen force that was making the walls move and the voices grow.

She shut her eyes tightly, willing the images to stop, but they only intensified.

Her hands shook violently as she tried to steady herself, her heart pounding so hard she was certain everyone could hear it. The whispers were growing, insistent, clawing at the edges of her mind. Her chest tightened further, and she gasped for air.

A voice called out, but it wasn’t Hank or Pietro.

Get out. Get out of my head!

She gasped for breath again, but it didn’t come. There was too much noise—too many voices, too many thoughts crashing into hers, threatening to break her.

She couldn’t stop it.

The noise in Wanda's head intensified until it was all-consuming. It wasn’t just the voices anymore. The images began to crowd in as well—flashes, vivid and chaotic, of people she didn’t know, people she did, all tangled together in a web of confusion. It was as though her mind was being shredded, every memory, every image, mixing together in a violent blur.

She could feel it pressing in from all sides. She gasped for air, but the very act of breathing felt like a struggle—every inhale was a strain, and each exhale left her more breathless than before. Her skin felt too tight like she was being suffocated by the sheer weight of everything her mind was holding onto.

The voices—no, the thoughts—rushed over her in an endless cascade, blending with the images that haunted her.

There was Erik, standing over Charles on the beach, his face cold and unreadable. His hand was on Charles’s chest, pushing him back into the sand with a finality that stung. She could feel Charles’s panic, the terror that had coursed through his veins as Erik’s betrayal had unfolded in front of him, and Wanda felt herself drowning in it, the weight of that moment sinking into her chest.

Then there was Raven, a vision of blue glory, walking away from Charles, her face a perfect mask of pain and regret. But it was too late. Raven was already gone. Her mind was elsewhere, already aligned with Erik, leaving Charles behind—paralyzed, broken on the beach. Wanda felt his isolation, the crushing loneliness that had followed, gnawing at her like a beast in the dark. She could feel his helplessness, the fear of not being able to protect those he loved, and in it, she found herself suffocating, gasping, choking on his guilt.

The next image came faster: Hank, but not the gentle, kind Hank she had grown to trust. No, this was the Hank she had seen when he lost control, the blue beast tearing through his clothes as his body transformed into something monstrous, and painful. She could feel his anguish as his mind was at war with the beast inside him, and she was dragged down into that darkness with him. His cries, filled with grief and regret, echoed in her skull, and she could feel his pain so sharply it was as if it were her own.

And then, piercing through the chaos, there was her mother. The image of her face was all sharp lines, wild eyes, a woman whose love had been fractured long before it could take root. Wanda could feel her mother’s rejection, the coldness that wrapped around them, the unspoken abandonment that haunted her every step. The rage, the helplessness—everything her mother had never given her, and everything she so desperately wanted to believe in.

The world was spinning now, and the edges of reality were blurring. The floor beneath her was shifting, warping. The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly in both directions. Nothing felt real anymore. Everything was fractured. Everything was wrong.

I can’t hold on. I can’t hold on anymore.

The voices were all that was left now. You’re not good enough. You’re not enough. It was a mantra, a bitter chant that surrounded her. Each word dug deeper, wounding her from the inside out. Her own self-doubt joined the chorus, mixing with the others until it felt like she was drowning in a sea of her own insecurities.

It’s too much.

Her knees buckled beneath her, and she fell to the floor. The tears came then, but they weren’t just her tears—they were Charles’s and Hank’s and Erik’s and Raven’s, all tangled together in a storm of pain and loss. Her heart ached, each beat a painful reminder of everything she couldn’t fix, everything she couldn’t change.

She couldn’t escape. There was nowhere left to go.

Where is Charles?

The thought pierced her mind like a knife. She could feel his absence now, like a hole in her chest. She needed him. She needed someone. But he wasn’t here.

The realization hit her with the force of a tidal wave. She had always felt like he was untouchable, a beacon in the distance, someone who could fix anything. But now... now he wasn’t there to fix this.

Her breath hitched again, her body wracked with sobs. The weight of everything—the past, the present, the future—was too much for her to bear. She wasn’t strong enough to hold it all together.

Her vision blurred, and for a brief, horrible moment, she couldn’t tell if she was still in the hallway of the mansion or lost somewhere inside her own mind.

And then, amid the madness, a small voice cut through the chaos—Pietro.

But it didn’t help. His voice was just another layer to the already deafening din of her fractured mind.

The pressure, the pain, the confusion—it all crashed down on her at once. She couldn’t hold it in anymore.

Pietro's senses heightened as the world around him seemed to shift, bend, and warp in ways that were not possible. He could feel it in his gut—something was wrong. His heart raced, not from the usual excitement of a speed burst, but from something darker, more urgent. Wanda’s telepathic chaos was like a storm tearing through his mind, pushing at the edges of his consciousness.

His eyes darted frantically around the hallway as the walls seemed to pulse and twist. The flickering lights, the distorted sound of his own breath, everything felt... wrong. Wanda’s presence was suddenly a thousand times more overwhelming, and with it came the visceral gut punch of terror. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he knew, knew, something was happening to her.

Without a second thought, he exploded into motion, the air ripping as he shot down the hallway, his superspeed carrying him effortlessly. His thoughts, though frantic, focused solely on Wanda.

Wanda.

He didn’t even know what was happening, but the panic and confusion in the air made it clear enough. It was the same type of sensation he’d felt when their mother’s unstable moods took over, the same fear he had when he couldn’t protect her from what she couldn’t see coming. Only this time, it was worse. It was worse because he couldn’t understand it.

He found her.

Her small frame was crumpled on the floor of the hallway, her body shaking with silent sobs, and her eyes wide with something he couldn’t comprehend. She was gasping for air, her hands clutching at the floor as if it were the only thing grounding her in reality. But there was no reality—just fragments, shifting pieces of the world she couldn’t control.

Pietro froze for a fraction of a second, unable to fully process what he was seeing. But instinct took over. He dropped to his knees beside her, his heart hammering in his chest. Wanda, he thought again, and he had to force himself to focus. This wasn’t just any breakdown. This wasn’t just Wanda crying because something had upset her. This was something much deeper, much more terrifying.

His hand reached out, hovering over her, not quite touching her yet. He could feel the electricity in the air—her telepathy was at the breaking point, the crackling tension building toward an explosion. He couldn’t stop it. He didn’t know how to help her.

She looked up at him then, her face pale, her eyes wide and frantic. The expression on her face was unfamiliar—she wasn’t just scared; she was lost. Completely, utterly lost in a world that didn’t make sense anymore.

"Wanda," he said, his voice tight with concern. "What’s happening? Can you hear me?"

She opened her mouth to respond, but all that came out was a strangled gasp. Her hands trembled as they reached out toward him, but she couldn’t seem to focus on him. It was as if the very air between them had thickened, separating them.

Suddenly, something clicked inside him. He didn’t know how he knew, but he understood. This wasn’t something he could solve by running at super speed. This wasn’t something he could outrun.

Charles.

His body moved before his mind could catch up, propelled by panic. He turned and sprinted back down the hall, his thoughts locked on one thing—Charles. It was the one thing that Wanda trusted, the one thing that could pull her back from the edge.

The mansion felt too quiet, too far away, and at that moment, he was beyond caring for what the others might think. He needed Charles—needed him now.

Pietro didn’t hesitate. He blasted through the hallway, down the stairs, past the kitchen. His mind screamed for help as he reached Charles’s door, hammering his fist on it with all the force he could muster.

"Charles!" he yelled, desperation thick in his voice. "Charles! Wendy—she needs you!"

The door swung open before he could even register the sound of movement from the other side. Charles stood in front of him, his expression immediately shifting from confusion to concern. It was as if the moment he saw Pietro, he understood. The air between them felt heavy, the urgency of the situation now fully apparent.

"Where is she?" Charles asked, his voice calm but his eyes intense, his fear unmistakable.

"She’s—she’s not okay!" Pietro snapped, his voice strained. "She’s losing it. You need to come now!"

Charles didn’t waste a second. Without another word, he pushed past Pietro and followed him down the hall, his movements quick and purposeful despite his previous reclusive demeanour. Pietro led him back to Wanda, his mind still racing with what he had just witnessed.

They found her exactly as he had left her—collapsed on the floor, surrounded by the shattered remnants of her fractured mind. Charles dropped to his knees beside her, his hand brushing the side of her face with incredible gentleness, as though she were a fragile piece of glass.

"Wendy," Charles said, his voice soft but firm. "I’m here. You’re not alone. It’s okay. You’re going to be okay."

The world around her didn’t stop shifting, but Charles’s presence, his voice, seemed to anchor her for the first time in what felt like hours. Slowly, the chaos in her mind began to dim, the relentless storm losing some of its intensity.

Pietro stood back, watching with a mixture of awe and helplessness as Charles knelt beside his sister, trying to piece her back together.

Charles’s heart thundered in his chest as he knelt beside Wanda, his mind racing to catch up with the panic and confusion that was rolling off her in waves. The room felt suffocating, the world shifting and warping around her, just as it had done when he was young, trying to learn to control his own mind. The sounds in his head—the constant, overwhelming barrage of thoughts from everyone around him—felt so familiar, so raw.

He had felt like this once, so many years ago, when he was still trying to manage the voices that assaulted his mind, pulling him in every direction. Back then, he'd been terrified—terrified of losing himself, terrified of his own abilities. Now, looking at Wanda, that same fear came rushing back. Only this time, it wasn’t his own mind threatening to fracture. It was hers.

His hands were shaking as he reached out to her, but he fought against the panic, pushing it down. He needed to be strong for her. He needed to be steady, to be the thing that brought her back.

"Wendy, listen to me," Charles said softly, his voice trembling but steady. "You’re still here. You’re not alone. You’re not dreaming. You’re real, I’m real, everything is real. You’re safe. I promise you, you’re safe." He spoke with an intensity, a desperation that he couldn’t quite hide, but he hoped it would reach her.

Her eyes were wide, unfocused, darting around the room like a wild animal cornered by something it couldn’t see. There was no recognition in her gaze, only confusion and fear. She opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a strangled gasp.

"Are you real?" she whispered, her voice small, tremulous, a child unsure of what was happening. Her fingers trembled at her sides as though she were unsure of her own existence.

Charles felt his chest tighten. This wasn’t just a breakdown; this was something much deeper. Wanda was losing herself, and he was failing to pull her back. The terror in her eyes nearly shattered him.

"Yes," he said, his voice thick with emotion, reaching out again, his hands trembling as they touched her shoulders, trying to ground her, trying to reassure her. "I’m real, Wendy. I’m right here. This is real."

He swallowed, taking a deep breath. He could feel the warmth of her body beneath his touch, but it wasn’t enough. The world around her continued to twist, the colours bleeding into each other, the shapes distorting, flickering. He could see the strain in her face, the way her brow furrowed as if she couldn’t separate reality from the nightmare playing out in her mind.

He thought back to when he was young, to the first time he’d realized that his powers were more than just a gift. They were a curse. A curse that had driven him to the edge, just as it was doing to Wanda now. But he had learned, eventually, how to control it. How to quiet the voices. How to tame the chaos.

But Wanda wasn’t ready to hear that yet. She was lost, drifting in her own mind, swept away by the storm inside her.

Gently, Charles took her hand, guiding it slowly to her own temple, just as he had done so many years ago to calm himself, to help focus his thoughts, his energy. "Place your fingers here, Wendy," he said softly. "Focus. Just like this. Focus on my voice. On my touch. Breathe with me."

His voice was steady, even though the terror inside him grew with each passing second. This was his responsibility now. It always had been. He needed to guide her back, to help her pull herself out of the abyss.

Wanda’s fingers hovered for a moment before they gently pressed to her temple, her touch light, unsure. But as she did, Charles’s hand stayed lightly on hers, guiding her, steadying her.

"That’s it," he whispered, nodding. "Focus on my voice. Focus on the sound of my voice. Breathe with me, Wendy."

She sucked in a sharp breath, trembling all over, and for a brief moment, her eyes met his. There was a flicker of recognition in her gaze, a tiny spark of clarity amidst the storm. But it was fleeting. The chaos roared again, and her eyes lost that focus once more.

Pietro was frozen, watching from the doorway, his breath coming in shallow bursts as his hands clenched into fists. His gaze flickered from Wanda to Charles and back again, the worry and fear in his eyes palpable.

What the hell is happening to her? Pietro thought desperately. He hated feeling so powerless. He hated seeing Wanda like this. He wished he could do something—anything—to make it stop, but all he could do was watch as Charles took control.

Charles’s voice continued, softer now, more insistent. "Wendy, you’re stronger than this. You’ve always been strong. You’re not alone. I’m here. You are safe."

Wanda’s expression shifted, like a wave crashing against the shore. She opened her mouth to speak again, her voice barely a whisper. "I can’t... I don’t... I don’t know what’s real anymore..." She looked up at Charles, her eyes wide with confusion, her breath ragged.

Charles’s heart clenched at the sight. She was just a little girl, lost in a world she couldn’t control. And here he was, trying to save her in a way he couldn’t save himself.

"You’re real," he said firmly, squeezing her hand gently. "I’m real, Wendy. You can do this. I believe in you."

But in that moment, as the chaos continued to pull her deeper, he wasn’t sure if he believed in himself.

Wanda’s breaths were shallow, and erratic, as if each inhale was fighting against the overwhelming weight of the world shifting beneath her. She stared at Charles with wide eyes, the panic slowly bleeding into her features. She was trembling, her body swaying slightly as though her sense of balance had abandoned her completely. The room around her—the mansion, the world—seemed to distort with each blink, flickering like a broken television screen. The colours swirled, the shapes twisted, and everything, everyone, felt out of reach.

“I... I don’t understand,” she gasped, her voice barely a whisper, as though the air itself was too thick for her to breathe. “What’s happening? Where are we? Who are you?”

Her telepathy, once a gift that allowed her to feel the emotions of those around her, was now a curse—a tangled web of fragmented voices and echoes, all jumbled together until she couldn’t tell where her thoughts ended and everyone else's began.

“I’m right here, Wendy,” Charles replied, his voice soothing, but there was an underlying note of panic he couldn’t hide. He had seen this before. Not in others, but in himself—the loss of control, the slipping away from reality, the feeling of being lost in a world that no longer made sense. He was clinging to the belief that he could help her, but even his confidence was beginning to waver.

“Focus,” Charles urged, his hand still on hers, guiding it to her temple once again. He could feel her shaking, her body reacting as if it was being torn in two. He needed to ground her, to bring her back from the abyss. “Wendy, look at me. You’re real. You are here. I’m here with you. We’re going to get through this, together.”

But Wanda’s eyes—her eyes were wild, unseeing, lost. A flash of something dark crossed her face. Her breathing hitched, becoming even more shallow as the world around her twisted further.

“Why… why is it all changing?” Wanda gasped, her hand tightening around his, almost as though she were trying to anchor herself to him, but instead, her grip only seemed to dig deeper into the haze that surrounded them.

Charles could feel the tension building in her—her desperation to make sense of everything, her desire to fight against the chaos, but the storm inside her was too strong. She couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t stop the overwhelming tide of confusion.

“I don’t know what’s real…” she murmured, barely audible now, almost like a prayer to the nothingness. She was fading, her eyes glossing over as the intensity of her panic grew. “Please… make it stop…”

The desperation in her voice tore at Charles’s heart. He couldn’t lose her. Not like this. Not when she was so young, so full of potential, and yet trapped in a nightmare she couldn’t escape.

I won’t let you go, he thought fiercely, even as his own fears clawed at him.

He leaned closer, his voice soft but insistent. "Wendy... Listen to me. You’re not alone. You are not alone in this, I’m right here, I swear to you. I won’t leave you. You have to fight this, okay? You have to fight."

But Wanda shook her head, her hands pressing against her temple, a futile attempt to stop the madness that was cascading through her mind. Her voice quivered as she tried to speak, but only broken fragments of words escaped.

“I can’t... I can’t… control it... I can’t...”

Control. That word hit Charles like a jolt of electricity.

She was just like him.

He remembered, with painful clarity, his own struggles—his own battles with the voices in his head, the suffocating chaos he had once felt. He had been a child when it all began, so young and afraid. But now, with years of experience, he had learned to control it. He had learned to manage the constant noise. Wanda was still learning, still so new to this power, and it was breaking her.

"Focus on me, Wendy,” Charles repeated urgently, his grip tightening around her wrist. He needed her to hear him. “Just breathe with me. Focus on the sound of my voice. Listen to me and nothing else."

For a moment, she hesitated. Her eyes flickered to him, then away, as if the sight of him was slipping through her fingers. She was trapped inside herself, caught in the maelstrom of her own thoughts.

Charles could feel his own panic rising, but he kept it at bay. For her. She needed him.

“I’m here,” he said again, forcing calm into his voice. “Wendy, you are not alone in this. You can fight this. You can—”

But then the world around them seemed to shatter.

It was as if all the walls that had been holding Wanda together crumbled in an instant. The nightmares, the broken pieces of her memories, and the twisted visions of her mother—all of it came crashing down on her at once, and the force of it was too much.

Charles barely had time to react as her eyes rolled back into her head and her body spasmed. She screamed. It was a horrible sound, a cry that shattered everything. The room spun wildly, colours flashing in every direction.

For a moment, everything went black.

Pietro, who had been frozen in the doorway, instinctively ran forward at super speed. "CHARLES!" he shouted, his voice desperate and frantic.

But Charles was already there, his mind scrambling to grab hold of Wanda, to calm her, to stop the storm. He pulled her close, holding her trembling form against him as she continued to scream.

“Wendy!” Charles cried, his voice breaking, his hands pressing against her shoulders. “Please, come back! You have to focus on me!”

Her body jerked, then went still. A long, terrible silence stretched between them, and Charles’s heart nearly stopped.

Then, finally, Wanda’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused but alive. She stared at him, and there was nothing but fear and confusion in her gaze. She was lost, adrift, unable to make sense of anything.

" Charles... "

Her voice was small, fragile, and broken. It was like she was reaching out to him, desperate for something solid, something real.

Charles’s hands shook as he gently cupped her face, forcing her to look at him. “I’m here, Wendy,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “You’re safe. You’re real. Please—please, don’t give up. I’m right here.”

Pietro stood by, helpless, watching with wide eyes as his sister crumbled. There was nothing he could do but watch as Charles, the only person who could possibly understand, held her together. And in that moment, he realized something—something that cut deep.

Charles wasn’t just trying to save Wanda. He was saving himself too.

The room was still, the silence hanging in the air like a thick fog. Wanda was breathing heavily now, but her body was no longer shaking. She had stopped crying, but there was no relief in her eyes, only a fragile emptiness as if she were still trying to put together the pieces of her reality that had fallen apart.

Charles held her, his hands gentle but firm, as though afraid she might disappear if he let go. He could feel the lingering tremors in her body, the warmth of her small frame against his chest, but his own heart was pounding, adrenaline still coursing through his veins. His mind raced, trying to process the gravity of what had just happened.

"Wendy..." Charles murmured softly, brushing her hair back from her face. His voice was hoarse and tired, but he needed her to know he was still here. "You’re safe. It’s over now."

Pietro stood a few feet away, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his expression unreadable. He was watching Wanda, watching the way Charles held her, and something stirred within him—a conflict he didn’t know how to articulate. He had never seen Wanda like this, so broken, so small. But he wasn’t sure what to do.

Finally, he spoke, his voice tight, with a slight edge. "Is she... okay?" His words were a question, but the tone was one of frustration. He couldn’t understand what had just happened. He didn’t know what to do to fix it.

Charles looked up at him, his face etched with exhaustion and concern. "She needs time," he said softly, trying to comfort Pietro despite his own inner turmoil. "But we’ll get her through this. We just... we need to be there for her."

He gently adjusted Wanda in his lap, his touch soothing, though he could tell she wasn’t fully aware of what was happening around her. She was still distant, her eyes unfocused, her mind lost in the aftermath of the chaos she had just experienced.

“I’m here,” Charles said again, a soft promise. “We’re all here.”

The silence stretched on, but this time, it was a bit more peaceful. The worst had passed, and the storm within Wanda had subsided, leaving only the fragile remnants of a little girl who had experienced far too much for her age. Charles knew, at that moment, that she wasn’t the only one who needed help. He could feel the weight of his own guilt, the fears he had been running from, crashing into him again.

I should have been more aware. I should have seen it coming. I should have done more for her.

The thought gnawed at him, but he pushed it down. This wasn’t the time for guilt. This was the time to heal.

"Let’s get you to your room, okay?" he asked gently, shifting Wanda slightly in his arms to see her more clearly. She barely reacted, but Charles could feel the subtle nod of her head against his chest.

Pietro watched but didn’t move. He had so many questions—about what had just happened, about Charles, about everything. But he didn’t know how to ask them. Instead, he just stood there, silently, observing as Charles continued to hold Wanda, as though she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Pietro spoke again, his voice quieter this time. “You’re not... you’re not leaving, are you?”

Charles looked up at him, confused at first, and then the weight of Pietro’s words hit him. He had been so focused on Wanda, on the fear that had gripped her, that he hadn’t thought about the deeper things—things Pietro hadn’t said out loud. Pietro was scared, too. He was scared that he was losing his sister and that Charles—Charles, who had only recently become a fixture in their lives—might leave them just like everyone else had.

“No,” Charles replied, his voice soft but steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He wasn’t sure if the words were for Pietro or himself. He wanted them to be true. He needed them to be true.

Wanda stirred slightly, her hand weakly reaching up to clutch at the front of his shirt, as if holding onto him was the only thing keeping her grounded. Charles looked down at her, seeing the weariness in her eyes, but also something else—a quiet longing, a need for comfort.

"Let’s get you to bed," Charles said softly, his voice almost a whisper, though it carried the weight of a promise. "You’re safe now."

He stood, carefully lifting her into his arms, mindful of the way her body rested against his. Wanda didn’t protest. She seemed too exhausted, too far gone into her own mind to argue. But she wasn’t resisting either. She was just... there, with him. The fragility of her small frame in his arms made his heart ache, but he didn’t let it show.

As he began to walk toward the hallway, Pietro finally moved, falling in step beside him. For a moment, he said nothing, but the tension in his posture slowly started to dissipate.

Charles glanced at him and saw the unease that still lingered in his eyes. He understood. Pietro was still processing everything—he had to be. He wasn’t used to seeing his sister so vulnerable, so fragile. And neither was Charles.

“We’ll get through this,” Charles said, more to reassure himself than anyone else. “Together.”

Pietro didn’t respond immediately, but Charles could feel him watching. Then, as if making a decision, Pietro nodded. “Yeah. Together.”

The rest of the house seemed oddly quiet as they walked down the hallway, the weight of the events still hanging in the air. The mansion, once a place full of bustling life and activity, now felt like a place where ghosts lingered, shadows of memories past and fear of what was to come.

When they reached the twins’ room, Charles carefully set Wanda down on the bed, pulling the covers over her small body. She didn’t fight it, just let him do it, her eyes heavy, lids fluttering with the weight of sleep.

Charles hovered for a moment, his hand resting on her forehead, brushing the hair from her face. "You’re safe, Wanda," he whispered again. "We’re safe now."

Pietro watched from the doorway, his arms still crossed. His eyes flicked between Charles and his sister, and for the first time in a while, he seemed uncertain, conflicted. But, for a moment, there was something in his expression—a flicker of trust. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

Charles gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod, then turned back to Wanda, settling beside her. He didn’t know how long she would sleep, but he could only hope it would be long enough for her to find some peace.

As he sat there in the quiet, his mind wandered to the future. There would be other challenges, other days like this. But for now, all he could do was be here for Wanda, for Pietro, for all of them. They weren’t alone anymore.

Not if he had anything to say about it.

The house was quiet in the aftermath of Wanda's breakdown, the silence thick with the weight of unspoken thoughts. Hank, ever the steady presence, found himself sitting in the kitchen, his hands busy with the task of cleaning dishes—something to keep him grounded. But even with the hum of normalcy, there was an undeniable tension in the air.

Pietro had stayed in the hallway for some time, his mind racing with everything that had happened. It was hard for him to reconcile the image of Charles cradling Wanda, holding her as though she was his own daughter, with the stranger he had once been to them. He’d been cold to Charles, pushed him away, and yet, here they were, with Wanda still fragile but safe—thanks, in no small part, to the professor.

After a few minutes, Pietro walked into the kitchen, his steps slow and uncertain. He had barely spoken to Hank after everything, and there was tension between them too. But Hank didn’t miss a beat. He didn’t look up, just continued cleaning the dishes as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Peter," Hank said softly, his tone neutral but not unfriendly. "How’s Wendy doing?"

"She’s... okay," Pietro answered, his voice low. He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. "She’s sleeping now. Charles is with her."

Hank nodded, placing a dish on the drying rack. "Good. It’ll take time, but she’ll get through it."

There was a moment of silence, and then, Pietro spoke again, his words slow as if he were working through something in his mind.

"You know," he started, looking at Hank but not really seeing him, "I never thought much of Charles. I always thought he was just some... some guy who was trying to play the role of a father to us, like he was doing some favor. I didn’t see why he needed to be around. But what I saw this morning..." He shook his head, frustration mixing with something else in his voice. "What he did for Wendy... for us, really. I can’t ignore it anymore."

Hank didn’t stop what he was doing, but his eyes softened as he listened, recognizing the change in Pietro. It wasn’t just the words; it was the way Pietro spoke now, as though he had finally come to terms with something.

"I get it now," Pietro continued, his voice quieter. "All this time, I’ve been pushing him away. I didn’t understand what he was trying to do. But... the way he helped Wendy, the way he handled her—"

Pietro cut himself off, his throat tight. He swallowed hard before continuing, “He didn’t have to. He could’ve let her go like everyone else, like she did. But he didn’t. He stepped up. And I guess... I guess I didn’t realize how much I needed him to."

Hank placed a hand on the edge of the counter, pausing as he processed Pietro’s words. "It’s hard to let someone in, especially when you’ve been burned before. But Charles is different. He’s not going anywhere."

Pietro glanced up at Hank, his eyes filled with a mix of vulnerability and realization. "I didn’t think he cared about us," he said, his voice steady now. "But when he was there for Wendy... when he helped her like that... I see it now. He wants to be here. He wants to be part of our lives, really be part of it. He’s worthy of being here. He’s proved that."

Hank’s heart softened as he watched Pietro process everything. It wasn’t lost on him how hard this was for the young boy, how much trust had been shattered in his life, and how much was required to rebuild it. But Hank also saw the shift in him—the change from resistance to acceptance.

"I’m glad you see that," Hank said gently. "Charles may not have the same experience with... well, this , but he’s trying. And that counts for a lot."

Pietro’s expression softened, the edges of his anger and fear starting to fade. "I guess... I guess we’ve both been running from this. From the idea that someone could actually care about us." His eyes flickered with a self-deprecating sort of pain. "I’ve spent so much time pushing people away, afraid of getting hurt, and I didn’t even think about what I was doing to Wendy. She needs him. We both do."

Hank could see it now—the shift in Pietro’s heart, the acceptance of something he had fought against for so long. "It’s not easy, letting someone in," Hank said, his voice gentle but knowing. "But Charles has a way of making you believe in things you didn’t think were possible."

Pietro took a breath, looking away for a moment before looking back at Hank, his gaze steady. "You know," he said with a quiet chuckle, "I’m starting to think... maybe he could actually be a dad to us. If we let him."

Hank smiled softly, a knowing glint in his eyes. "It’ll take time, but I think that’s what Charles wants too. He’s not looking for perfection—just a chance. And so are you."

Pietro nodded slowly, his mind still processing everything that had happened, but there was a quiet resolve in him now, something that had been absent before. "Yeah. I think I’m ready to give him that chance."

Hank let the silence stretch between them for a moment before nodding. "Good. I think Wendy will be happy to know that."

Pietro’s eyes flickered toward the door to the twins' room. "Yeah, me too." He was silent for a moment, then added softly, "I didn’t think... I didn’t think we could ever be a family. But maybe... maybe we can. All of us."

Hank’s heart gave a little twist at the words, seeing the sincerity behind them. "You’re already a family, Peter. Whether you realize it or not."

Pietro didn’t respond immediately, but the words hung in the air, a new understanding settling between them. As he turned to walk back toward the twins' room, he felt a shift inside him—one that he hadn’t expected. There was still a long way to go, but for the first time in a long while, he was willing to walk that path.

And with Charles, he wasn’t so afraid of the future anymore.

The door to the twins' shared room creaked softly as Pietro pushed it open, his breath catching at the sight inside. The room was dim, the curtains drawn to block out the afternoon sun, but the soft glow of a bedside lamp illuminated the quiet scene. Wanda lay on her bed, her face pale but peaceful in sleep, her small body curled beneath the blankets.

Charles was seated in a chair pulled between the two beds, his posture slightly hunched as though the weight of the day had settled heavily on him. His hands were clasped loosely in his lap, his gaze fixed solely on Wanda. There was a stillness to him, a quiet focus, as if he were guarding her dreams from afar.

Pietro hesitated in the doorway, his chest tightening at the sight. It wasn’t the Charles he had painted in his mind—the bitter, resentful man he’d first met, too drunk to speak properly. This was someone else entirely: a man who, despite everything, had stayed.

Swallowing hard, Pietro stepped into the room, his movements uncharacteristically slow and tentative. Charles didn’t look up at first, his attention still on Wanda, but as Pietro approached, his eyes flicked to him, a faint question in their depths.

"Can we talk?" Pietro asked, his voice quieter than usual.

Charles studied him for a moment before nodding. He gestured to the other bed, inviting Pietro to sit. Pietro hesitated but eventually perched on the edge, his gaze darting between Wanda and Charles.

"I..." Pietro began, then stopped, his throat tightening. He ran a hand through his hair, searching for the words that seemed just out of reach. "I need to say something. And I need you to just... listen for a second."

Charles nodded again, his expression open but serious.

"When I first saw you," Pietro started, his voice trembling slightly, "you were a mess. Drunk, angry... and I thought, 'Great. Another person who’s going to let us down.' I didn’t think you cared. About us, about Wendy, about anything, really."

He paused, his breath hitching. Charles remained silent, his eyes steady on Pietro’s face.

"And I treated you like rubbish because of it," Pietro admitted, his voice breaking. "I pushed you away, made it harder for you to... to try. I didn’t think you’d stick around. I didn’t think you wanted to."

Charles’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t interrupt. Pietro clenched his fists in his lap, his frustration with himself bubbling to the surface.

"But then today happened," Pietro continued, his voice rising slightly. "And you—" He gestured toward Wanda, his hands trembling. "You were there for her. You didn’t run away. You didn’t give up. You just... stayed. You helped her, and I... I didn’t think you had it in you."

Pietro’s voice cracked on the last word, and he quickly wiped at his eyes, trying to compose himself. "I was wrong," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "About you. About everything."

Charles leaned forward slightly, his expression softening. "Peter..." he began, but Pietro shook his head, cutting him off.

"No, let me finish," Pietro said, his voice firm despite the tears streaming down his face. "I’ve been so scared. Of trusting you. Of letting you in. Because every time we’ve let someone in, they’ve hurt us. But you... you didn’t."

His shoulders shook as he fought to keep his composure, but the weight of everything—the fear, the anger, the guilt—was too much. He buried his face in his hands, his voice muffled as he choked out, "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for how I’ve treated you. And for not... for not giving you a chance."

Charles stood slowly, moving to Pietro’s side. He hesitated for a brief moment before placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder, his grip firm but gentle. "Peter," he said softly, his voice tinged with emotion.

Pietro looked up, his face streaked with tears, and Charles crouched slightly to meet his gaze. "I understand why you’ve felt the way you have," Charles said, his voice steady but kind. "And I’ve made my own mistakes. I’ve let you both down in ways I wish I could undo. But I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere."

The sincerity in Charles’s voice broke something in Pietro, and the boy leaned forward, burying his face against Charles’s shoulder. Charles wrapped his arms around him, holding him tightly as Pietro finally let everything out—the fear, the anger, the sadness he’d been carrying for so long.

Charles didn’t speak, didn’t try to fill the silence with reassurances. He simply held Pietro, his hand gently rubbing the boy’s back as he cried.

When Pietro finally pulled back, his breathing shaky but more even, he looked at Charles with a new resolve in his eyes. "I’ll try," he said quietly. "I’ll try to let you in."

Charles smiled a small, hopeful smile, and nodded. "That’s all I ask," he said gently.

Pietro glanced toward Wanda, who was still asleep, and then back at Charles. "Thank you," he said, his voice soft but sincere.

Charles gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "We’ll figure this out together," he promised.

And for the first time, Pietro believed him.

As Pietro wiped at his face, he straightened up, glancing back toward Wanda. She shifted slightly in her sleep, her small hand clutching the edge of the blanket. The fragile peace in the room settled over both him and Charles, and for a moment, neither spoke, the weight of their earlier conversation hanging in the air.

Charles moved back to the chair he’d been occupying, settling into it once again with a tired sigh. His gaze shifted between the twins, a mixture of concern and tenderness softening his features. Pietro watched him for a moment before speaking, his voice still raw.

"You really care about her," Pietro said, breaking the silence.

Charles nodded, his expression solemn. "I care about both of you," he said, his voice quiet but resolute. "More than I can put into words."

Pietro looked down at his hands, fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve. "She’s all I’ve ever really had," he admitted. "It’s hard to trust someone else with that. With her."

"I know," Charles said softly, leaning forward. "But you don’t have to carry it all on your own, Pietro. You’re not alone anymore. Neither of you are."

Pietro didn’t respond right away, but his posture relaxed slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing. He glanced at Wanda again, her peaceful expression a stark contrast to the chaos of the morning.

"I should let her sleep," Pietro said finally, standing up. "She’ll need the rest."

Charles nodded in agreement, standing as well. "I’ll stay with her for a little while longer, just to make sure she’s alright."

Pietro hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Okay," he said, his voice softer now.

As he headed toward the door, he paused, turning back to look at Charles. "Thank you," he said again, his voice filled with a quiet sincerity.

Charles offered him a small, warm smile. "Anytime," he replied.

Pietro nodded once more before slipping out of the room, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

The hallway felt brighter than it had earlier, the afternoon light streaming through the windows casting a warm glow. Pietro ran a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply. For the first time in a long while, he felt lighter—like a weight he hadn’t even realized he was carrying had been lifted.

He wandered toward the kitchen, the faint sounds of Hank tinkering with something in his lab down the hall. Pietro considered joining him but decided against it. Instead, he grabbed a glass of water and leaned against the counter, letting the events of the day wash over him.

Back in the twins’ room, Charles sat quietly beside Wanda, his hand resting lightly on the arm of the chair. He watched her breathe, her chest rising and falling steadily, and felt a small pang of hope stir within him.

It wasn’t perfect. It wouldn’t be easy. But for the first time, he felt like they were truly making progress—not just as individuals but as a family.

And that was enough.

Chapter Text

Wanda woke up in the soft haze of morning, the world around her unfocused and blurry as her eyelids fluttered open. The room felt still, too still. Her mind was thick with the remnants of her breakdown—the images, the voices, the terrible feeling of losing herself. She winced the memories like shards of glass embedded deep in her chest.

She shifted slightly, the soft rustle of sheets making her more aware of the warmth around her. At first, she thought it was just the lingering discomfort from the night, but as her eyes began to adjust to the pale morning light, she realized there was someone in the room with her.

Charles.

He was slumped in a chair beside her bed, his head leaning awkwardly against the backrest, his expression tense even in sleep. His body was stiff, no doubt sore from the uncomfortable position, but his presence in the room felt almost protective, as though he had stayed by her side through the entire rest of the day and night.

Wanda blinked, her chest tightening at the sight. She had lost control. She remembered it all now—the frantic rush of her thoughts spiralling, the chaos of her mind, and Charles there, trying to calm her down. She could still feel her hand on her temple, his voice like an anchor, desperately trying to keep her tethered to reality. And now, here he was, keeping vigil over her like she was more than just a responsibility.

Her throat tightened as a lump formed. How could she have let things get so far out of control? How could she have been so reckless with herself, with everyone else?

The room felt colder, and she pulled the blankets a little tighter around herself, trying to steady her shaking hands. She needed space to think, to breathe, but it was hard to do that with the weight of everything pressing down on her.

Her gaze drifted to the clock beside her bed. Morning. It was morning, and she had no idea what time it was when she had fallen asleep—if it could even be called sleep. The last thing she remembered was Charles’s voice, calm and steady, coaxing her into some semblance of peace before exhaustion had claimed her.

And yet, despite the hours that had passed, he hadn’t left her side.

A soft sigh escaped her lips as she let the heaviness of it all settle in. She couldn’t help but feel… embarrassed. Vulnerable. She had always prided herself on her strength, her control. But what had happened last night? What had she become in that moment?

Wanda carefully moved, her body sore and stiff, but as she shifted in the bed, Charles stirred. He blinked slowly, his eyes still bleary with sleep, before they focused on her. For a moment, there was silence—just the soft sound of her breathing and his quiet exhale.

"Good morning," Charles said, his voice hoarse with sleep but warm, almost as though he were waking up from a long dream.

Wanda swallowed, not sure what to say. Her thoughts felt like a jumbled mess, tangled together in the aftermath of her breakdown. She looked at him, unsure how to start, unsure what to even say.

"Charles, I... I’m so sorry," she whispered, her voice shaky.

He shook his head, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You don’t have to apologize, Wendy. Not for that. I should’ve known you were struggling more than you let on. I should’ve been more aware."

Wanda blinked in surprise, her eyes searching his face. "But I..." She couldn’t finish the sentence. How could she explain what had happened? How could she even begin to articulate the chaos that had overtaken her mind?

Charles, sensing her difficulty, leaned forward in the chair, his eyes never leaving hers. "You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. Just know that I’m here for you, and I will always be here to help you."

A wave of emotion hit Wanda so suddenly that it took her breath away. She pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to contain the overwhelming sense of relief, but it was impossible. Her body trembled as the tears began to well in her eyes, the magnitude of what had happened finally sinking in.

Charles’s eyes softened as he reached for the edge of her bed. His presence felt more real than ever now, his words more than just an offer of comfort. It felt like a promise.

"You’re not alone, Wendy," he said quietly. "Not anymore. We’ll work through this together, okay?"

Wanda nodded slowly, feeling something shift inside of her. It wasn’t a complete fix, not yet, but it was a start. For the first time in days—maybe even longer—she felt a small glimmer of hope.

And it was all because Charles had stayed. He had stayed with her through the darkest of moments, even when she couldn’t control herself. He had been there, and for that, she was more grateful than she could put into words.

Her thoughts, though still a bit clouded, seemed to clear just a little. Maybe she could start to trust herself again. Maybe she could start to rebuild.

But for now, she had Charles. And that, in itself, was enough.

Charles let the silence stretch between them for a moment, just enough to let the weight of his words sink in. He was still seated by her bed, his posture stiff but attentive. Wanda’s body trembled faintly as she took a deep breath, wiping her eyes quickly as if to rid herself of the tears before they could fully fall. It didn’t escape Charles, though. He could see the quiet vulnerability in her—fragile, but still fighting to keep it together. She was doing so much better than before, but he knew she was still deep in the aftermath of her breakdown.

"I didn’t mean to worry you," Wanda said, her voice quieter now, almost tentative.

"You didn’t," Charles replied softly. "It’s just that… sometimes the weight of everything can become too much. I should have recognized that earlier. I should have been there for you sooner."

Wanda shook her head, her fingers brushing the hem of the blanket nervously. "I never wanted to be a burden. You already have so much to handle, with everything that’s happened, with—" she stopped herself, the words coming too fast, too carelessly.

"You’re not a burden, Wanda," Charles interrupted, his voice firm. "Don’t ever think that. I’m here because I want to be here. I’m here because you matter, both of you."

Wanda’s heart clenched, a mix of gratitude and confusion swirling inside of her. She was still trying to make sense of everything—the confusion, the chaos, the strange, new feeling of being cared for in a way she hadn’t experienced in so long. She could feel the weight of everything she’d bottled up, everything she’d been hiding from everyone, pressing down on her, but Charles’s words helped, even if just a little.

She met his gaze, her eyes filled with uncertainty, but also a growing sense of trust. "I don’t know if I can… handle it all. Sometimes it feels like I’m just… falling, and I can’t stop myself."

Charles studied her for a long moment. He could see that she was still struggling with the overwhelming sense of fear, of not being able to control her own mind, her own abilities. He saw the storm behind her eyes—the silent battle she fought, just as he had once fought his own.

"You’re stronger than you think, Wendy," he said gently. "But even the strongest need help sometimes. And that’s okay. You don’t have to carry it all alone."

Wanda closed her eyes, fighting the lump that had risen in her throat. She had never been good at letting others in, never good at trusting someone enough to lean on them. But in that moment, she felt something she hadn’t felt before—a glimmer of safety. A flicker of warmth.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Charles smiled softly, his own heart swelling with a quiet sense of pride. He had seen the growth in her, in both of the twins, even when they couldn’t see it themselves. But this moment, this small breakthrough, it meant more than he could have imagined.

Before he could respond, a small noise broke the stillness in the room.

"Charles?"

Wanda glanced over to the side of the bed, where Pietro had quietly stepped into the room, his presence almost a shadow as he lingered in the doorway. He looked hesitant and uncertain, but his eyes were softer now—no longer the sharp, guarded expression he had worn before.

"Hey," Wanda said, her voice quieter now like she was trying to find her balance again. "I didn’t mean to make you worry too."

Pietro hesitated but then crossed the room, slowly sitting on the edge of her bed. He didn’t say anything at first, just sat there, watching her. His face was conflicted—he wasn’t used to showing vulnerability, not like Wanda did. But the cracks were starting to show, even if he refused to fully admit it.

Finally, he spoke. "You scared the hell out of me, Wendy. But... I think you’re okay now."

Wanda nodded, her lips trembling as she looked at him. "I’ll be okay."

Pietro, though, wasn’t convinced. He placed a hand on her shoulder, just for a moment. His voice was softer now, less defensive. "I don’t know how you do it. But I’ll try, too. For you."

Wanda looked at him, surprised by the admission. Pietro, too, was carrying his own weight, his own burdens—he just never let anyone see it.

Charles, observing quietly from the side, let the moment stretch for a while. The twins had a way of reaching each other, even without words, even without fully understanding how to express what they felt. It was something he admired, but also something he hoped they could build on.

For a moment, the room was quiet again. Wanda and Pietro, side by side, still healing from what had happened, still unsure of where the road would lead them, but no longer alone.

Charles took a quiet breath, his mind already thinking about the next steps. It wasn’t going to be easy, but he was ready for whatever came next. For the twins. For Wanda. For all of them.

Wanda sat on the couch in the mansion’s living room, a book splayed across her lap, though she wasn’t reading it. Her gaze drifted over the room, catching sight of Charles and Pietro in the adjoining study. The large double doors were open, letting the soft hum of conversation carry into the room.

She hadn’t thought much about it at first—Charles and Pietro talking without her there. It was... unusual, but not unwelcome. Pietro’s voice rose and fell in animated bursts, his arms slicing the air as he spoke. Charles responded with measured calm, a faint smile on his face, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.

Wanda tilted her head, curiosity tugging at her thoughts. Just weeks ago, any interaction between her brother and Charles had been punctuated by tension. Pietro’s sharp words and Charles’s carefully controlled responses had made for an atmosphere that felt like walking on eggshells.

But now?

It wasn’t just that they were talking; it was the ease with which they spoke. Pietro wasn’t pacing the room like a caged animal, and Charles wasn’t retreating behind a wall of formality. Pietro leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, while Charles gestured occasionally, his voice calm and steady.

Wanda closed her book, abandoning the pretence of reading. She leaned forward slightly, watching them more intently.

As if on cue, Pietro laughed. It wasn’t his usual scoff or the self-deprecating chuckle he used when he was annoyed. This was different—lighter, genuine. Wanda’s chest tightened at the sound.

Charles said something  in response, and Pietro leaned back in his chair, throwing an exaggerated look of disbelief at the ceiling.

She smiled faintly, pressing her lips together.

“Not bad, huh?” Hank’s voice came from the doorway, startling her.

She turned, finding him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes followed her gaze to the study, where Charles and Pietro were still deep in conversation.

Wanda shrugged, trying to play off her thoughts. “I guess they’ve... gotten used to each other.”

Hank stepped into the room, his expression soft. “It’s more than that. They’re figuring each other out. Peter’s starting to see Charles as someone who’s trying, not someone who’s replacing your father. And Charles... well, he’s learning how to meet Peter where he’s at, not where he thinks he should be.”

Wanda blinked, turning back toward the study. Charles was gesturing now, his tone shifting slightly as if telling a story. Pietro leaned in, his brow furrowed, but the tension that had once seemed constant between them was absent.

“It’s weird,” she murmured.

Hank chuckled. “Good weird, though.”

She nodded slowly, the corners of her mouth lifting. It was good weird. A kind of weird she thought they might be able to get used to.

The mansion was unusually quiet in the late afternoon, the sunlight streaming through the large windows and casting soft shadows across the room. Wanda sat cross-legged on one of the plush chairs, a small frown creasing her forehead as she stared at the delicate flower-patterned rug beneath her feet. Despite feeling a bit better after the previous day's ordeal, her mind still buzzed with an unease she couldn’t shake.

Charles sat across from her, his posture relaxed but his expression thoughtful. He had been watching her closely since the breakdown, noticing the subtle shifts in her energy, in her movements. She had been so tightly wound the day before, and now, while more settled, he could still sense the lingering ripple of uncertainty in her.

After a few moments of silence, Charles cleared his throat, his voice soft but carrying an undertone of quiet concern.

"Wendy," he began, choosing his words carefully, "we can work together to help you regain control, if you’d like."

Wanda looked up at him, her brows furrowed in confusion. "Control?"

Charles nodded slowly. "I can teach you how to focus your energy, like I used to do when I was younger. It’s a technique I’ve used to block out distractions, to stabilize my thoughts." He gave her a reassuring smile. "I’ll be here with you, guiding you through it. But only if you’re ready. I don’t want to push you."

Wanda hesitated, glancing down at her fingers. The thought of focusing her powers—especially after the chaos they had caused—was daunting, but the idea of gaining some control over them again soothed a part of her. She looked back at Charles and nodded quietly, willing to try.

Charles’s smile deepened, grateful for her willingness. "Alright then. Let's start small." He motioned for her to place her hands in her lap. "Hold your fingers gently to your temple, like this."

Wanda raised an eyebrow but mimicked his gesture, her fingers resting lightly against her temple, her other hand resting on her knee. She felt the energy inside her stir almost immediately—she could sense the pull, the hum—but she concentrated, focusing on Charles’s calm presence.

Charles watched closely, his eyes softening as he saw her scrunched-up expression. It reminded him of when he had been a boy, struggling to control his own powers, doing everything he could to hold them back. His mind wandered briefly to a time long ago, to Erik’s sharp critiques and amused jabs.

Erik, who had always thought Charles’s concentration rituals were rather absurd, would often mock him in that half-joking, half-serious way of his.

"Erik used to think it was ridiculous," Charles said suddenly, a small chuckle escaping his lips. "He’d always say I looked like a character from one of those ridiculous spy movies, standing there with my fingers on my temples, trying to focus."

Wanda’s eyes flickered up to him, her concentration broken momentarily. "Spy movies?" she asked, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips despite her focus.

Charles’s chuckle grew warmer as he leaned back slightly, his hands folded in his lap. "Yes, you know, the ones where people hold their heads in dramatic ways while concentrating, like it somehow makes their powers more powerful. Erik was never shy about pointing out how... ineffective it looked." His tone softened as he continued, more to himself than to Wanda. "Though, he was always quick to fling his own hands out in a dramatic flourish when he used his powers. He loved the theatrics of it all."

Wanda’s curiosity piqued, her gaze shifting to Charles’s face. Her fingers instinctively pressed harder to her temple as she tried to imagine the scene in her mind. "Papa did that too?" she asked quietly, eager for more.

Charles hesitated. The memory of Erik—so vibrant and forceful—was always tinged with bittersweet feelings. But now, as he saw Wanda’s face softening with interest, he couldn’t help but indulge her curiosity. It was only natural, after all, for her to want to know more about the man she couldn’t remember.

"Yes," he said softly, the warmth of his voice rising. "Erik had this way of—" He paused, searching for the words. "He had a way of making everything seem grand. Everything he did was a statement, a performance. He couldn’t simply use his powers; he had to show them, to make sure everyone saw his strength. Even if it was just moving a metal spoon across a table, he'd make a whole dramatic gesture of it." Charles laughed, the sound rich with fondness and sorrow. "I used to tease him for it. Of course, he’d always accuse me of being the boring one— 'All those endless lectures about control,' he'd say."

Wanda’s lips curled into a soft smile. It wasn’t much, but it was something—a tiny piece of the man her mother had spoken of only in passing. She didn’t know much about him, but she wanted to.

"Sounds like him," she whispered, her eyes bright with a mix of sadness and affection.

Charles nodded slowly, his smile fading slightly. "He never did like my way of focusing. He didn’t believe in slowing down, in quieting the mind. He was always... fighting, always on the move." His tone shifted again, a bit more sombre. "It was one of the things that made our relationship complicated."

Wanda shifted in her seat, her fingers still gently pressed to her temple. “It sounds like he cared for you... even if it was in his own way.” She said it softly, as though she had come to a realisation on her own.

Charles looked at her, his heart heavy with the weight of the years lost. "Yes, he did," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "In his own way, Erik cared very much."

For a moment, the room was still. Then Wanda broke the silence, her voice gentle. "Thank you for sharing that. I think... I think I understand him a little more now."

Charles nodded, a small smile touching his lips as he watched her. “You’re welcome, Wendy.” He paused for a moment, then added softly, “We’ll work on this together, okay? One step at a time. But I know you can do it.”

Wanda’s smile wavered, but it was still there, fragile but genuine. As her fingers relaxed from her temple, she gave him a small nod.

“I’ll try,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "For you, for both of us."

Charles felt a deep sense of gratitude stir in him, mixed with a quiet sorrow. He wasn’t sure where the road ahead would lead, but for the first time in a long while, he felt a small flicker of hope that they might be able to face it together.

Pietro sat on the wide windowsill of the mansion's sitting room, his legs dangling as he stared out at the sprawling gardens. His knee bounced with restless energy, and his hands fiddled with the hem of his blue jacket. The mansion felt unusually quiet—Wanda was upstairs with Charles, and Hank had wandered in not long ago, muttering about needing to repair one of the bookshelves in the study.

Pietro wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting there, wrestling with his thoughts, but when Hank returned, carrying a cup of tea in one hand and a toolbox in the other, he barely noticed.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor with all that bouncing,” Hank said lightly, setting the toolbox down on the coffee table before lowering himself into one of the armchairs.

Pietro huffed a small laugh but didn’t respond, his gaze still fixed outside.

Hank took a sip of his tea, watching the boy for a moment before speaking again. “Something on your mind?”

Pietro’s knee stilled, and he sighed, leaning back against the window frame. “Maybe,” he muttered.

“That sounds like a ‘yes,’” Hank said, his tone gentle but probing.

Pietro glanced at him, his expression conflicted. “It’s just... this whole thing with Charles. It’s weird, you know?”

Hank tilted his head, setting his tea down on the table. “Weird how?”

Pietro shrugged, his fingers fidgeting again. “I mean... I apologised. To him. And he—he didn’t even get mad or anything. He just... forgave me. Like it was that easy.”

Hank leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. “Does that bother you?”

“Yeah, no, I don’t know!” Pietro ran a hand through his hair, his frustration evident. “I thought he’d at least yell at me or something, tell me I’m a brat. But he didn’t. He just... said it was okay.”

Hank nodded thoughtfully. “Charles isn’t really the yelling type. He’s been through enough to know that holding onto anger doesn’t help anyone.”

Pietro frowned, his gaze dropping to the floor. “But I was awful to him, Hank. From the moment we got here, I just... I hated him. For no reason.”

“You had a reason,” Hank said gently. “He wasn’t what you expected. And you were scared—for Wendy, for yourself. It’s a lot to take in, finding out the truth about who your father is, coming here to this place. You had every right to feel what you felt.”

Pietro shook his head. “Yeah, but that doesn’t make it okay. He didn’t deserve how I treated him.” He hesitated, his voice quieter now. “And then yesterday, with Wendy... He was there for her, Hank. I don’t know how, but he got through to her. And I—I just stood there like an idiot, not knowing what to do.”

Hank’s expression softened. “You weren’t an idiot, Peter. You called for help. You did the right thing.”

“Did I?” Pietro muttered. “Because now it feels like... like I owe him something. Like I have to let him in or whatever.”

Hank chuckled softly. “That’s not a bad thing, you know. Letting someone in.”

Pietro shifted uncomfortably. “It just feels... weird. I’ve spent so long keeping people out, Hank. Even Wendy, sometimes. And now... Charles is trying so hard, and it’s like... what if he lets us down? What if we let him down?”

Hank leaned back in his chair, considering his words carefully. “Charles isn’t perfect, Peter. He’s made his fair share of mistakes, and he’ll probably make more. But one thing I can tell you is that he cares. About you, about Wendy. He’s not trying to replace anyone or take over your lives. He just wants to be here for you.”

Pietro was quiet for a moment, his jaw tight. “He stayed with Wendy all night,” he said finally. “Didn’t even leave the room. I think... I think he actually cares about us. And that scares me, Hank. What if he screws up? What if I screw up?”

Hank smiled gently. “That’s part of being a family, Peter. You’re going to mess up, and so is he. But you keep trying. That’s what matters.”

Pietro let out a shaky breath, his hands gripping the edge of the windowsill. “It just... it feels like too much sometimes, you know? Letting him in, trusting him. I don’t know if I can do it.”

“You’ve already started,” Hank pointed out. “You apologised to him, didn’t you? That’s a big step. And look at how he handled it. He didn’t throw it back in your face. He accepted it, because he wants to move forward. He wants to make this work.”

Pietro nodded slowly, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “Yeah, I guess he does.”

Hank stood, placing a reassuring hand on Pietro’s shoulder. “Give yourself time, Peter. You don’t have to figure everything out right away. Just take it one step at a time.”

Pietro glanced up at him, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks, Hank.”

“Anytime,” Hank said with a grin. “Now, why don’t you go check on your sister? I think she could use her brother right now.”

Pietro hopped down from the windowsill, his movements less tense now. “Yeah, okay. I’ll go.”

As he headed upstairs, he couldn’t shake the lingering feeling of unease, but a newfound resolve tempered it. Maybe letting Charles in wouldn’t be so bad after all.

The shared room felt quieter than usual. The afternoon sun filtered through the curtains, casting soft, golden light over the mismatched furniture. Wanda sat cross-legged on her bed, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a cocoon. Pietro was sprawled on his own bed, tossing a tennis ball up and catching it lazily.

For a while, neither of them spoke, the silence stretching comfortably between them. Pietro broke it first, his voice light but curious.

“So,” he said, tossing the ball a little higher, “what was all that about with the Professor earlier? Looked pretty intense when I came in.”

Wanda glanced at him, then down at her hands, fingers twisting the corner of the blanket. “It was... I don’t know. Strange, I guess,” she admitted. “He’s trying to help me control it, the telepathy. But it’s hard. It feels like... like there’s so much in my head, and I don’t know what’s mine and what’s not.”

Pietro frowned, sitting up and letting the ball rest on his lap. “That sounds awful.”

“It is.” Wanda’s voice was quiet, almost a whisper. “But he stayed with me, Pietro. All through the night. He didn’t leave.”

Pietro watched her carefully. “That’s... good, right?”

She nodded slowly. “It is. He even had me do the thing with my fingers.”

“The thing?” Pietro raised an eyebrow.

Wanda brought two fingers to her temple, mimicking the gesture. “This. He said it helps focus the energy.”

Pietro snorted. “You looked ridiculous, didn’t you?”

Wanda couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped her. “Probably.”

“Well, at least he didn’t make you wear matching capes or something,” Pietro teased, leaning back against the headboard.

Wanda smiled, a flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes. “Speaking of matching... Remember those outfits Mama used to make us wear? The ones that were basically identical, except for the colours?”

“Oh, you mean my stylish blue shirts and your slightly inferior red dresses?” Pietro smirked.

“Inferior?” Wanda scoffed, her tone mock-offended. “At least mine didn’t have food stains on them half the time.”

“That’s because I was a very active eater,” Pietro shot back, grinning. “Can’t waste time with napkins when you’ve got a perfectly good sleeve.”

Wanda laughed, the sound light and genuine, and for a moment, the weight of the last few days seemed to lift. Pietro grinned at her, clearly pleased with himself for breaking through her sombre mood.

But as the laughter faded, a silence settled between them again, softer this time. Wanda pulled the blanket tighter around her, her expression growing serious.

“Pietro,” she began, her voice hesitant, “what if I can’t do it? What if I can’t control this... thing in my head?”

Pietro sat up straighter, his teasing demeanour replaced by concern. “You will, Wanda. You’re the strongest person I know. You’ve got this.”

She shook her head, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “But what if I don’t? What if it gets worse? What if I hurt someone?”

Pietro was immediately off his bed, kneeling in front of her. He placed his hands on her shoulders, steady and grounding. “You’re not alone, okay? Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it. Together. Like always.”

Wanda blinked at him, her lip trembling. “You really mean that?”

“Of course I do.” Pietro’s voice was firm, his grip on her shoulders unwavering. “You’re my sister, Wanda. My twin. I’m not going anywhere.”

For a moment, Wanda just looked at him, her expression a mix of gratitude and vulnerability. Then she leaned forward, resting her forehead against his.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Pietro gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Anytime, Maximoff.”

The two of them stayed like that for a while, their breaths syncing as the tension in the room slowly dissipated. Despite everything, they were still together; that was all that mattered.

The study was quiet, bathed in the golden hues of the setting sun. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, undisturbed except for the soft scratch of Charles’s pen against the paper. He had started the day jotting a few idle notes, yet now, the page remained mostly blank. His thoughts were too restless, his emotions too raw.

The weight of the day pressed heavily on his shoulders. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling deeply, his gaze drifting to the shelves lining the room. They were filled with relics of a past he could hardly bear to revisit: leather-bound journals, old research papers, framed photographs of times that felt like another life.

His eyes lingered on one photograph in particular, displayed prominently on the shelf. It was a picture of the original students—his first family. Raven stood beside him, her smile bright and mischievous, her hand resting on his shoulder. Erik was there too, his expression both stern and proud. And the others—Hank, Alex, Sean—they were all there, frozen in a moment of youthful hope and ambition.

Charles reached for the photograph, his fingers trembling slightly as he held it. The frame was cool and smooth against his hands, yet the memories it held burned like fire. He could still hear Raven’s laughter echoing through the halls and feel Erik’s piercing gaze as they debated endlessly about the future.

And then came the familiar ache of guilt.

He had failed them, all of them, in one way or another. Erik had walked away, leaving a trail of shattered ideals and broken trust. Raven had followed, her choice cutting deeper than he could ever express. The others... some had stayed, some had gone, but none were unscathed.

And now there were Wanda and Pietro.

Charles placed the photograph down on his desk, leaning forward as if the weight of his guilt had become too much to bear. His forehead rested against his clasped hands. He thought of Wanda’s fragile smile as she clung to him for comfort, Pietro’s hesitant but earnest apology, and the unspoken bond the twins shared. They were so young, yet burdened by scars that no child should have to carry.

He had seen it in their eyes—Wanda’s solemnity, Pietro’s defensiveness. They weren’t just children. They were survivors, mature beyond their years in ways that made his heartache.

And yet, despite their pain, they had hope. Hope that he could be something for them.

Charles sat up slowly, his resolve hardening. He would not fail them—not this time. He could not undo the past, could not erase the mistakes he had made with Erik, Raven, and the others. But he could learn from them. He could try, however imperfectly, to be what the twins needed.

The path ahead wouldn’t be easy. He was no longer the man he once was, no longer the idealistic professor who believed he could change the world with words and dreams. He was older now, more broken, more aware of his limitations. But perhaps that was exactly why he had to try.

Charles placed the photograph back on the shelf, but not before he whispered softly to it, a quiet vow to the faces staring back at him: “I won’t let their legacy end here. I’ll do right by them. By all of you.”

As the last rays of sunlight disappeared beyond the horizon, Charles reached for a fresh piece of paper. He began to write—not notes this time, but a plan. Small steps, simple goals. A roadmap to guide the fractured family they were trying to build.

The photograph of the mansion’s original students remained on his desk, a silent reminder of the promises he had made. The study grew darker as the evening set in, but for the first time in a long while, Charles felt a flicker of hope amidst the shadows.

Charles sat back in his chair, the outline of his plan resting on the desk before him. It wasn’t perfect—far from it—but it was a start. His pen rested beside the paper, the ink still drying on his final note: "Meet them where they are, not where you wish them to be."

The soft hum of life in the mansion filtered into the study. Hank’s footsteps could be heard faintly down the hall, the clinking of dishes signalling the end of his kitchen cleanup. Somewhere upstairs, the creak of a floorboard hinted at one of the twins moving about. Likely Pietro—he rarely stayed still for long.

Charles’s gaze drifted to the door. It would be so easy to stay here, to sink into the safety of solitude. But he had made his decision.

He reached out for his glass of water—it had replaced the bottle of wine that used to accompany him on nights like this. The gesture was small, almost insignificant, but it felt monumental to Charles.

As he stood, his joints protested, stiff from the hours spent sitting. He leaned on the edge of his desk for a moment, grounding himself. His eyes flicked back to the photograph, the faces of his first students illuminated by the warm glow of the desk lamp.

“I won’t let their sacrifices be for nothing,” he murmured to himself.

Charles left the study, the door clicking softly shut behind him. He made his way through the quiet halls of the mansion, pausing when he reached the twins’ room. The door was slightly ajar, and he peeked in.

Wanda was curled up in her bed, the faint rise and fall of her breathing indicating she was finally at peace. Pietro was sprawled on his own bed, one leg hanging off the side as he dozed, his silver jacket draped over him like a makeshift blanket.

Charles smiled faintly. They looked so young, so small, despite all the burdens they carried.

He lingered for a moment longer before continuing down the hall, his footsteps soft against the worn floors. As he reached the main staircase, he looked out one of the grand windows. The grounds of the mansion stretched out before him, bathed in moonlight.

This place had seen so much joy and so much pain. It had been a home, a school, and now... a sanctuary for the broken.

Charles tightened his grip on the bannister. He would rebuild, not just for the twins, but for himself, for Hank, for the memories of those they had lost.

As he climbed the stairs to his own room, the photograph on his desk remained, a beacon of purpose. The mansion settled into silence, a fragile but growing hope weaving through its walls.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was quiet, save for the occasional clinking of cutlery and the gentle hum of the oven in the background. The twins had been more comfortable helping out in the kitchen than usual. It was something of a routine now, helping Hank chop vegetables or setting the table for dinner, though Wanda and Pietro still couldn't shake the oddness of the new dynamic between them and the adults.

Charles, though, made a conscious effort to keep his tone light. "Maybe we could try adding some extra spices tonight, Hank," he suggested, smiling as he passed the pepper. He was working to be more involved, to show that he was willing to step up, especially now that he had a better grasp on how to help the twins manage the struggles of their past.

Wanda, standing at the counter with a wooden spoon in hand, glanced over to Pietro, who was seated on a stool near the window, his silver jacket thrown casually across the back. It was a moment of fleeting normality, one she didn’t know how much she’d missed until now.

“You sure you’re okay with this, Peter?” Wanda asked lightly, stirring the sauce in a pot as she shot him a playful smile. “I can handle the chopping, you know, I’m really good at it.”

Pietro snorted but shrugged. “I’m fine, Wendy. You know me. I just don’t feel like being surrounded by too many sharp things today.”

Wanda's eyes softened for a moment, and she looked back at the counter, her mind elsewhere. But she didn’t notice the slip until it had already happened.

“Alright, Pietro ,” she murmured without thinking, her voice light, “just don’t cut yourself.”

Pietro’s head snapped up, eyes wide. His gaze locked with hers for a split second before he instantly turned away, as if trying to pretend it hadn’t just happened. He froze, unsure of how to react. The weight of the words, the slip of his real name from her lips, hung in the air like an echo.

Charles, who had been holding a pot in his hands, immediately stopped moving. He caught the look that passed between the twins, a shift in the air he couldn't quite place.

The awkward silence stretched for what felt like eternity, before Wanda, her face flushed with panic, spoke up again. “I—I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—” She placed the spoon down with trembling hands, suddenly self-conscious.

Hank, who had been moving around the kitchen and hadn’t noticed the slip right away, turned to see the expressions on their faces. His heart immediately sank, though he tried to keep his voice gentle. “What’s going on? Everything okay?”

Wanda swallowed hard, casting her gaze to the floor. “I... I just said it, didn’t I?” she asked quietly, looking at Pietro for confirmation, before turning back to Hank and Charles. She felt ashamed of herself now. The slip had happened so quickly, so naturally, but in this moment it felt like she’d just broken some unwritten rule.

Pietro, who had been trying to act unaffected, now looked at Wanda, giving a small, tired shrug. “It’s fine,” he muttered. “It’s... it’s just a name.”

Charles took a step forward, his brow furrowing. “You’re... your real names aren’t Peter and Wendy , are they?” he asked carefully. His voice was soft and understanding but laced with an undeniable hurt—he hadn't even known this about them, hadn't known the names they had been forced to use.

Wanda hesitated before meeting his gaze, her lips quivering slightly. “No,” she admitted quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s... Wanda and Pietro .”

Hank blinked, his mind struggling to piece it together. “You were made to change them?” he asked, the question more of a statement than anything. His eyes softened in immediate regret as he saw the faint sadness in the twins' faces.

“Yeah,” Pietro responded casually, though his words carried a weight that Hank couldn’t ignore. “We didn’t have a choice. The whole ‘Peter and Wendy’ thing, they thought it was cute. They made fun of us for having different names. So... we just... went along with it.”

Wanda, looking more embarrassed than anything else, nodded in agreement. “We were younger then, and it just... it was easier. No one really ever asked.” She let out a breath, glancing sideways at Charles, then at Hank. “But now... here, with you two, it doesn’t matter anymore, right?”

Charles' heart clenched. He hadn’t realized that they had carried such a burden—such shame over something so simple, yet so profound to them. He cleared his throat, trying to hide the emotions flooding him. “Of course not,” he said softly, with quiet conviction. “ Wanda ... Pietro ... your names are perfect.”

Hank stepped closer to them, his voice gentle but firm. “You should have never had to change them,” he said, his heart heavy with empathy. “And I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

The twins looked at each other for a moment, and despite the heaviness of the moment, they didn’t seem broken by it. The way they shrugged it off—like it was no longer an issue—was somehow more heartbreaking to Charles and Hank than anything else.

Pietro finally cracked a smile, though it was bittersweet. “It’s in the past. What matters now is... well, not being called Peter and Wendy anymore.”

Wanda, though, was still staring at Charles, her eyes a little too earnest. “It feels nice... to be able to say our names without feeling... wrong about it.”

Charles smiled warmly, though it was tinged with regret. “You’re Wanda and Pietro —and you always will be.”

For a moment, the room was silent again, but this time the silence felt comfortable, full of understanding. It wasn’t perfect, but it was progress. They weren’t just a mismatched family anymore. They were finding their place, together.

And for the first time in a long while, it felt like the twins had found a place where they truly belonged.

The tension in the room had finally begun to ease, but Charles could tell that the twins still felt a bit unsettled. He knew they were still adjusting to this new version of themselves, one where they could be open and honest about their past. So, to shift the mood, Charles leaned back against the counter, a playful smile creeping onto his face as he decided to share a story.

“You know, speaking of names,” Charles began, catching their attention, “Raven had this little habit when we first started the X-Men. She—well, she insisted that we all had code names .”

The twins perked up at the mention of their father’s team. Charles could tell by their expressions that they were eager to hear anything about the people who had once been part of their father’s life, even if they hadn’t met him yet.

“Code names?” Wanda repeated, her eyes widening in curiosity. “What do you mean?”

Charles chuckled softly, remembering the absurdity of it all. “Well, when we first came together, Raven thought it was essential. She was very... determined about it.” He paused, his gaze shifting briefly to Hank before continuing. “She gave us all names, you see. Completely unasked for. We weren’t allowed to choose them. She just assigned them—one after the other, without consulting anyone. I, for example, became Professor X .”

The twins’ eyes went wide in surprise. “Professor X?” Wanda repeated, trying to suppress her giggle. “You were... named that by Raven?”

Charles nodded. “Yes, though I can assure you, I didn’t exactly feel like a professor at the time. Erik—well, he was... very displeased with his name at first.”

“Good old Magneto,” Hank chimed in, smiling warmly at the memory.

“Exactly,” Charles said, his voice playful. “Erik hated it at first. He said it was far too dramatic, even for him.” He leaned in slightly, giving the twins a knowing look. “But, of course, over time he did lean into it. The larger-than-life hand gestures, the way he would swoop into a room like a storm... it all started to fit him.”

Hank chuckled, his voice rich with nostalgia. “And, let’s be honest, it was hard to take him seriously for a while. At the time, I wasn’t impressed, to be honest. But once you get used to it, it kind of becomes part of him.”

Wanda and Pietro both laughed, imagining their papa— Magneto —with all his grand, dramatic flourishes.

“What about the others?” Pietro asked eagerly. “What did Raven give them?”

“Well,” Charles said with a grin, “Sean— Banshee —he got his name because of his ability to, well, scream at an ungodly decibel level. You wouldn’t believe it, but the man can shatter glass just by opening his mouth.” He smirked, enjoying the rare opportunity to talk about the old days. “And then there was Alex— Havok —he could control plasma energy, you see. He was a bit of a hothead, but we all came to trust him.”

Wanda’s eyes sparkled with interest. “Havok, huh? That sounds... cool.”

“Oh, it was,” Charles replied, his voice growing fond at the memories. “And Raven, of course, was the most unique of us all—she called herself Mystique .”

The twins exchanged a glance, clearly intrigued. “Mystique?” Pietro asked, trying to piece together the name of the woman they had only heard about. “Why?”

Charles smiled, his eyes softening. “Raven was... different from the rest of us. She had the ability to change her appearance. She was a chameleon, in a way. That’s how she came to be known as Mystique . And, of course, she was the one who made sure all of us had our wonderful code names.”

Hank, grinning at the memory of those early days, added, “Yeah, she took it very seriously. Sometimes, I swear, she thought she was putting us all in the cast of a movie or something. But we all went with it, and it became... part of the legend, I guess.”

The twins were silent for a moment, their minds absorbing the lighthearted revelations. They were beginning to realize that, despite the weight of the X-Men’s mission, there had been humour and camaraderie beneath the surface. And it was those small, silly moments—like the code names—that made it feel more like a family.

“So, you all just... stuck with those names?” Wanda asked, her voice thoughtful. “Even when you didn’t like them?”

Charles shrugged, his smile a little bittersweet. “Yes. After a while, it just became who we were. And while Erik might complain, in the end, he embraced it. In some strange way, it defined us. It gave us our own identities, even if they were a bit... dramatic.”

Pietro grinned widely. “So, if I started calling you ‘Professor X’ from now on, you wouldn’t mind?”

Charles raised an eyebrow but didn’t object, his tone playful. “Well, as long as you don’t start using the hand gestures,” he said, mimicking Erik’s flamboyant sweep of his hands.

The twins burst out laughing, the tension from earlier easing completely. For a brief moment, it was like they were just two regular kids, hearing about their father's past and enjoying the stories of the people who had been part of it. For Wanda and Pietro, it was another step toward feeling like they were really part of something again—something more than just the shadows of their past.

And as the conversation continued, Charles couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of pride for these children— his children now, in every sense of the word.

Wanda and Pietro exchanged a glance, clearly intrigued by the idea of code names. They leaned in, eager to continue the conversation.

“Do you think we should have code names too?” Wanda asked, her voice soft but laced with curiosity. “I mean, if you all have them, why not us?”

Pietro nodded, grinning. “Yeah, we could be like... the twins or something. Something cool, right?”

Charles couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head as he raised a hand in mock defence. “I think you should definitely think long and hard about it. You don’t want to end up with something... well, silly. Trust me, Raven’s naming choices were... unique.” He exchanged a look with Hank, who was now suppressing a grin, clearly aware of what Charles was hinting at.

Hank nodded in agreement. “Raven wasn’t exactly subtle in her choices.” 

Wanda laughed, the sound light and carefree. “We should come up with something good. Something that fits. Not like Professor X ,” she added, looking at Charles with a teasing smile.

Charles raised a brow. “Hey now, I do have a degree in this, you know,” he said playfully, tapping his temple. “It’s very appropriate. But in all seriousness, I’d suggest taking your time. You don’t want to end up with something... over-the-top, like Hank and I did.”

Pietro smirked, clearly having fun with the idea. “We’ll think about it. We can’t just go with Twins , can we?”

Wanda giggled again, nodding. “No. We need something more... special.”

Charles smiled warmly, his eyes softening as he looked at them both. “Whatever you choose, just know it’ll be something unique to you. And if you ever feel uncertain, you can always take inspiration from... well, us .” He gave Hank a teasing look, but there was an underlying warmth to his words.

The twins smiled, though Pietro’s grin lingered a little longer than Wanda’s, a hint of genuine gratitude in his eyes. “Thanks, Charles,” he said, the words coming out a bit more sincere than usual. “I guess... it’s kind of nice to have a choice in something, you know? Not like... before.”

Wanda nodded, catching her brother’s tone, before looking up at Charles. “Yeah,” she added quietly, “thanks.”

Charles smiled back at them, feeling a sense of relief wash over him. “You’re welcome. Whatever name you choose, it’ll be the right one.”

The conversation turned lighter again as they continued to tease each other about possible names, but in the back of Charles’s mind, he knew this moment was important. It wasn’t just about names—it was about giving the twins a sense of identity and belonging. And for the first time in a long while, he felt like they were starting to truly find that with him.

The twins had excused themselves shortly after the revelation, their retreat from the kitchen leaving a quiet hum of unresolved tension in the air. Charles remained at the table, his hand wrapped loosely around the delicate porcelain of his teacup. He stared into its contents as though the faint swirl of amber might hold some answers. Across the room, Hank was busying himself with tidying up—an act that was more about grounding his own thoughts than clearing the table.

Once the door clicked shut behind Wanda and Pietro, Hank set the last dish down a bit too heavily, the sound breaking through the silence. He glanced over his shoulder at Charles, his brow furrowed.

“Do you think we’re doing the right thing for them?” Hank asked quietly, his voice dropping into a register that matched the gravity of the moment. He leaned back against the counter, folding his arms across his chest. “I know we’re helping them, but sometimes it feels like we’re just fixing the cracks instead of dealing with what’s underneath.”

Charles sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, a small motion that betrayed the weight he carried. “We’re doing the best we can, Hank,” he said, his voice steady but tired. “But... sometimes I wonder if we’re even close to understanding the full depth of their pain. They’ve been through so much already.”

Hank nodded, though his eyes remained clouded. “That’s just it. We see pieces of it, hints in their mannerisms or the way they hold back, but we don’t know the full story. And I worry… if we push too hard, if we ask too much—”

“We might break them further,” Charles finished for him, his tone sombre. “Yes, I’ve considered that.”

The room fell silent again, but it was a different sort of quiet now. It wasn’t the awkward lull of earlier but something heavier, something shared. Hank uncrossed his arms, stepping closer to the table.

“I saw how Wanda was gripping her sleeve earlier,” Hank said after a moment. “Like she needed to anchor herself just to get through that conversation. And Pietro—he acts so aloof, but you could see it in his eyes, couldn’t you? He’s just as raw as she is.”

Charles nodded, his gaze distant. “Their resilience is remarkable, but it’s not without cost. They’ve spent so long carrying these burdens alone, it’s no wonder they still guard themselves, even here.”

“And now, after all that, they have to trust us,” Hank added, his voice softening. “Do you think they really can?”

Charles hesitated, his fingers brushing the rim of his teacup. “Trust isn’t something we can demand, Hank. It’s something we have to earn—and that takes time. But I do believe they want to trust us. Perhaps that’s why tonight happened, why Wanda slipped. Sharing their real names, even unintentionally, was a step forward.”

Hank let out a small, thoughtful hum. “I hope so. They deserve so much more than what life’s given them.”

Charles offered a faint, almost bittersweet smile. “They do. And it’s our responsibility to make sure they know that.”

For a moment, the weight of the conversation pressed against them both, but there was also a quiet resolve in the air. Hank pulled out a chair and sat down across from Charles, his usual air of scientific precision replaced by something softer.

“They’re lucky to have you, you know,” Hank said after a pause. “You might not always see it, but you’re giving them something they’ve never had before—a chance to feel safe.”

Charles gave a small shake of his head. “It’s not just me, Hank. It’s all of us. You’ve been just as instrumental in helping them find their footing here. They trust you more than you realise.”

Hank’s lips curved into a modest smile, though there was a glimmer of uncertainty in his eyes. “Well, I guess we’ll keep trying. Cracks and all.”

Charles reached for his glasses, slipping them back on. “Yes,” he said, his voice firm now. “We’ll keep trying. Because they deserve nothing less.”

Hank found the twins later that evening in the library, their heads bent close together over a small, dusty chessboard. The pieces were in disarray—pawns scattered in illogical patterns, the bishops guarding empty spaces, and a single knight placed upside down on the board. Pietro had his arms crossed, leaning back in his chair with an exaggerated frown, while Wanda’s brow furrowed in concentration.

“You know,” Hank said, leaning against the doorway with a bemused smile, “that’s not exactly how chess is supposed to look.”

Wanda glanced up first, her eyes narrowing in mock defiance. “We’re figuring it out,” she said firmly. “It’s a… work in progress.”

Pietro scoffed, waving a hand dismissively at the board. “Progress? She’s making up rules as she goes. I think the queen just got promoted to dictator of the whole board.”

“She’s strategic, ” Wanda retorted, giving him a pointed look.

Hank chuckled, stepping further into the room. “Strategic or not, I think you might be in over your heads. Chess isn’t exactly a game you can guess your way through.”

Wanda sighed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Then how are we supposed to learn? The rules are boring, and it’s not like we’ve had anyone to teach us.”

“Well, lucky for you, you’re living with someone who’s an expert,” Hank said, crossing his arms. “Charles used to play all the time—with Erik, actually. Why don’t you take it to him?”

The twins exchanged a quick glance, their expressions unreadable. Pietro was the first to move, pushing back his chair with an exaggerated groan. “Fine. Anything’s better than sitting here listening to her explain why bishops should move diagonally and in straight lines.”

“They do move diagonally!” Wanda shot back, standing as well. She swept a hand across the table, and the chessboard floated into the air, its pieces arranging themselves neatly as they hovered.

Hank raised an eyebrow, impressed despite himself. “That’s one way to clean up.”

Wanda gave him a sly smile as the board and pieces trailed behind her, levitating as if guided by an invisible string. Pietro darted ahead, already halfway out the door before pausing to call back, “Where is Charles, anyway?”

“Last I saw, he was in his study,” Hank replied, pointing down the corridor.

The twins were gone in an instant, Wanda striding confidently with the chessboard in tow while Pietro zipped ahead, calling back taunts about who would win their first game. Hank watched them go, his smile lingering.

“Good luck, Charles,” he muttered to himself before turning back to his work.

The door to Charles’s study flew open with a sudden bang, startling him out of his thoughts. He glanced up, his hand pausing mid-turn of a page in the thick book resting on his lap.

“Professor!” Pietro declared, stepping into the room with his usual whirlwind energy. Wanda followed close behind, the dusty chessboard floating effortlessly between them, its pieces wobbling slightly as if caught in an unseen breeze.

Charles blinked, momentarily speechless. His gaze locked onto the chessboard—a familiar sight he hadn’t expected to see again in such a casual context. For a moment, the air seemed to still around him.

The chessboard. How many nights had he spent on the other side of that board, his opponent always a step ahead, smirking in triumph whenever a trap was set too perfectly to escape? Erik had always been a brilliant strategist, their matches were less about the game itself and more about the unspoken conversations woven into the movements of pawns and queens.

Now, here were Erik’s children—completely unaware of the board’s significance—brandishing it with an air of innocent determination. The sight sent a wave of emotions through Charles: nostalgia, sadness, and a quiet, bittersweet affection.

Pietro dropped into a chair, throwing a leg over the armrest as he gestured to the board. “So? Teach us. Apparently, we’ve been doing it all wrong.”

Wanda gave her brother a sharp look before turning her attention to Charles. “Hank said you used to play a lot,” she explained. “We thought… maybe you could teach us?”

Charles let out a soft chuckle, the lump in his throat easing just enough to respond. “I did, indeed. More than I can count.” His voice carried a slight tremor, but he quickly composed himself, moving closer to the small table where Wanda had gently set the board down.

“You’ve… chosen an interesting set to start with,” he added, his fingers brushing lightly against the worn wood. The pieces were slightly faded, their edges smoothed from years of use. He could still picture Erik’s hands hovering over them, the confident gleam in his eyes as he moved a piece into place.

“Why? Is it special?” Wanda asked, tilting her head.

Charles hesitated for a moment before answering, his voice carefully measured. “In a way. It belonged to an old friend of mine. We played many games on this very board. He was…” Charles paused, a faint smile touching his lips. “…very good.”

Wanda and Pietro exchanged a glance, their curiosity clearly piqued but tempered by the quiet weight in Charles’s tone.

“Well, good thing you’re teaching us, then,” Pietro said, leaning forward and tapping a stray pawn back into its square. “We’ll be better than him in no time.”

Charles chuckled, a genuine warmth returning to his expression. “Ambitious, are we? Very well, then. Let’s start with the basics.”

Wanda took the seat opposite Pietro, her fingers resting lightly on the edge of the board. “Don’t go easy on us,” she said, her tone half-teasing, half-serious.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Charles replied, his focus shifting fully to the moment at hand. As he began explaining the roles of each piece, the weight of the past seemed to lift just slightly, replaced by a tentative hope that perhaps, in teaching Erik’s children, he could honour the memory of the man who had once sat across from him.

Once Charles finished explaining the basics, he leaned back slightly in his chair, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Well, now that you understand how the pieces move, who’s taking the first turn?”

Pietro glanced at Wanda, then back at the board. “We’ll figure it out,” he said, moving to slide into the chair opposite Charles. Before he could settle, Wanda stepped forward, claiming the same seat.

“Move over,” she said, nudging him with her hip.

“There’s only one chair,” Pietro pointed out, refusing to budge.

“Then share,” Wanda shot back, lowering herself into the seat beside him and forcing him to scoot over.

Charles raised an eyebrow, bemused as the twins squished themselves together in the chair. Pietro draped one arm dramatically over the backrest, leaning slightly to the side to give Wanda more room, while she sat upright, her arms crossed in mock exasperation.

“Comfortable?” Charles asked, his tone dry.

“Perfectly,” Wanda replied, though she was clearly wedged awkwardly against Pietro.

“I’m fine,” Pietro added, though his knee was almost poking into the underside of the table.

Charles chuckled softly, adjusting his position at the table to give them more space to manoeuvre. “Very well, then. As long as you’re both ready.”

Wanda reached out, taking hold of a pawn. “We’re ready.”

“Barely,” Pietro muttered under his breath, earning a sharp elbow from Wanda.

Charles couldn’t help but laugh at their dynamic. “I’m sure this will be a most… collaborative effort.” He gestured to the board. “White moves first.”

Wanda made the first move, sliding the pawn forward confidently. Pietro immediately leaned over, muttering his critique into her ear. She shot him a glare but didn’t respond, their playful bickering filling the room as Charles watched, his heart lighter than it had been in a long time.

There was something deeply comforting about the sight—the two of them squished together, bantering and laughing as they tried to outsmart him. It was a moment of simplicity and warmth, untainted by the complexities of their pasts.

And for Charles, it felt like a small step toward something better.

As Charles watched the twins, his focus began to drift. The room seemed to blur, and all he could see was Erik sitting across from him. Wanda’s green eyes flashed as she leaned forward to contemplate her next move, the same sharp glint of focus that Erik always had when he studied the board. Pietro’s grumbles when Charles claimed one of his pieces struck another familiar chord—Erik used to make the same sounds of protest, his frustration always tempered by a begrudging admiration for Charles’s strategies.

Without thinking, Charles murmured, “It was Erik I played against every night.”

The words hung in the air, pulling Wanda and Pietro’s attention from the board. Charles blinked, his gaze snapping back to them, but he didn’t stop speaking, as if the memory had unlocked something buried deep.

“This board…” He gestured to the pieces between them. “It’s seen so much. Erik and I shared our first kiss over it.” His voice softened, his expression distant. “We argued over it too—many times. And yet, it always brought us back to each other.”

Wanda and Pietro exchanged a glance, unsure whether to interrupt. Wanda’s hand hovered briefly over the board before she pulled it back, letting Charles continue.

“He was competitive to a fault,” Charles added with a faint smile. “Every time he lost, he’d accuse me of cheating—said I used my telepathy to influence his moves.”

The words brought a ghost of laughter to his lips, but his tone was tinged with melancholy. For a moment, it was as if the twins weren’t there at all, and he was speaking only to the echoes of the past.

When he finally shook himself from the memory, the twins were staring at him, the board in front of them now decidedly empty of Charles’s remaining pieces.

“What—” Charles blinked, his gaze darting over the chessboard. “How did I—”

“You lost,” Pietro declared, sitting back smugly.

“What?” Charles frowned. “Impossible. I was paying attention.”

Wanda smiled innocently, though there was a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “I suppose we’re just natural talents.”

“Natural talents?” Charles’s brows furrowed as his gaze sharpened. “You barely understood how the pieces moved ten minutes ago.”

Pietro shrugged, leaning back further. “Beginner’s luck.”

Charles narrowed his eyes, suspicion creeping into his expression. “Luck, is it?” His gaze lingered on Wanda’s hands, noticing the faint shimmer of red magic pooling beneath the table before it vanished.

“Wanda.” His tone was pointed now, a mix of exasperation and amusement.

Her eyes widened in feigned innocence. “What?”

“You were cheating,” Charles accused, gesturing to the empty board.

“I would never,” Wanda replied, though her voice had taken on an unmistakable sing-song quality.

Pietro jumped in quickly, grinning. “We’re just kids! We don’t even know what we’re doing.”

“Really?” Charles folded his arms, leaning forward. “Because I distinctly recall seeing a rather suspicious glow under the table. Care to explain?”

Wanda huffed, crossing her arms. “Fine. Maybe I... encouraged probability to lean in our favor. Just a little.”

“A little?” Charles raised an eyebrow, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward despite himself.

Pietro waved it off. “You should just be proud. We’re resourceful.”

Charles shook his head, letting out a low laugh. “You’re both incorrigible. You even sound like him,” he muttered, more to himself than to them.

“What was that?” Wanda asked, her expression curious now.

“Nothing,” Charles said quickly, though his gaze lingered on them both, soft with an emotion he couldn’t entirely place. It was almost as if Erik were here again, a piece of him alive and thriving in his children.

“Well,” he added, sitting up straighter. “Cheating or not, I’ll have you know I demand a rematch.”

“Good luck,” Pietro teased, nudging Wanda with his elbow. “You’ll need it.”

Wanda smirked. “Next time, maybe we’ll go easier on you.”

Charles couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head. For a moment, the room felt lighter, the weight of nostalgia mingling with a strange, bittersweet hope.

Charles leaned back in his chair, the twins still laughing at his insistence on a rematch. The chessboard between them felt less like a game now and more like a bridge—a strange, tenuous connection that had grown without him realizing.

He glanced at Wanda, who was teasing Pietro about almost losing their queen earlier, her green eyes shining with a mischievous light. Pietro, in turn, bickered good-naturedly, his movements quick and expressive.

For all their bravado and sharp edges, they were still so young. And yet, they carried shadows far older than they should.

Charles felt the familiar ache of guilt settle into his chest, the memories of Erik swirling in his mind like an unshakable storm. It was impossible not to see him in them—in Wanda’s sharp focus, in Pietro’s restless energy. It was both comforting and painful, a reminder of what had been lost and what might still be salvaged.

“Alright,” Charles said, breaking their chatter. “I’ll admit defeat—for now.”

Wanda smirked. “Good. Because if you hadn’t, we’d have to beat you again.”

Charles chuckled, the sound lighter than he’d expected. “I’ll hold you to that. Next time, no cheating.” He gave Wanda a pointed look, and she grinned slyly, unrepentant.

The moment felt calm, almost warm, but Charles knew better than to let himself fully relax. There was still so much to untangle, so much to confront—not just with the twins, but within himself.

As they gathered the chessboard and prepared to leave, Wanda paused in the doorway, her hand resting on the frame. She glanced back at him, her expression softer now.

“Thanks,” she said quietly, almost shyly.

“For what?” Charles asked, surprised.

“For... letting us in.” Her eyes met his, and for a moment, the guarded walls she always seemed to have up faltered.

Charles nodded, his throat tightening. “You’re always welcome here,” he replied, his voice steady despite the emotion bubbling underneath.

Pietro rolled his eyes from behind her, breaking the moment. “Come on, Wanda. Stop being sentimental. We’ve got a rematch to prepare for.”

She turned with a scoff, shoving him lightly as they disappeared down the hall, their laughter echoing behind them.

Charles watched them go, the silence of his study returning as their voices faded. He sat there for a moment longer, staring at the empty chessboard, his hand brushing over one of the worn pieces.

“Erik,” he murmured to the quiet room, his voice almost inaudible. “They remind me of you. Too much, sometimes.”

The ache in his chest deepened, but he pushed it aside as he stood, determined to focus on the here and now. There was work to be done—he owed them that much.

With a final glance at the chessboard, Charles turned and left the study, the shadows of the past trailing behind him as he stepped into the light of the corridor.

Chapter Text

Pietro sat on the window ledge of their shared room, one leg tucked up while the other dangled lazily over the edge. He watched the rain trace meandering paths down the glass, the sound of the droplets soft and rhythmic. It was rare for him to sit still like this, but something about the quiet urged him to pause.

Across the room, Wanda was sitting cross-legged on the rug, her hands resting lightly on her knees. Her eyes were closed, but her brow was furrowed in concentration. Threads of red energy shimmered faintly at her fingertips, flickering in and out of existence like the heartbeat of a flame. She’d been at this for an hour now, fine-tuning her powers with a stubborn determination that Pietro both admired and found unsettling.

“You’re going to burn yourself out,” he said eventually, his voice breaking the stillness.

Wanda’s eyes fluttered open, the red glow fading as she looked over at him. “I have to figure this out, Pietro. I can’t afford to lose control again.”

Her tone was even, but Pietro caught the tension lurking beneath it—the lingering shadow of her breakdown just days ago. He pushed himself off the ledge, crossing the room in a blur to sit beside her. “We’ll figure it out,” he said firmly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Together.”

Wanda glanced at him, her lips twitching into the faintest of smiles before she sighed and closed her eyes again. “Fine. But if you’re going to help, you have to actually focus.”

Pietro smirked, rolling his shoulders. “You’re lucky I’m in a patient mood.”

“Rare as that is,” Wanda teased, though her voice held no malice.

And so they began. Wanda’s powers flared to life again, this time steadier, as Pietro watched intently, offering suggestions and feedback as she worked.

The red glow flickered brighter as Wanda lifted her hands, her focus narrowing. Small objects from around the room began to drift into the air—pens, stray pieces of paper, even one of Pietro’s sneakers. They hovered in a delicate orbit around her, swaying gently as if caught in an invisible current. Pietro tilted his head, watching one of the pens wobble slightly out of sync.

“That one’s going rogue,” he pointed out, nodding toward it.

Wanda exhaled sharply, her fingers twitching as she redirected the energy. The pen snapped back into place, though not without a slight stutter. “It’s harder to keep them steady when you’re talking.”

“Excuses,” Pietro teased, leaning back on his hands. “I’m just saying, if I were in charge of this, we’d be done by now.”

“Sure,” Wanda said dryly, though the corner of her mouth quirked upward. “You can barely keep track of your socks, but you’d be a master of probability manipulation.”

Pietro opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, one of the floating objects—a framed photo from the bookshelf—lurched dangerously. Wanda gasped, reaching out to steady it, but her control faltered. The glow around her hands flared, and everything came crashing to the ground.

The sharp sound shattered the quiet, and for a moment, neither of them moved. Wanda stared at the scattered mess around them, her hands trembling slightly. Pietro was on his feet in an instant, brushing shards of glass away from her and inspecting her hands for any cuts.

“Wanda—”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, though her voice wavered. She pulled her hands away, clenching them into fists as she stood. “I just... lost focus.”

Pietro frowned, stepping in front of her to block her pacing. “Hey. It’s okay. You’re still figuring this out.”

“It’s not okay,” Wanda snapped, her frustration spilling over. “What if this happens again? What if it’s not just a photo next time? What if it’s—”

“Wanda.” Pietro’s voice was quiet but firm, cutting through her spiralling thoughts. He reached out, placing his hands on her shoulders and ducking his head to meet her gaze. “You’re not alone in this. You’ve got me, you’ve got Hank, you’ve got Charles. You’re allowed to make mistakes.”

For a long moment, Wanda didn’t respond. Her eyes darted away from his, but she didn’t pull back. Finally, she let out a shaky breath, her shoulders relaxing slightly.

“I hate feeling like this,” she muttered.

“I know,” Pietro said softly. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”

She looked at him then, her expression softening. “Thanks, Pietro.”

“Anytime,” he said, grinning. “Besides, someone’s gotta keep you in line.”

Wanda rolled her eyes, but the tension in the room eased. Together, they began picking up the scattered objects, the quiet settling back over them like a fragile truce.

Once the room was back in order, Wanda sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at her hands. The faint, residual glow from her powers flickered once before fading entirely. Pietro was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching her carefully.

“Stop staring,” Wanda said without looking up.

“I’m not staring,” Pietro replied. “I’m observing.”

“Same thing,” she muttered, but there was no heat in her tone.

He pushed off the wall and crouched down in front of her. “You’re overthinking it.”

“I’m not overthinking,” she argued, though the way her brows knitted together betrayed her. “I’m just... I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

“Maybe you’re not doing anything wrong,” Pietro said. “Maybe this is just how it is. Trial and error, remember?”

Wanda shook her head, her lips pressing into a thin line. “It doesn’t feel like enough. It’s like... there’s this wall in my mind, and I can’t push past it. Every time I try, I just...” She gestured vaguely at the space around her, indicating the earlier mess.

“Then stop trying to push,” Pietro said as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

She looked at him, eyebrows raised. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Look, when I’m running, I don’t think about the ground or my feet or how fast I’m going. I just run. Maybe you’re too busy thinking about what you’re supposed to be doing to actually do it.”

Wanda frowned, considering his words. “So, what? I should just stop thinking entirely?”

“Exactly,” Pietro said with a smirk. “Let me know if you need lessons.”

Despite herself, Wanda let out a small laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here I am,” he said, sitting down beside her. “Come on. Try it again. This time, don’t overthink. Just... feel it.”

Wanda hesitated but eventually nodded. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Slowly, she raised her hands, and the red glow returned. The objects around them stirred, but this time, they moved more smoothly, as if responding to an unspoken rhythm.

Pietro watched silently, his usual quips held back as he saw her focus deepen. The glow around her hands grew steadier, and the objects hovered in a near-perfect circle.

“There you go,” he said softly.

Wanda opened her eyes, her expression a mix of surprise and relief. The objects wobbled slightly but stayed aloft. “I did it,” she whispered.

“You did,” Pietro said, a proud grin spreading across his face.

The moment of triumph was short-lived, however. One of the objects—a small book—dropped suddenly, breaking the rhythm and sending the rest tumbling down. Wanda winced, her frustration threatening to bubble over again, but Pietro grabbed her hand before she could spiral.

“Hey. Progress is progress,” he said firmly. “Don’t forget that.”

She looked at him, her frustration softening into something quieter. “Thanks, Pietro.”

He squeezed her hand and let go, standing up and brushing off his pants. “Anytime. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m starving. Let’s raid the kitchen.”

Wanda rolled her eyes but followed him out of the room, a small smile tugging at her lips.

The hallway was quiet as Wanda and Pietro made their way to the kitchen. They passed by a few rooms, their muffled sounds of life almost like an afterthought. Despite their earlier lightness, there was a slight tension in the air now, a subtle shift in their usual rhythm. Wanda’s mind wandered back to the earlier frustrations with her powers, and it lingered there, gnawing at the back of her mind.

Pietro noticed the change in her posture before she even spoke. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Wanda replied, her voice quieter now. “It just doesn’t feel like enough, you know?”

“Enough?” Pietro asked, slowing his pace. “What do you mean?”

Wanda bit her lip, her gaze falling to the floor. “I thought I’d have it all figured out by now. But... every time I think I’m getting better, something goes wrong. It’s like I’m chasing something that’s always one step ahead of me.”

Pietro paused, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. “You’ve only been trying for a few weeks, Wanda. You can’t expect everything to just fall into place like that.” He snapped his fingers, but it didn’t carry the usual playful tone. “I mean, I didn’t wake up one day and instantly start running a million miles an hour.”

“I know that,” she snapped back, before taking a breath. “But it feels like there’s something I’m missing. Like there’s this wall I can’t get past. And you... You’re always so good at everything. It’s easy for you.”

Pietro’s jaw tightened at her words. “Is that how you really see it? Like I don’t struggle with things, too?”

Wanda looked up, her brows furrowing. “What are you talking about?”

“You think I don’t have my own demons to deal with? You think everything comes easy to me?” His voice was rising now, frustration spilling out before he could stop it. “Just because I don’t show it doesn’t mean I don’t hurt, Wanda.”

Wanda took a step back, her heart pounding. “What do you mean by that?”

Pietro ran a hand through his hair, trying to control the flare of anger. “You always focus on what’s wrong with you. Always. But you never stop to think about what I’m going through. What I’ve been through.”

“That’s not fair,” Wanda whispered, her voice shaky now. “I... I just don’t know what to do with all this. I don’t know how to fix it.”

“I don’t know either,” Pietro snapped. “But I’m not the one sitting here wallowing about it, am I?”

The words hit harder than Wanda expected, and she recoiled slightly. She opened her mouth to respond, but the sound of Hank’s voice from the kitchen cut through the tension.

“Well, well, well. What’s going on in here?” he asked, clearly sensing the charged atmosphere.

Pietro took a deep breath, turning away to hide the anger flashing in his eyes. “Nothing. We’re fine.”

Wanda, however, couldn’t shake the unease that had settled in her chest. “Yeah. Fine,” she echoed, though her voice didn’t carry the same conviction.

The rest of the walk to the kitchen was silent, the air thick with unspoken words. Hank noticed the shift the moment they entered, his gaze flicking between the two of them. He opened his mouth as if to ask, but the look on their faces silenced him.

After a long pause, he sighed and started rummaging through the pantry. “You two are like magnets. One minute, you’re all smiles, and the next... well, here we are.”

Pietro, still brooding, sat down at the table, kicking his feet up. Wanda lingered near the door, unable to shake the uneasy feeling gnawing at her.

“We’re fine,” she repeated, though the words felt hollow even to her own ears.

Hank raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. Instead, he set out a plate of food in front of them. “You know, if you want to talk about it—”

“Not now, Hank,” Pietro interrupted, his tone still sharp.

Wanda opened her mouth, but her thoughts were a tangled mess of hurt and frustration. The conversation with Pietro had hit harder than she was ready to admit, and now, all she wanted was some space to think.

But the silence between them hung heavy, suffocating. They were no closer to understanding each other than they had been when the argument started.

The silence stretched long after Hank finished preparing the food. The tension between Wanda and Pietro was palpable, thick enough to suffocate the air in the kitchen. Wanda absently pushed her food around on the plate, not really tasting it, her mind lost in the chaos of the argument. Pietro, on the other hand, barely looked up, his usual restless energy subdued.

Hank, sensing that neither twin was in a mood to converse, cleared his throat. “You know, you both have this uncanny way of pushing each other’s buttons. If you’re not careful, you’ll drive yourselves crazy.”

Wanda looked up at him, her eyes dark with frustration. “I didn’t ask for any of this, Hank. I didn’t ask for these powers. I didn’t ask for... for any of it. And neither did he,” she nodded toward Pietro, who let out an exaggerated sigh, looking anywhere but at her.

“Wanda, I know it’s tough,” Hank began, lowering himself to sit next to her. “But you’re not alone in this. Pietro’s not the enemy.”

She shot him a look, half angry, half sad. “He doesn’t understand. No one does. No one really gets what it’s like—what I’ve gone through.”

Pietro scoffed, his voice cold. “Don’t start with that again. We’ve been through enough together, haven’t we?”

Wanda’s eyes flashed, her hand gripping the edge of the table. “You think just because you run fast you have it all figured out?” she shot back, her voice rising. “You think I’m just whining about my powers when I’m the one who can barely control them? When I have to worry about tearing things apart just by thinking about them?”

“You think I don’t get it?!” Pietro snapped, standing up now, his hands clenching into fists. “You think I don’t know what it feels like to lose control? You think I don’t feel like I’m walking on the edge of a cliff, ready to fall into nothingness every damn second?”

Wanda’s face twisted in disbelief. “You don’t get it! You don’t feel what I feel!”

“I’m right here, Wanda!” Pietro’s voice cracked with frustration. “I’ve always been right here. We’re in this together, but you keep pushing me away like I don’t matter.”

The words hung heavy in the air, the weight of their shared pain suddenly too much to bear. Wanda stood up quickly, knocking over her chair as she did so, and stormed out of the room. The sound of the door slamming shut echoed through the mansion like a thunderclap.

Pietro stood frozen for a moment, staring at the door, chest heaving. His hands were trembling. He clenched them tightly at his sides, trying to regain control, but the knot in his chest tightened with every passing second. He hadn’t meant to lash out like that, but it was too late now.

Hank sat in silence, watching the exchange with a heavy heart. He knew this was something deeper than just frustration with their powers. It was the weight of everything they had endured—the pain, the fear, the loss—and it was starting to tear them apart.

After a few moments, Hank stood up and walked over to the door. “I’ll go talk to her,” he said quietly. “Give her a little time. But you,” he turned to Pietro, “you need to figure out what you really want to say to her. Before it’s too late.”

Pietro didn’t respond immediately, his mind racing. He knew Hank was right, but the words... the words didn’t seem to come. How could he explain everything he was feeling when even he didn’t fully understand it himself?

Hank’s gaze softened. “You’re both hurting. But you can’t heal if you keep pushing each other away.”

Pietro nodded, though it was more to himself than to Hank. He wasn’t sure what the answer was, or how he was supposed to make it right. But he knew he couldn’t let things stay like this. Not with Wanda. Not with anyone.

Later, after some time had passed, Hank found Wanda sitting alone in the garden. The cool night air wrapped around her, and the quiet rustling of the trees was the only sound that broke the silence. She looked smaller in the dark as if the weight of the world had pressed her into the ground.

Hank sat down beside her, his presence a quiet comfort. “You okay?” he asked softly, though he already knew the answer.

Wanda didn’t look at him. She just stared at the stars, her voice distant. “I don’t know. I thought... I thought I could handle it. All of it. But it’s just too much sometimes. I feel like I’m losing myself in all of it.”

“You’re not alone,” Hank said, his voice gentle but firm. “You don’t have to carry this burden by yourself, Wanda. You have Pietro, you have Charles, you have me.”

Wanda sighed, her shoulders sinking. “But what if I’m just a burden? What if I’m too much for them? Too much for anyone?”

Hank shook his head. “You’re not too much. And if anyone ever tells you that, you can remind them that you’ve been through hell and come out the other side stronger than they could ever imagine.”

She gave him a small, sad smile. “I don’t feel strong.”

“You will,” Hank said, his voice full of conviction. “You just need to trust yourself a little more. You’ve come a long way already.”

Wanda didn’t respond. Instead, she let the silence settle between them, the quiet comfort of Hank’s presence a small balm for the wounds she’d been carrying. But the conversation with Pietro... it lingered in her mind. She didn’t know how to fix it. Didn’t know how to reach him when it felt like he was so far away.

Back inside, Pietro stood at the window, staring out at the garden. His gaze lingered on the moon, its pale light casting long shadows across the grounds. He had never felt so lost before. So disconnected.

He wanted to go after Wanda. To apologize. But he didn’t know where to start. Didn’t know how to make her see that he wasn’t pushing her away—he was just scared. Scared of losing her. Scared of everything.

The ache in his chest grew with each passing second, but for now, he remained still, waiting for something. For her. For himself.

Charles had been in his study, trying to focus on a book, when the shouting reached him. Wanda's voice, sharp and hurt, carried through the mansion, followed closely by Pietro's equally forceful response. The argument was brief but loud enough to leave an echo in the silence that followed. He sighed, setting the book aside. These outbursts had been happening more frequently as the twins settled in.

Charles rose from his chair, feeling the familiar pang of guilt as he looked down at his legs. The serum gave him the ability to walk, but at a cost—his telepathy muted, his connection to others reduced to mere observation. Now, though, he felt compelled to intervene.

As he stepped into the corridor, the quiet felt heavier than usual. He followed the faint sound of movement to one of the large windows in the living room, where he found Pietro standing alone. His shoulders were hunched, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, and his usual vibrant energy was nowhere to be seen.

Charles cleared his throat softly, and Pietro turned, his expression guarded. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice clipped.

"I heard the argument," Charles said, keeping his tone gentle as he approached. "I wanted to make sure you were all right."

Pietro let out a hollow laugh. "Do I look all right to you?"

Charles regarded him for a moment, then gestured to the couch. "Why don't we sit for a moment? You don't have to talk if you don't want to, but I’m here if you need to."

For a moment, it seemed like Pietro might refuse. Then, with a heavy sigh, he slumped onto the couch, his usual confident posture replaced by a defeated slump. Charles joined him, giving him space but close enough to be present.

"I don’t even know why we fight like this," Pietro muttered, his hands gripping his knees. "We’ve been through everything together. We’ve survived things most people couldn’t even imagine. And yet, it’s like... sometimes, I don’t even know who she is anymore."

Charles nodded thoughtfully. "Sometimes, when people are as close as you and Wanda are, the weight of everything you’ve endured together can feel... overwhelming. It’s not unusual to lash out at the people we care about the most."

Pietro looked away, his jaw tight. "I don’t mean to. I don’t want to hurt her, but it’s like... she doesn’t think I understand. Like I’m not carrying my own weight."

"You remind me of someone," Charles said after a pause, his voice softer now. "My sister, Raven."

Pietro glanced at him, his curiosity piqued despite himself. 

Charles continued, his expression clouding. "Raven and I were inseparable for a time. She was my closest companion, my confidant. But as we grew older, things became... complicated."

Pietro frowned. "What happened?"

Charles leaned back, staring at the ceiling as if the answer were written there. "We wanted different things. She wanted freedom, independence, a life where she could be herself without compromise. I wanted... well, I wanted her to stay. To remain close, to share in my vision of the world. But my vision wasn’t hers. And because of that, we began to drift apart."

He paused, his voice growing heavier. "I thought I was protecting her, guiding her. But in truth, I was holding her back. I didn’t listen to what she needed, and I lost her because of it."

The raw emotion in Charles’s voice caught Pietro off guard. He wasn’t used to seeing this side of the professor—the cracks beneath the composed surface.

"I’m not saying this to frighten you," Charles continued, turning to face Pietro. "But I see so much of myself in you, and I see so much of Raven in Wanda. You’re both trying to protect each other, to make sense of a world that has given you little but pain. But if you don’t stop and truly listen to each other, you may find yourselves on opposite sides of a chasm too wide to cross."

Pietro swallowed hard, his throat tight. "I don’t want that to happen," he said quietly. "She’s all I’ve got."

"Then fight for her," Charles said firmly. "Not with her. You don’t have to have all the answers right now. You just have to let her know that you’re willing to try."

For a long moment, Pietro didn’t say anything. Then he nodded, a spark of determination returning to his eyes. "I’ll fix it," he said, more to himself than to Charles. "I’ll make it right."

Charles smiled faintly, though the sadness in his eyes lingered. "Good. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that family is worth fighting for—even when it’s difficult."

Pietro stood abruptly, his usual energy beginning to return. "Thanks," he said, his tone still rough but sincere.

As he left the room, Charles remained on the couch, lost in his own thoughts. Memories of Raven flooded back, bittersweet and heavy. He only hoped that Pietro and Wanda could find their way back to each other before it was too late.

Pietro wandered the halls of the mansion, Charles’s words still echoing in his mind. “Fight for her, not with her.” It wasn’t like he wanted to fight with Wanda. He hated it. Every argument left him raw, like an open wound that never quite healed. But today, something about their fight felt different, heavier, as though it had shaken the fragile foundation they were building here.

His footsteps slowed as he approached their shared room. The door was ajar, the faint hum of her magic spilling out into the corridor. He hesitated, running a hand through his silver hair. Apologising wasn’t his strong suit—it never had been—but this was Wanda. If there was anyone worth swallowing his pride for, it was her.

Pietro knocked lightly on the doorframe. “Wanda?”

There was no response, but he pushed the door open anyway. She was sitting on the floor, her back against the bed frame, her knees drawn up to her chest. Her fingers twirled absently in the air, red tendrils of energy weaving and unwinding around them like restless threads.

“What do you want?” she asked without looking at him. Her voice was cold, but Pietro could hear the tremor underneath.

He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. “I wanted to talk,” he said carefully.

Wanda didn’t reply, but she didn’t tell him to leave either. Pietro took that as a small victory and sat down a few feet away from her, his legs crossed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the words coming out awkward and stiff. “For what I said. For yelling. I didn’t mean to... to hurt you.”

Wanda finally looked at him, her green eyes glinting with a mix of anger and hurt. “You think saying sorry fixes everything?”

“No,” Pietro admitted. “But it’s a start, isn’t it?”

Wanda scoffed, her fingers clenching as the red energy flared brighter for a moment. “You don’t get it, Pietro. You act like I’m just being difficult, like I’m trying to make things harder for us. But I’m trying, too. I’m trying to make sense of everything—of this place, of us—and it feels like you don’t see that.”

Pietro frowned. “Of course I see it. I see how much you’re struggling, but you’re not the only one, Wanda. You’re not the only one trying to figure all this out.”

“Then why do you act like I’m the problem?” Wanda snapped, her voice rising.

“I don’t!” Pietro shot back, his frustration spilling over. “But you’re so stubborn, Wanda. You don’t let anyone in, not even me. And I’m supposed to be the one person you trust.”

“I do trust you!” Wanda yelled, her magic sparking dangerously around her. “But sometimes it feels like you don’t trust me.”

Her words hit Pietro like a punch to the gut. He opened his mouth to argue but stopped himself. Was that true? Did he not trust her?

“I...” He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. “I do trust you, Wanda. But sometimes, I get scared. Scared that... that I’ll lose you. That one day, you’ll just... disappear, and I won’t be able to stop it.”

Wanda’s magic flickered and dimmed as her expression softened. “Pietro...”

“You’re all I’ve got,” he said quietly, his voice breaking. “And sometimes, I don’t know how to handle that.”

Wanda’s anger melted away, replaced by a deep sadness. She reached out, her hand hesitating before resting on his. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said softly. “You’re all I’ve got, too. And I’m scared, too. But we can’t keep doing this—fighting like this. We need each other.”

Pietro nodded, his throat tight. “I know. I’m sorry, Wanda. For everything.”

She gave him a small, tired smile. “Me too.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, their hands clasped together. The tension between them eased, replaced by the quiet comfort of understanding.

“I guess Charles was right,” Pietro said eventually, his tone lighter. “Fighting for you is a lot harder than fighting with you.”

Wanda chuckled softly, the sound a balm to Pietro’s frayed nerves. “He’s smarter than he looks.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Pietro said, a grin tugging at his lips.

Wanda shook her head, her smile lingering as she rested her head on his shoulder. For now, at least, the storm between them had passed.

The mansion had fallen into an unusual hush, the earlier tension replaced by a soothing stillness. Wanda and Pietro remained in their room, leaning against the bedframe. The red glow of her magic danced lazily in the air, casting soft shadows on the walls. For once, it wasn’t erratic or unpredictable—it moved in quiet, gentle waves, mirroring her calmer mood.

Pietro reached out, letting the edge of her magic brush against his hand. It felt warm, like the faint static of electricity, and oddly comforting.

“Do you ever think about them?” Wanda asked suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Pietro didn’t need to ask who she meant. “All the time,” he admitted. “Even when I try not to.”

Wanda turned her head to look at him. “Do you ever wonder what it would have been like? If things were different?”

“Every day,” Pietro said softly. He sighed, leaning his head back against the bed. “I think about... what it would’ve been like if we’d had them. Both of them. If we’d known what it was like to have a family that didn’t just disappear or fall apart.”

Wanda didn’t respond immediately, her magic pulsing faintly as she let the silence stretch between them. Then she spoke, her voice tinged with sadness. “I think about it, too. About him. About what kind of person he really is.”

Pietro tensed at the mention of Erik. “You mean our papa . ” The word felt heavy in his mouth, awkward and unfamiliar.

Wanda nodded, her green eyes flickering with uncertainty. “Do you think he’d even recognize us if he saw us? Or care?”

Pietro frowned, his jaw tightening. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. But... does it even matter?”

Wanda tilted her head, considering his words. “It shouldn’t,” she said quietly. “But it does. Even though I don’t want it to.”

Pietro reached out and took her hand, the motion uncharacteristically gentle. “Hey,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “You’ve got me. You always will. No matter what.”

She looked at him, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “And you’ve got me.”

“Good,” Pietro said with a mock-serious nod. “Because you’d be lost without me.”

Wanda laughed, a light, airy sound that warmed the room. “You’d be insufferable without me.”

“I’m insufferable with you,” Pietro countered with a smirk.

Wanda shook her head, the laughter fading into a softer expression. “We’ve been through a lot, haven’t we?”

“More than most,” Pietro said, squeezing her hand. “But we’re still here. And as long as we are, we’ve got each other. That’s enough, right?”

She nodded, leaning her head on his shoulder. “It’s enough.”

For a while, they sat like that, letting the quiet settle around them. Wanda’s magic faded, the room darkening as the glow disappeared.

Pietro broke the silence after a few minutes, his voice light but tinged with sincerity. “You know, we should probably try to be less dramatic. It’s exhausting.”

Wanda snorted. “Speak for yourself.”

“Hey, I’m just saying,” Pietro said, grinning. “Maybe we can try being normal for a bit. Play some chess. Lose horribly to Charles.”

“ You lost,” Wanda corrected, her tone smug.

“Only because you cheated,” Pietro shot back, nudging her.

“I didn’t cheat,” she said, feigning innocence.

Pietro raised an eyebrow but didn’t push further. Instead, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and leaned back against the bedframe. “Fine. I’ll let it go. This time.”

“Very generous of you,” Wanda murmured, her voice growing quieter.

The weight of the day finally caught up with them, and they stayed close, finding solace in the presence of the other. No matter what the future held, they knew they had each other—and for now, that was enough.

Pietro stretched his legs out as he stood, offering a hand to Wanda. “Alright, enough of this brooding nonsense. Let’s do something fun.”

Wanda looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. “Like what?”

A mischievous grin spread across Pietro’s face. “We’re going to redeem ourselves. Time to face Charles again. Chess rematch.”

Wanda groaned but allowed him to pull her up. “You just want to prove you’re not terrible at it.”

“Hey,” Pietro said, mock-offended. “I wasn’t the one who lost. You were supposed to use your magic to make sure we won.”

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to cheat,” Wanda shot back, a smirk tugging at her lips.

“Well, clearly that rule didn’t help us,” Pietro retorted. “Come on, we’ll strategize this time. Double the brain power.”

“Or double the chaos,” Wanda muttered, but she followed him out of the room anyway.

They made their way to Charles’s study, Pietro bursting in ahead of Wanda. Charles, seated at his desk and engrossed in a book, looked up in mild surprise.

“Back so soon?” he asked, already guessing their purpose.

“Don’t act like you didn’t know we’d be back,” Pietro declared, striding over to the chessboard that still sat on a small side table. He picked it up and set it on the desk in front of Charles. “We want a rematch.”

Wanda entered the room more quietly, taking a seat across from Charles. “We’ve been practicing,” she said, suppressing a smile.

Pietro quickly squished into the chair beside her, his knee bumping against hers. “Well, sort of.”

Charles chuckled, clearly amused. “Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The game began, and this time the twins seemed more focused—or at least Pietro was less impulsive in his moves. They muttered strategies to each other, sometimes disagreeing and sometimes laughing as their plans unraveled.

It didn’t matter, though. Charles won.

And then he won again.

And again.

After their third consecutive loss, Pietro threw his hands up in exasperation. “You have got to be cheating! There’s no way you’re this good.”

Charles leaned back in his chair, utterly composed. “Perhaps you’re simply underestimating the complexities of the game.”

Wanda glared at Pietro. “I told you not to move the queen that early.”

“And I told you not to sacrifice the knight!” Pietro shot back.

Charles couldn’t help but laugh at their bickering. “It seems you two have mastered the art of teamwork.”

They turned to him simultaneously, both pointing fingers at each other. “ Their fault!”

This time, Charles laughed harder, the sound warm and genuine. “Alright, one more round,” he offered, resetting the board.

Wanda and Pietro exchanged determined looks, squishing back into their shared chair. “This time,” Wanda said, her green eyes glinting, “we’re going to win.”

“Dream on,” Charles teased, his fingers expertly arranging the pieces.

Of course, the twins lost again. But by the time the game ended, laughter filled the room, and the earlier tension between them completely dissolved.

For a moment, the mansion felt a little less heavy, and the bonds between them all felt just a little bit stronger.

Chapter Text

The morning light streamed into the kitchen, where Hank was frantically trying to save his latest culinary experiment—a towering stack of mutant-sized pancakes—before it toppled. Wanda floated by, swiping the top pancake off the wobbling pile with a mischievous grin, leaving Hank muttering about "the trials of feeding mutants."

Meanwhile, Pietro, too fast for his own good, zipped around the room, attempting to organize the chaos but instead spilling milk everywhere. Charles entered moments later, narrowly dodging Pietro's antics with a wry smile.

“Perhaps I should invest in a speed-proof kitchen,” Charles quipped, glancing at the mess.

Pietro grinned sheepishly, “Hey, I was only trying to help!”

Charles raised an eyebrow, “If this is help, I’d hate to see you hinder.”

Hank, still grumbling under his breath, turned to Wanda. “Do you know how hard it is to get the perfect fluffiness in pancakes? That was an experiment!”

Sitting innocently at the counter, Wanda waved her stolen pancake in the air. “It’s a successful one,” she teased before taking a bite. “Delicious.”

Ever the opportunist, Pietro zipped by and stole half of Wanda’s pancake mid-bite.

“Hey!” she yelled, her voice somewhere between amused and annoyed as she waved her fork in mock threat.

“Sharing is caring, sister dearest,” Pietro called from across the room, already stuffing the pancake into his mouth.

Charles, standing at the door, sighed with theatrical exasperation. “It’s far too early for sibling warfare.”

“Is it?” Hank muttered, using a spatula to salvage what was left of his masterpiece. “Because I’m pretty sure it started before breakfast.”

The twins exchanged grins, their earlier squabble long forgotten in the warmth of the morning.

Once everyone was seated—with varying degrees of pancake on their plates and the floor—Hank tried to enforce some semblance of normalcy.

“Alright,” he said, pointing at the twins with his fork, “if you’re going to keep stealing my food experiments, I demand you both help clean up today.”

Pietro groaned dramatically. “Cleaning? Do I look like I have the patience for that?”

Wanda smirked, tilting her head. “I can always float you into the nearest mop bucket.”

Hank chuckled. “Tempting offer. Charles, your call.”

Charles, sipping his tea with deliberate calm, set his cup down. “I think the twins need some constructive bonding time. Hank, show them the cleaning supplies.”

Wanda gasped in mock betrayal. “Et tu, Charles?”

Pietro threw his hands in the air. “We’re children! Practically babies! Is this what you call child labor?”

Charles gave them a dry look. “You’ll survive.”

Despite their loud protests, Hank led Wanda and Pietro into the laundry room like a triumphant warden, while Charles followed at a leisurely pace.

“This,” Hank said dramatically, gesturing to a broom, mop, and bucket as though unveiling priceless artefacts, “is your arsenal for today’s cleaning duties.”

Wanda raised an eyebrow. “Do you have something more… efficient? Like magic, perhaps?”

“I am not your magic,” Wanda added quickly, shooting Pietro a warning glare before he could volunteer her powers.

“I do,” Hank countered, holding up a dustpan with a cheeky grin. “But that wouldn’t teach you life skills, now would it?”

“Life skills,” Pietro muttered, examining the mop as though it were a foreign object. “I’m fast enough to dodge dust. Isn’t that enough of a life skill?”

Charles chuckled from the doorway. “You’re fast enough to scatter dust, which is why you’re holding that mop, Pietro. And Wanda, I trust you’ll keep him in line.”

Wanda’s lips twitched into a sly grin. “Oh, I’ll keep him in line.”

Pietro side-eyed her. “Define ‘keep me in line.’”

Before she could reply, Charles stepped forward, placing a hand on each twin’s shoulder. “Think of this as a lesson in teamwork.”

“Teamwork,” Pietro groaned, dragging the mop out of the bucket and dramatically flopping it onto the floor. “Fine. But I’m setting a speed record.”

Before Hank could protest, Pietro zipped around the room, dragging the mop in chaotic streaks across the tiles.

“Pietro!” Wanda shouted, trying to follow his movements with her eyes.

“Done!” he announced, skidding to a halt in front of Hank and presenting the mop like it was an Olympic trophy.

Hank surveyed the streaks of water, soap suds, and dirty footprints crisscrossing the floor. “It’s worse than when we started.”

Pietro looked genuinely confused. “How?”

“You,” Wanda said, plucking the mop from his hands and thrusting it back into the bucket, “are a disaster. Watch and learn.”

With a flick of her wrist, her fingers glowing faintly red, the mop lifted on its own, moving smoothly across the floor.

“That’s cheating,” Pietro whined.

Wanda didn’t even look at him. “It’s efficient. Two things you know nothing about.”

As Wanda worked, Pietro leaned against the wall, sulking. Charles noticed and nudged him gently. “Why don’t you help her?”

“She doesn’t want help,” Pietro mumbled, crossing his arms. “She just wants to show off.”

“Maybe,” Charles said with a small smile. “But she’s still your sister. And from what I’ve seen, you two work better together than apart.”

Pietro glanced at Wanda, who was expertly manoeuvring the mop with her powers and sighed. “Fine. But if she yells at me, it’s your fault.”

“Noted,” Charles said, amused.

Pietro zipped over to Wanda and grabbed a nearby towel. “Alright, Ms. Efficient, I’ll dry while you clean. Deal?”

Wanda glanced at him, her expression softening. “Deal.”

Together, they worked, Wanda guiding the mop with her powers and Pietro following behind, wiping up the excess water. Their bickering continued, of course—Wanda calling Pietro out for missing spots, Pietro accusing her of splashing him on purpose—but by the end, the floor sparkled.

Hank surveyed their work with an approving nod. “Not bad, kids. Not bad at all.”

Charles clapped his hands lightly. “Now that’s what I call teamwork.”

“Teamwork,” Pietro said, tossing the towel into the bucket with dramatic flair. “And here I thought I was just going to be a pretty face.”

Wanda rolled her eyes but smiled. “That’s still debatable.”

Charles shook his head fondly. “Why don’t we finish the morning with something less labor-intensive? Perhaps a game?”

The twins found themselves dragged outside by Hank, who insisted they needed “fresh air” and “exercise that didn’t involve supernatural abilities or super speed.”

The sun was warm, and a light breeze rustled the trees that bordered the expansive mansion grounds. Pietro groaned, stretching his arms dramatically. “If this is another ‘life skills’ lesson, I’m protesting. I’ve had enough character-building for one day.”

Wanda smirked. “You’re always protesting, and yet here you are.”

Hank ignored him and hefted a frisbee from behind his back. “We’re playing Ultimate Frisbee.”

“Ultimate what now?” Pietro raised an eyebrow.

“It’s simple,” Charles explained from his seat on the patio, clearly opting to spectate rather than participate. “You throw the frisbee, run to catch it, and try to score by getting it to a specific spot on the other side of the field. It’s about strategy and teamwork.”

“And,” Hank added, narrowing his eyes at Pietro, “no powers.”

“No powers?” Pietro gaped. “How am I supposed to run at normal speed? That’s like asking me to breathe underwater.”

“Exactly,” Hank said with a grin. “Consider it a challenge.”

Wanda crossed her arms. “And what happens if someone accidentally uses their powers?”

“Penalty,” Hank said firmly. “The other team gets a point.”

Wanda’s grin turned mischievous. “Alright, big guy. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The teams were decided quickly: Hank and Wanda versus Pietro, who insisted he didn’t need a partner to win.

Charles leaned back in his chair, watching with bemusement as the game began. It quickly devolved into chaos.

“Catch it, Pietro!” Wanda yelled, throwing the frisbee high into the air.

Pietro dashed forward, stopped short, and then awkwardly reached for the frisbee without his usual super speed. “This is torture!” he shouted as it slipped through his fingers and landed in the grass.

Hank burst out laughing. “See? Normal humans do this all the time.”

“Normal humans are overrated,” Pietro muttered, retrieving the frisbee and throwing it with all his strength.

The frisbee soared over Hank’s head and disappeared into the woods.

“Nice throw,” Wanda said dryly, hands on her hips.

“Not my fault I’m too good, ” Pietro shot back.

Hank groaned. “I’ll get it.”

As Hank jogged off into the woods, Wanda turned to Pietro, her green eyes gleaming. “Wanna see who can cheat better without getting caught?”

Pietro grinned. “Always.”

When Hank returned with the frisbee, the twins were suddenly playing very well. Wanda was scoring goals effortlessly, her throws impossibly precise, while Pietro zipped across the field with uncanny speed whenever Hank wasn’t looking.

“Wow,” Hank said, panting as he tried to keep up. “You two are naturals at this. Or you’re breaking the rules.”

“Breaking the rules?” Wanda gasped, feigning offence. “Why, Hank, I’m hurt.”

“Yeah,” Pietro chimed in, tossing the frisbee with suspicious accuracy. “Just because we’re amazing doesn’t mean we’re cheating.”

From the patio, Charles laughed, clearly having noticed Wanda’s fingers glowing faintly red as she guided the frisbee mid-air.

“Wanda, Pietro,” he called out, his tone amused. “I believe your teamwork is better than anticipated.”

Wanda winked at him before catching the frisbee one last time, her powers pulling it straight into her hands.

“We win,” she declared.

Hank put his hands on his hips, shaking his head. “You two are impossible.”

“Impossible,” Pietro said, slinging an arm around Wanda’s shoulders, “but lovable.”

“And that,” Wanda added with a smirk, “is our ultimate life skill.”

Later that afternoon, Charles found himself cornered in the kitchen, watching in mild horror as the twins attempted to bake.

Wanda was determined to make cookies “from scratch” after seeing a recipe in one of the old cookbooks Hank had salvaged from the library. Pietro had been roped in, though his enthusiasm waned the moment he realized baking wasn’t an instantaneous process.

“This,” Pietro said, holding up a bag of flour with a sceptical expression, “is ridiculous. Why don’t we just buy cookies like normal people?”

“Because,” Wanda replied, smacking his hand away as he tried to dip a spoon into the sugar, “this is supposed to be fun.”

“Fun,” Pietro echoed, watching Wanda sift the flour into a bowl. “I’m not sure we have the same definition of that word.”

Charles, seated at the kitchen table with a book, raised an eyebrow. “It’s a good life skill,” he said, the faintest trace of amusement in his voice.

Pietro pointed a finger at him. “You sound like Hank.”

Wanda shushed them both. “Less talking, more mixing.”

What followed could only be described as culinary chaos. Pietro, deciding to make himself useful, began cracking eggs into the bowl. Unfortunately, his speed worked against him, and half the eggshells ended up in the mixture.

“Pietro!” Wanda exclaimed, fishing out the shards with a spoon.

“What?” he said innocently. “You said mix. I’m mixing.”

“That’s not mixing,” Wanda grumbled, her fingers glowing faintly red as she attempted to salvage the batter with a flick of her magic.

Charles watched with growing amusement. “Are you sure you don’t want any help?”

Wanda shot him a look. “We’ve got this.”

Moments later, Pietro knocked over the bag of flour, sending a cloud of white powder billowing into the air.

“Oops,” he said, grinning as Wanda glared at him.

“Oops?” she repeated, coughing as she waved the flour away from her face. “Pietro, you’re impossible.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he quipped, grabbing a handful of flour and tossing it at her.

The flour hit Wanda squarely on the shoulder, and she froze.

“Oh, it’s on,” she said, grabbing her own handful and launching it back at him.

Within seconds, the kitchen descended into a full-blown flour war. Pietro darted around the room, dodging Wanda’s attacks with a speed that left trails of white footprints on the floor. Wanda, undeterred, used her magic to levitate handfuls of flour and fling them at him from every direction.

Charles, who had been quietly observing, finally raised his voice. “Children!” he called, his tone firm but not unkind.

The twins froze mid-battle, both of them covered in flour from head to toe. Pietro had a streak of white across his nose, while Wanda’s dark hair was dusted almost completely white.

“Kitchen,” Charles said, gesturing around at the mess, “or snowstorm?”

Wanda bit her lip to suppress a laugh. “Sorry, Charles.”

Pietro grinned unapologetically. “I’d call it... creative expression.”

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at his lips. “Clean up,” he said, “and then you can finish baking. Or at least attempt to.”

The twins exchanged sheepish looks before Wanda began using her powers to sweep the flour into a neat pile. Pietro grabbed a towel and started wiping down the counters at super speed, though his efforts left streaks rather than clean surfaces.

By the time the kitchen was spotless—thanks in large part to Wanda’s magic—the cookies were in the oven, and the twins collapsed onto the couch in the adjacent room.

“We’re never baking again,” Pietro declared dramatically.

Wanda snorted. “Speak for yourself. I’m pretty sure I’m a natural.”

“You’re naturally messy,” Pietro shot back, dodging the pillow she threw at him.

Charles, still chuckling to himself, walked over with a plate of cookies that had somehow survived their escapades. “For a first attempt,” he said, placing the plate on the coffee table, “this isn’t bad at all.”

The twins each grabbed a cookie, and for a moment, the only sound was the crunch of their first bites.

“These are actually good,” Pietro admitted, looking surprised.

“Of course they are,” Wanda said, smirking. “I made them.”

“You threw flour ,” he corrected.

“And yet,” she said, taking another bite, “they’re perfect.”

Charles shook his head fondly as the twins bickered, their laughter echoing through the mansion.

As the afternoon waned, the mansion settled into a gentle quiet. Charles had retreated to his study, enjoying a rare moment of solitude. He was lost in the pages of a thick novel, the sound of the fireplace crackling softly beside him.

A tentative knock interrupted his peace, followed immediately by the door creaking open.

“Come in,” Charles called, lowering his book.

Pietro shuffled in first, his usual confidence dimmed by an awkward grimace. Wanda followed closely, her expression equally subdued.

“Is everything alright?” Charles asked, concern flickering in his voice.

Wanda held up her hand, her thumb wrapped in a makeshift bandage—likely torn from an old shirt. A small blot of red peeked through the fabric.

“It’s nothing,” she said quickly, though her tone betrayed a hint of discomfort. “I just... I cut myself while cleaning up the kitchen. Pietro thought we should come to you.”

“I told her she should let you look at it,” Pietro interjected, glancing at Wanda, “but she thinks she’s invincible.”

Charles gestured for them to come closer. “Let me see.”

Wanda hesitated for a moment before stepping forward and offering her hand. Charles gently unwrapped the bandage, revealing a shallow cut along her thumb. It wasn’t serious, but it was enough to sting, and Wanda winced slightly as he examined it.

“It’s not deep,” Charles said, his voice soothing. “You’ll be fine, but it does need to be cleaned properly.”

He retrieved a small first aid kit from the side table and began tending to the wound. Wanda stood still, her eyes fixed on her thumb as Charles carefully cleaned the cut.

“You’re not used to this, are you?” she asked suddenly.

Charles glanced up, momentarily caught off guard. “Tending to injuries?”

“No,” she said, tilting her head. “Touching people.”

Pietro, leaning against the doorframe, perked up at the comment but said nothing, his sharp gaze darting between them.

Charles let out a soft breath, focusing on wrapping a clean plaster around her thumb. “I suppose you’re right. It’s been... some time since I’ve been in the habit of offering physical comfort.”

“Why?” Wanda asked, her voice quiet but curious.

Charles paused for a fraction of a second before smoothing down the plaster. “It’s... complicated.”

Wanda didn’t push, but her gaze lingered on him, searching for something unspoken.

“There,” Charles said, his tone returning to its usual warmth. “Good as new. Just be careful next time.”

To his surprise, Wanda didn’t step back. Instead, she leaned in slightly, her arms slipping around his shoulders in a brief but deliberate hug. It was quick—almost hesitant—but the gesture left Charles momentarily frozen.

Before he could fully process it, Pietro was there too, wrapping his arms around both of them in a lopsided embrace.

“Group hug,” Pietro announced, grinning. “Don’t make it weird, Charles.”

Charles let out a startled laugh, his hands awkwardly hovering for a moment before he rested them lightly on their backs. The warmth of their presence was unfamiliar but not unwelcome, and he found himself relaxing into the moment despite his initial discomfort.

When the twins finally pulled away, Wanda gave him a small smile. “Thanks, Charles.”

Pietro nodded in agreement. “Yeah, thanks. For, you know, being... you.”

Charles shook his head, his expression softening. “It’s nothing. Truly.”

But as they left the study, Charles remained seated, the warmth of their embrace lingering. For the first time in a long while, he felt a quiet sense of belonging—an unspoken connection that reached beyond words.

As the twins’ laughter echoed faintly down the corridor, Charles leaned back in his chair, staring at the faintly smudged bandage wrappers on his desk.

It had been such a simple moment, so unremarkable in its details. And yet, it had left a profound weight in his chest—not heavy, but grounding, like the steady pull of gravity.

He flexed his hands, remembering the tentative way they had rested on the twins’ backs during the hug. How long had it been since someone had reached out to him like that? Since he had allowed himself to be a source of comfort rather than a distant mentor, locked away behind walls of his own making?

A quiet sigh escaped him. Erik would have laughed at his discomfort and teased him for his reluctance. “Children need more than words, Charles,” Erik had said once, back when they were young and everything seemed possible. “They need someone who will stand in their world, not just observe it.”

And for years, Charles had thought he’d done just that—standing, guiding, teaching. But now, with Wanda’s tentative hug and Pietro’s impulsive embrace still fresh in his mind, he wondered if he had only ever been watching from the edges.

His gaze drifted to the chessboard tucked on the shelf nearby, its well-worn pieces a reminder of so much lost—and so much yet to be built.

The twins were not Erik, nor Raven, nor the students he had once taught with unshaken confidence. They were themselves: wounded, brilliant, and reaching for something neither of them had fully articulated.

And perhaps, Charles thought, they were teaching him something, too. Something he had forgotten he was capable of learning.

With a faint, wistful smile, Charles stood, tucking the first aid kit back in its place.

Maybe standing in their world wasn’t such a distant notion after all.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun spilt through the windows of the mansion's study, casting golden rays onto the rich mahogany bookshelves and scattering light across the room. Wanda and Pietro were supposed to be helping Hank organize old records, but their attention had wandered. Pietro, ever restless, was rifling through a box labelled "Private - C. Xavier" tucked away in the corner of the room.

“Pietro,” Wanda hissed, her voice low but sharp, “what are you doing? That’s not ours.”

“Relax,” he whispered back, pulling out a stack of neatly folded papers. “I’m just looking. It’s probably boring old—” He stopped mid-sentence, holding up an aged photograph. The corners were worn, and the image inside showed two young men seated at a chessboard. One of them was unmistakably Charles, his expression animated and warm. Across from him was a striking man with sharp features, intense eyes, and a faint smirk. Erik.

Wanda stepped closer, her breath catching in her throat. “Is that...?”

“It has to be,” Pietro replied. His voice, usually full of jest, had grown quiet.

The two stared at the photograph, the weight of its significance sinking in. For all the stories they’d heard, for all the glimpses of Erik they’d pieced together from whispered conversations and fragmented memories, this was the first time they’d truly seen him in a way that wasn't produced by Wanda's magic.

They stood in silence for a few moments, the photo between them, unspoken thoughts filling the air like an invisible weight. Pietro gently flipped the photograph over, as though hoping for some clue, but there was nothing—just Charles’s neat handwriting in the corner: "For Erik, always my opponent."

The words hung in the air between them. Wanda’s fingers brushed the edges of the photo, feeling a strange pang in her chest. It was one thing to know about Charles and Erik’s past; it was another to hold a piece of it in their hands.

“What do you think they were like together?” Pietro asked quietly, his voice holding a mixture of curiosity and something deeper. “Before... well, before all the stuff happened.”

Wanda gave a small shrug, but there was an uncharacteristic softness in her eyes as she stared at the photo. “I don’t know. We don’t really know him , do we? All we’ve ever been told is... he’s dangerous. He’s not safe. But...” Her voice trailed off, and her gaze lingered on Erik’s image. “I can see it, I think. He looks like he could have been...” She paused, frowning, searching for the right word, “...loving.”

Pietro glanced down at the photo again, his face scrunching. “I don’t know. Maybe. I guess I always imagined... someone like us? Someone who could understand what it’s like. But Charles doesn’t talk about him much, does he?”

Wanda’s eyes flicked to her brother, and she gave a slight nod. “No. He talks about him like he's still... well, gone. But we never get the full picture. We never hear about what really happened.”

At that, Pietro’s gaze darkened, a little bitter edge creeping into his tone. “Maybe we should ask him. Ask Charles.”

Without another word, the twins exchanged a look, a silent agreement passing between them, and then, before either of them could think twice, they were making their way to Charles’s study, the photograph in hand.

They found Charles sitting at the desk, the dim light of evening creeping in through the windows. He was absorbed in a book, but when the twins entered, he looked up in surprise.

“Hey,” Pietro said, holding up the photo, his voice a mix of curiosity and an unspoken challenge. “Found this in one of your boxes.”

Charles’s gaze flickered briefly, his calm demeanour momentarily faltering. The smile he wore faltered too, but only for a second before he collected himself.

“That... that’s Erik,” Charles said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, the weight of the name lingering in the room. “It’s an old photograph.”

Wanda tilted her head, studying Charles’s face for a moment. “You don’t talk about him much,” she said carefully. “But... we know you were together, in some way.”

Charles sighed, closing the book in front of him and leaning back in his chair. He didn’t avoid their eyes, but there was a quiet sadness there now. His hand drifted to the edge of the desk, fingers tracing the wood lightly, as though seeking some sort of grounding.

“I didn’t want to burden you with that,” Charles said after a moment. His voice was soft but firm, as though rehearsing the words. “But you’re right... I haven’t spoken of him. Not because I want to hide the truth, but because it’s difficult. You both know what it’s like to lose someone... to not have them anymore. I didn’t want to bring that kind of pain to you.”

Pietro frowned, stepping closer, the photo still clutched in his hand. “So... you’re saying you loved him?”

Charles nodded slowly, his expression softening, but there was still an undeniable tension in his posture. “Yes. I did. I loved him deeply. But we were... complicated. Our relationship wasn’t simple, and neither was he. He had his flaws, his own demons.”

“Did you... fight a lot?” Wanda asked, her voice quiet. 

Charles’s eyes drifted to the photograph, his expression unreadable for a moment. “We fought,” he admitted. “We argued, yes. Sometimes it felt like that was all we ever did. But it was never about... hatred. It was about passion. We were both passionate about our beliefs, our ideas. And, sometimes... those things clashed.”

Wanda bit her lip, processing his words. “But you still loved him?”

Charles’s gaze met hers then, and for a long moment, there was a softness in his eyes—a vulnerability he rarely allowed anyone to see. “Yes. I loved him. And I still do, in my own way. But... we couldn’t stay together. Not the way we wanted to.”

Pietro stood in silence, his arms crossed, eyes flicking between Charles and the photo. After a moment, he muttered, “So, was it... was it just that he was too... much?”

Charles’s expression softened even further, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “No, not too much. Erik was always more than I could have ever expected. But... sometimes, our differences—our mistakes—were too much to bridge. Love doesn’t fix everything, no matter how much we wish it would.”

The room fell into a quiet pause, the weight of the conversation settling over them. The twins, for all their curiosity, seemed to sense the gravity of the moment and, for the first time in a while, sat down—side by side—in the chairs across from Charles.

He let out a slow breath, eyes closing for just a second. “Erik and I shared many things... including the good and the bad. He was human. Just like me. Just like all of us. And no matter what happened, I don’t regret that time. I wouldn’t be who I am without it.”

The twins were silent for a long moment. Finally, Wanda broke the stillness. “Thanks... for telling us.” Her voice was softer than usual, a thread of understanding weaving through her words.

Pietro, ever the practical one, added, “Yeah, we get it. He wasn’t perfect, but neither are you.”

Charles smiled, a bittersweet laugh escaping him. “No, certainly not. But neither are we.”

The conversation ended there, but in its wake, a new understanding hung between them—between the past and the future.

The twins lingered in the doorway of Charles’s study, the atmosphere tense yet familiar. Wanda held something small in her hands, clutching it like a lifeline. Charles could feel the weight of the moment as she stepped forward, the photograph delicately balanced between her fingers. Pietro hovered behind her, arms crossed, his posture stiff, as though bracing himself for something he could hardly bear.

“Charles...” Wanda began, her voice softer than usual, but steady. “There’s something we need to show you.” She unfolded the photograph slowly, as though it might crumble if she moved too quickly.

Pietro rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath. “Not the stupid picture again.” His tone was sharp, betraying the frustration that had been building for years. “I thought I’d never have to see that thing again.” He shot a quick glance at his sister, eyes narrowing. “She looked at it every damn day,” he added bitterly. “It was the only thing we ever had of him. And it got ripped, and then it was fixed—just like that. Magic, right?” He sneered, the words laced with sarcasm, but underneath, there was an edge of something more vulnerable. Something that spoke to the weight of the history attached to that image.

Wanda, undeterred by her brother’s disdain, gently placed the photograph in Charles’s hands. It was the same image that had haunted their shared past—the picture of Erik and Charles, both smiling, arms draped across each other’s shoulders, standing proudly in front of the mansion that would become their sanctuary. Charles could still feel the weight of those memories, of those days, like a tug on his heart.

He blinked at the photograph for a moment, unsure of what to say. The nostalgia hit him hard. But there was more here—more than just a simple memory. He could feel Wanda’s hand tremble slightly as she stood before him, waiting for him to understand. “I... I remember,” Charles murmured, his voice almost lost. “I remember the day Erik and I took that picture. We had... many happy moments here. Before everything fell apart.”

Wanda met his gaze, her green eyes searching for something in his face. “My magic... showed me this place, Charles. It told me it was safe. That this was where we were meant to go.” She paused, her fingers lightly brushing the edges of the photo as though it might vanish. “It led us to you.”

Pietro, still standing at the doorway, shifted uncomfortably. “We didn’t know what else to do. Wanda couldn’t even look at that damn photo without—” He cut himself off, swallowing the rest of his words as he looked away, clearly not wanting to revisit those painful moments. 

Charles exhaled slowly, feeling the stirrings of old, familiar grief. “It’s not just the mansion that’s safe, Wanda,” he said quietly. “It’s the people in it. We’ve all been through things... terrible things.” His eyes flickered between the twins, now understanding how much of their pain had been rooted in the past, in a father they could never truly know. And yet, here they were—seeking him out, in this house that had once meant so much to him.

“But Erik—” Charles began, his throat tightening. “Erik was... he was complicated. He was both the greatest man I’ve ever known, and someone I couldn’t always understand. I loved him, but we had our differences, our... struggles. I hope you both can understand that.”

Wanda nodded slowly, her fingers now pressing against the edges of the photograph, almost like she could feel his presence through it. “I want to understand,” she whispered. “I do.” Her gaze flickered up to Charles, the weight of the history in her eyes matching his own.

Pietro’s voice broke through, a hint of bitterness still lingering. “It’s easy to say, Charles, that you loved him. But what about us? We never had him. And you had him—” His words caught in his throat, anger he didn’t know how to voice welling up inside him.

Charles’s eyes softened as he watched Pietro, seeing not just the defiance but the raw, unspoken ache. “I know, Pietro. I know how it feels to be without someone you care for... To have that emptiness. And I can’t pretend to replace what you lost. But I want you to know... that you are not alone.”

There was a long pause as the weight of his words settled in the room. Wanda’s hand still rested gently on the photograph, her thumb brushing over the image of her father, her face unreadable. She wasn’t looking for comfort; she was simply seeking answers, something she hadn’t known she needed until now.

Pietro turned, breaking the silence with a heavy sigh. “I’m not looking for answers, Charles,” he muttered, his voice losing its edge. “I just want it to be okay... for once.”

Charles’s heart tightened as he looked at the twins, the photo still clutched between their hands. It was a symbol of a past they would never fully grasp, but it was also a bridge. A bridge that could lead them forward. “It’s going to be okay,” he said softly, though his own voice carried the uncertainty of someone still learning how to heal.

The twins, both quiet now, exchanged a glance. Wanda’s eyes softened as she tucked the photo back into her hands, and Pietro stepped forward, his earlier anger now dissipating into something less tangible but no less real.

“Thanks, Charles,” Pietro said after a beat, his tone more reluctant than thankful.

Wanda gave a small, tentative smile. “Yeah... thank you,” she echoed, her voice barely a whisper.

Charles nodded, watching them leave the room, the photograph still with them—an object of both pain and possibility, a symbol of their past and, perhaps, of the future they would build together.

Following the conversation with Charles, Pietro had ended up in the lab. It was like his second home—a place full of strange, bubbling chemicals and machines that hummed with potential. He wasn’t quite sure what Hank did, but he knew enough to appreciate the chaos of it all. Today, he was tinkering with one of Hank’s more intricate devices, poking at wires and buttons with the kind of reckless energy only an eight-year-old could manage.

"You're going to blow something up if you keep poking around like that," Hank’s voice rang out from the door, a playful warning in his tone. He stepped into the lab, his lab coat already dusted with the evidence of his work.

“Relax, it’s fine,” Pietro muttered without looking up, his fingers darting quicker than anyone could follow as he tried to unscrew a panel from a gadget that could only be described as “alien tech.” Hank chuckled, walking over with a roll of his eyes. He’d become accustomed to Pietro’s frequent visits. The boy’s curiosity and constant need for speed led him straight to Hank’s lab, where the calm, methodical scientist was often his unintended target.

"How many times do I have to tell you," Hank began, crouching beside Pietro and carefully placing a steadying hand on the boy’s wrist. "Patience is key when working with complex equipment."

Pietro threw Hank an exasperated look but paused. "Patience is overrated," he quipped, only half-joking. "And I'm in a hurry."

Hank raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "You’re not going to get anywhere faster by forcing things. You know, there’s a reason I spent years studying molecular biology before even touching this stuff." He gestured to the array of gadgets and tools that filled the room.

“You really think I have time for all that?” Pietro said with a smirk, his foot tapping impatiently. “I’m way faster than anything in here.”

Hank leaned in with a grin. "Not if you burn out the circuits trying to beat your own speed. These things take time. You’re fast, but you’re not that fast."

Pietro huffed, but his movements slowed slightly as Hank took over, carefully undoing what Pietro had nearly broken. “You always say that,” he muttered.

“I’m trying to teach you something important,” Hank replied, his tone shifting slightly—gentler now. "When you understand the process, the speed comes naturally. But rushing will only lead to frustration." He worked quickly and efficiently, a stark contrast to Pietro’s twitchy energy.

Wanda, who had wandered into the lab quietly, watched the exchange from the doorway, her curiosity piqued. She was never one to get too involved with Hank’s experiments—at least, not like her brother—but today, she seemed drawn to the scene unfolding before her.

“Do you always work like this?” Wanda asked, her voice unexpectedly serious.

Hank glanced up, surprised by the question. Pietro, not wanting to be outdone, shot Wanda an exaggerated look. “You’re not getting all scientific now, are you?” he teased, nudging her. “This is Hank’s world, not ours.”

But Wanda didn’t seem fazed. She was already eyeing one of Hank’s more complicated-looking pieces of equipment, her fingers lightly tracing the edge of a microscope. "I’ve been thinking... if you can control molecules like that, why don’t they just... rearrange themselves? Make something new out of nothing?"

Pietro blinked, clearly not expecting that. "Uh... you're losing me, Wanda."

Hank, however, was clearly intrigued. "Ah, now that’s a good question," he said, turning his full attention to Wanda. "Molecular manipulation is a delicate balance. You can't just create something from nothing—energy must be conserved. But if you alter the structure of existing matter, it can appear as if you're creating something new." He smiled at Wanda’s growing interest. "You might have the potential to understand this more than you think."

Wanda’s eyes lit up at the compliment, though she kept her gaze fixed on Hank’s workbench. “So... like, if you change the makeup of a rock, it could become something else? Like—like a new material?” Her words were hesitant, but the gears in her mind were clearly turning.

"Exactly," Hank replied with a grin, pleased with her insight. "You could turn a rock into, say, a metal alloy. But there are limits. And a lot of other factors to consider. The rate at which you alter things, the stability of the transformation..."

Pietro was half-listening, mostly rolling his eyes and examining the rest of the lab, clearly impatient with how long Hank was taking to explain things. But Wanda, to Hank’s surprise, was hanging on every word.

"You have to have a lot of control for it, don’t you?" she asked quietly, her voice reflecting something deeper than just curiosity.

Hank nodded solemnly. "Yes, control and precision. It's a discipline. A balance of power." His eyes softened. “And it’s something that takes time to perfect.”

For a moment, Wanda seemed lost in thought, her gaze now distant as she considered Hank’s words. Pietro, sensing the shift, grinned and nudged her with his elbow. "Okay, enough science lessons. When do we get to blow something up?" he joked, trying to break the silence.

Wanda, now smiling, shook her head. "You and your explosions," she said, rolling her eyes.

Pietro’s grin widened as he threw Hank a mischievous look. "You wouldn’t believe what I could do with this place if you’d just let me loose for five minutes."

Hank smirked, crossing his arms. "You would’ve blown us all to the moon by now if I didn’t keep an eye on you."

Wanda and Pietro exchanged amused glances, a rare moment of ease between them. It was the kind of quiet bonding that only a few people outside their family could understand—and Hank had earned his place there, right alongside them.

"I think you two are ready for a break," Hank said with a knowing smile. "But not before I get this project finished." He gently set the device back in its place, careful to avoid the damage Pietro had caused.

Pietro raised an eyebrow. "Break? What’s that?" He grinned and walked over to a nearby table, picking up a small electronic gadget. "This doesn’t look too complicated. I bet I can make it go faster."

Hank laughed. “I think you’ve done enough damage for one day.” He glanced at Wanda, who had quietly returned to her spot, her thoughts clearly somewhere else.

But there was a certain warmth in the room now, a silent understanding. The twins, for all their chaotic energy, had found a balance here in the lab—not just with the machines, but with Hank. In his steady, sometimes quirky way, he had given them something they needed. A sense of stability in the middle of the whirlwind that had become their lives.

Later that evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the mansion bathed in the soft hues of twilight, Hank found himself back in his lab, tinkering with a project he’d put off for weeks. The lab was quiet now, save for the faint hum of machinery and the gentle clink of tools. He hadn’t expected company so soon after the twins’ earlier visit, but the familiar blur of silver and blue streaked into the room before coming to a halt by the workbench.

“Pietro,” Hank said without looking up, a bemused smile tugging at his lips. “To what do I owe the pleasure this time?”

“I was bored,” Pietro admitted, leaning casually against the table. He picked up a small gadget, turning it over in his hands. “Wanda’s off... doing Wanda things, and Charles is, well...” He shrugged, letting the words hang.

Hank chuckled softly. “Let me guess: too many feelings for you?”

“Way too many,” Pietro quipped, though his grin faltered for a brief moment. “Besides, you’re more fun than listening to him talk about ‘responsibility’ and ‘emotional growth.’” He mimicked Charles’s tone with exaggerated gravitas, earning an amused snort from Hank.

“Well, I’m flattered,” Hank said, setting down his tools and folding his arms. “But I’m not here just for your entertainment, you know.”

“Sure you are,” Pietro teased, hopping up onto the edge of the table. “Come on, what are you working on now? Something cool, right? Something that explodes?”

Hank raised an eyebrow, his expression somewhere between exasperation and affection. “It’s a molecular stabilizer prototype, actually. Hardly the stuff of action movies.” He gestured to the intricate device he’d been assembling. “But if it works, it could revolutionize how we approach unstable matter.”

Pietro groaned dramatically. “Sounds boring.”

“It’s not,” came a soft voice from the doorway. Both Hank and Pietro turned to see Wanda standing there, her green eyes flicking between them. She hesitated for a moment, as if unsure whether she was welcome, before stepping inside.

“Wanda,” Hank greeted warmly, motioning for her to join them. “You’re just in time to hear about the ‘boring’ science that might actually save lives one day.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Pietro muttered, but he slid off the table to make room for his sister, who perched on the edge beside him.

Wanda tilted her head, studying the device with quiet curiosity. “How does it work?” she asked, her voice thoughtful.

Hank blinked, pleasantly surprised. “Well, the idea is to create a stable molecular field that can contain volatile materials. It’s... a bit like building a cage for something unpredictable, keeping it from causing damage.”

“Like me,” Wanda murmured, almost to herself. The words hung in the air for a moment, heavy with unspoken meaning.

Hank’s expression softened. “Not quite,” he said gently, his tone deliberate. “This is about control, not suppression. There’s a difference.”

Pietro glanced between them, his usual bravado dimmed by the weight of the conversation. “Okay, okay, let’s not get all deep again,” he said, breaking the tension with a half-hearted grin. “I came here to mess with gadgets, not have a therapy session.”

Hank chuckled, though his gaze lingered on Wanda. “Fair enough. But curiosity isn’t a bad thing, Pietro. You could stand to learn a thing or two from your sister here.”

Wanda shot Pietro a triumphant look, and he rolled his eyes dramatically. “Yeah, yeah.”

Despite his words, Pietro stayed close as Hank began explaining the finer details of his project to Wanda, who asked questions with a mix of genuine interest and cautious detachment. It was a side of her Hank hadn’t seen much before—one that hinted at a deeper hunger for understanding, for connection.

As the evening wore on, the twins seemed to settle into the lab as if it were their own. Pietro eventually abandoned his impatience, helping Hank with smaller tasks while Wanda watched intently, occasionally offering quiet suggestions. It was a rare moment of peace, the kind that felt almost fragile in its simplicity.

Hank paused at one point, looking between the two of them. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “this lab isn’t just for science. It’s a place to experiment, to make mistakes, and to figure things out. That applies to more than just machines.”

The twins exchanged a glance, Pietro rolling his eyes again but with less sarcasm this time. “Are you trying to get all parental on us?” he asked, though there was no real bite in his tone.

“Maybe,” Hank replied with a small smile. “Someone’s got to keep you two grounded.”

Wanda’s lips curved into a faint smile, and she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “You’re good at that,” she admitted quietly. “Keeping us grounded.”

Pietro groaned. “Great, now you’re giving him compliments. What’s next? A group hug?”

Hank laughed, shaking his head. “I think I’ll pass on the hug, but thanks for the thought.”

Despite Pietro’s protests, there was an undeniable warmth in the room—a sense of belonging that hadn’t been there before. Hank wasn’t just the scientist anymore; he was something more. A guide. A friend. Maybe even a little bit of family.

As the night grew darker, the twins eventually left the lab, their laughter echoing down the hall. Hank stood alone for a moment, gazing at the door they’d just exited. He felt a pang of something he couldn’t quite name—pride, perhaps, or gratitude. They weren’t his responsibility, not really. But in the quiet moments like this, he couldn’t help but feel like they were his, in some small, inexplicable way.

And that was enough.

The following morning, the twins were unusually quiet at breakfast. They sat across from Charles, nibbling on toast and fruit, their typical banter subdued. Hank was absent, likely catching up on the sleep he’d sacrificed the night before to humour Pietro’s boundless energy and Wanda’s probing questions.

Charles observed them over the rim of his teacup, his sharp mind cataloguing every detail. Pietro’s foot tapped restlessly under the table, but his focus was elsewhere—far from his usual impatience. Wanda’s fingers toyed with the edge of her plate, her green eyes distant but not stormy. It wasn’t discomfort or unhappiness he saw. It was thoughtfulness.

Finally, Charles spoke, his tone light but probing. “Quiet morning, is it?”

Pietro glanced up, startled, before shrugging. “Just tired, I guess.” His voice was evasive, but Charles caught the subtle shift in his expression as if he were considering something he couldn’t quite articulate.

Wanda, however, was more forthcoming. “We were with Hank last night,” she said softly, glancing at her brother for approval before continuing. “In his lab. He let us help with one of his projects.”

Charles’s brow lifted in mild surprise. “Did he now? I hope you didn’t distract him too much.”

Pietro smirked. “Me? Distract? Never.” Then, after a pause, he added, “He’s pretty cool, you know. For a scientist.”

That admission, casual as it was, struck Charles more deeply than he expected. He set down his teacup, studying the pair. “Hank has a way of connecting with people,” he said carefully. “He sees things others might overlook.”

Wanda nodded, her gaze softening. “He... listens. And he doesn’t make us feel—” She hesitated, searching for the right word. “Like we’re... too much.”

Charles felt the unspoken weight of her words, a faint pang of guilt twisting in his chest. “Do you feel that way here?” he asked gently, his voice carefully controlled.

Wanda’s eyes flickered, a touch of red glowing at their edges before she quickly blinked it away. “Not really,” she murmured. “It’s just... different with Hank. Easier, sometimes.”

Pietro leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed. “It’s not like we don’t like you, Professor,” he said, his tone surprisingly earnest. “But Hank... he gets it. The whole being different thing. It’s like he’s... I don’t know. One of us.”

Charles nodded slowly, digesting the words. He couldn’t deny their truth. Hank’s mutation had always been more visible, more tangible. It gave him a unique empathy that Charles, with his hidden abilities and carefully constructed demeanour, sometimes struggled to convey.

“I understand,” Charles said finally. “And I’m glad you’ve found someone you can trust. Hank is a remarkable person, and I rely on him as much as you do.”

The twins exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them. Then Wanda spoke again, her voice hesitant but resolute. “We trust you too,” she said. “It’s just... you feel so far away sometimes. Like you’re here, but not really here.”

The honesty of her words hit Charles like a wave, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his blue eyes meeting hers. “I won’t pretend that I don’t struggle with that,” he admitted, his voice low but steady. “There are parts of me that I’ve kept distant—for your sake, and perhaps for mine as well. But you have my word, Wanda, Pietro. I am here. With you. For you.”

Pietro’s gaze softened, though he quickly masked it with a mock-serious expression. “Well, you could start by joining Hank’s lab adventures. Maybe then you’d be as cool as him.”

Charles chuckled, the sound light and unguarded. “I’ll consider it. Though I doubt I have the patience for Pietro’s brand of enthusiasm.”

Wanda smiled faintly, the tension in her shoulders easing. “It’s not so bad once you get used to it.”

The moment passed, but its impact lingered. Over the next few days, the twins began to seek Charles out more often—not just for lessons or structured activities, but for smaller, quieter moments. Wanda would occasionally sit with him in the study, paging through books while he worked, her presence a silent but comforting weight. Pietro, for his part, started dragging Charles into impromptu chess matches, often teaming up with Wanda to stack the odds against him.

Meanwhile, Hank remained a constant, his easy rapport with the twins providing a counterbalance to Charles’s more formal approach. It was Hank who helped Pietro channel his restless energy into something productive, and Hank who patiently answered Wanda’s endless stream of questions about the science behind their abilities.

But it was Charles who, in those unguarded moments, began to glimpse the deeper connection forming between them all. He saw it in the way Wanda’s gaze softened when he praised her control during a training session, and in the way Pietro lingered just a moment longer after one of their chess matches, as if reluctant to leave.

For the first time in years, Charles felt something he hadn’t allowed himself to hope for: the fragile but undeniable beginnings of a family.

The mansion was unusually quiet that evening, the golden hues of the setting sun casting long shadows across its grand halls. Charles sat in his study, the remnants of an earlier chess game still laid out on the table before him. He had played against himself this time, each move deliberate, but his mind far from the board.

The soft knock on the door startled him from his thoughts. Before he could respond, the door creaked open, and Wanda and Pietro stepped inside. Wanda held something small in her hands, her expression unusually shy, while Pietro hovered behind her, his typical bravado replaced by a quiet hesitance.

“Professor?” Wanda began, her voice gentle. “We just wanted to... say thank you. For everything.”

Charles straightened in his chair, his brows lifting in surprise. “There’s no need for that, Wanda.”

Pietro cleared his throat. “There is, though. I mean, we’re not exactly... easy to deal with.”

“Speak for yourself,” Wanda muttered with a teasing glance at her brother. Then she stepped forward, placing the object in her hands on the chessboard. It was the photograph—the one that had led them to the mansion.

Charles stared at it, the familiar image of himself and Erik sparking a thousand memories. Wanda’s voice broke the silence. “We thought you should keep it. It... it belongs to you as much as it does to us.”

Charles looked up at her, his throat tight. “Are you certain?”

Wanda nodded. “We have you now. We don’t need a picture to remind us.”

Pietro rolled his eyes but smiled faintly. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get all emotional about it, Professor.”

Charles let out a soft chuckle, his fingers brushing the edge of the photograph. “Thank you,” he said simply, his voice thick with gratitude.

As the twins turned to leave, Charles called out, “Pietro. Wanda.” They paused, glancing back at him.

“I want you to know,” he said, his voice steady but filled with emotion, “that you are not a burden. Not to me, not to Hank, not to this place. You belong here.”

The twins exchanged a glance, something unspoken passing between them. Then Pietro gave a small nod, and Wanda’s lips curved into a faint, heartfelt smile.

“Goodnight, Professor,” she said softly.

“Goodnight, Wanda. Pietro.”

As the door closed behind them, Charles looked back at the photograph, now resting in the centre of the chessboard. For the first time in what felt like years, he allowed himself to feel the fullness of hope—not just for the twins, but for himself, and the family they were slowly becoming.

And with that, he carefully folded the photograph and placed it in his desk drawer, a quiet promise to keep it safe—just as he intended to keep them safe.

Chapter Text

The west wing of the mansion had always been one of those places that seemed to exist at the edge of Charles’s memory. It wasn’t neglected out of malice, but out of simple neglect—overlooked because of the more pressing needs of the rest of the mansion. This particular hallway had long since fallen into disrepair. The once-grand staircase at the far end of the corridor had a few steps that creaked ominously, and the ancient wallpaper had faded to a dull grey, the rich reds and golds now lost to the passage of time. The air always seemed to smell faintly of dust and forgotten corners.

When Wanda and Pietro stumbled upon it, they had no idea the room at the end of the corridor would come to hold such significance. They had wandered through the mansion out of sheer curiosity, with no particular goal in mind, just looking for something to occupy themselves. But when they saw the piano in the corner, its keys yellowed with age, and the old armchairs half-hidden under piles of old linens, a spark of inspiration flickered between them.

Pietro, ever the energetic one, was immediately in motion. “This place is a disaster,” he muttered, inspecting the chairs with an experienced eye. “We can fix this,” he added, his tone more thoughtful than usual.

Wanda surveyed the space, her eyes softening as she moved around the room, trailing her fingers along the dusty shelves, the rough wood of the piano, and the forgotten remnants of the past. There was something about the stillness of the room, about the way it seemed to hold memories of the mansion’s better days, that drew her in. The idea of restoring it—of giving it new life—felt like a small way to give something back, to show their gratitude for everything Charles had done for them.

She smiled at the thought. “We can fix it,” she repeated softly, her eyes catching Pietro’s.

Pietro grinned mischievously. “You bring the magic; I'll bring the charm,” he said. “Let’s make this place presentable.”

The next few hours were a flurry of movement. Wanda began by using her powers to clear the space—dust swirling into neat piles and floating out of the way, cobwebs lifting off the ceiling and disappearing with a flick of her fingers. The room seemed to come alive under her touch, the faintest glow of her telekinetic energy casting an ethereal light around her as she carefully adjusted each object.

Pietro, true to form, worked fast and furiously. As he puttered around the room, he grumbled to himself, fixing this and moving that, doing what he could with the limited tools at his disposal.

For the first time in a long while, the room began to transform. Wanda’s delicate touch and Pietro’s haphazard energy created something entirely new. They worked in tandem, like two halves of a whole, yet entirely different in their approach. Wanda would adjust the curtains, carefully placing them to frame the windows, while Pietro tried his hand at the piano, though the slightly out-of-tune notes made him grimace. Still, he carried on, driven by the desire to make the space feel more like home.

By the time they were ready to reveal their surprise to Charles, the room had undergone a near-miraculous transformation. The dusty piano, though still imperfect, now had an air of grace about it. The chairs, though a little lopsided, had been lovingly reupholstered, and the warm, inviting glow of the fireplace made the room feel alive. A selection of old pictures—some hastily cleaned, others carefully framed—adorned the walls, some depicting moments of the mansion’s past, others representing the kind of memories they were beginning to build together as a family.

Wanda stood by the door, a proud smile on her face, her fingers smoothing out the wrinkles in the curtain one last time. Pietro, always the one to stir trouble, couldn’t help but grin. “You think he’s going to cry?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at Wanda, who rolled her eyes.

“Maybe,” she said softly, her gaze lingering on the newly restored room. “But if we do this right, he’ll see that we’re trying.”

Their footsteps echoed down the hall as they sought out Charles. He was in his study, of course, buried in work as always. But as soon as they appeared in the doorway, Pietro grabbed his arm, pulling him from his chair.

“C’mon, Charles. You’ve got to see this,” Pietro said, almost too eager, leading him out of the study before Charles could even protest.

Wanda, with her usual quiet grace, stepped behind them, her expression lit with a small, knowing smile. “Trust us,” she said, though she didn’t need to say anything more.

When Charles stepped into the room, his eyes immediately fell on the piano, and his breath caught. The once-neglected corner now felt full of life, warm and welcoming. It was clear the room had been loved, even if only for a short time. He stepped forward, his hand hovering over the piano, fingers brushing lightly against the keys.

“This… this is incredible,” Charles said quietly, his voice a mix of astonishment and emotion. He turned to face the twins, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “You did this? For me?”

Wanda nodded softly, her voice barely a whisper. “We wanted to give something back,” she said, her words fragile but sincere.

Pietro, ever the reluctant speaker when it came to emotional moments, simply gave a small shrug, though his grin was wide. “Yeah, yeah. You’ve done a lot for us,” he said, his tone still light, but with a note of something deeper behind it. “This place needed a little love, and we figured we were the ones to give it.”

Charles took a deep breath, overwhelmed by the gesture. “I… I don’t know what to say,” he murmured. Then, with a small chuckle, he added, “You’ve made this place feel like a home again.”

The twins exchanged a glance, and for a moment, their walls softened. Wanda’s gaze lingered on the warmth of the fire, the glow of the room, the way everything seemed to have come together in a way that made it feel real like it wasn’t just a house anymore.

Charles placed a hand on each of their shoulders, a small but profound gesture that felt like the culmination of something bigger than any of them could have predicted.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice full of sincerity. “This is more than I could have asked for.”

For a moment, no one spoke. They just stood there, letting the quiet hum of the room settle around them, the flickering firelight dancing across their faces.

Charles looked at the piano and then back at the twins, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Let’s see if I remember how to play,” he said, sitting down at the piano bench. He ran his fingers across the keys, the sound a little rusty but full of warmth.

Wanda and Pietro sat beside him, crowding onto the piano bench together, watching him with a mix of amusement and affection. They didn’t say anything—they didn’t have to. The music filled the space between them, and in that moment, it was enough.

They didn’t need to be perfect. But, for the first time in a long while, they felt like they were finally finding their place. Together.

As Charles’s fingers danced lightly across the keys of the piano, the twins sat pressed against his sides on the old bench, their small shoulders bumping against him with every movement. Wanda watched his hands with wide, fascinated eyes, while Pietro’s gaze flitted between the keys and Charles’s face as if trying to solve a puzzle only Charles understood.

The melody wasn’t perfect—Charles hadn’t played in years—but there was a quiet joy in the sound, a warmth that filled the newly restored room like sunlight through a dusty window. It was the sort of peace Charles had almost forgotten existed, and he could feel the twins leaning into it, drawn to its simplicity.

Wanda broke the silence first, her voice soft but insistent. “Can we learn, too?”

Charles glanced at her, surprised by the question. “You want me to teach you?”

“Yes!” she said, her eyes lighting up. Pietro groaned half-heartedly but didn’t move from his spot.

“Why not?” he said with a shrug. “How hard can it be?”

Charles chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, it’s not quite as simple as it looks, I’m afraid. But if you’re serious…” He trailed off, letting the words hang in the air, half-expecting them to lose interest. Instead, Wanda’s enthusiasm only grew, and Pietro leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, as if preparing for a challenge.

“All right,” Charles said with a small, indulgent smile. “Let’s start with the basics.”

He carefully adjusted Wanda’s small hands over the keys, her fingers too short to stretch properly. She giggled at the awkward positioning, but her expression turned serious when he guided her to press a single note. A high-pitched ding filled the room.

Pietro snorted. “That’s it?”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “Patience, Pietro. Music is about precision and control, not speed.”

The comment made Pietro narrow his eyes. “I can be precise,” he said defensively, scooting closer to the piano. Charles shifted to make room, now sandwiched between the two children. He guided Pietro’s fingers next, showing him how to press a simple chord.

“See?” Pietro said triumphantly as the chord rang out. “Easy.”

“It’s not about just hitting the keys,” Charles said, fighting a smile. “It’s about the flow. The rhythm.”

“I have rhythm,” Pietro said, drumming his hands on the wooden surface of the piano before Charles caught them mid-beat.

“Let’s focus on the keys, shall we?” Charles said, his voice laced with mock sternness.

They tried again, Charles demonstrating a simple scale and asking them to repeat it. Wanda concentrated fiercely, her tongue poking out as she attempted to mimic his movements. Pietro, on the other hand, grew frustrated almost immediately, his fingers flying across the keys in an uncoordinated blur.

“No, no—slow down!” Charles said, laughing despite himself as Pietro’s hands tangled over the notes. Wanda giggled beside him, her own attempts derailing into a series of mismatched notes. “It’s not a race, Pietro.”

“It’s always a race,” Pietro shot back, though he was grinning now, his earlier irritation dissolving in the chaos of mismatched sounds.

Before long, the lesson dissolved into utter bedlam. Pietro, tired of following instructions, began pounding the keys with exaggerated movements, each press eliciting a loud, discordant noise. Wanda joined in, her laughter ringing out as she experimented with random combinations of notes.

“Wanda, no—you’re going to—” Charles began, but he was cut off as Pietro struck an impossibly low note, the vibration rattling through the piano. Charles groaned but found himself unable to stop the grin spreading across his face.

“Oh, why not?” he muttered, giving in to their infectious energy. With a dramatic flourish, he slammed his hands down on the keys, the loud cacophony causing the twins to erupt into delighted shrieks.

The three of them descended into chaos, their laughter filling the room as they pounded on the keys, the once-elegant piano now a victim of their exuberance. Wanda leaned against Charles’s side, her small hands slamming a handful of high notes, while Pietro leaned across Charles’s lap to press the lowest keys he could reach.

The noise reached such a crescendo that none of them noticed the door creaking open until a familiar voice cut through the clamour.

“Good heavens, what on earth is going on in here?”

All three froze mid-key slam, turning in unison to see Hank standing in the doorway, his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised in mock disapproval. His usually composed demeanour was offset by the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips.

“Uh, nothing,” Pietro said innocently, his hands still poised over the keys.

“Nothing?” Hank repeated, stepping into the room and surveying the scene. “Because it sounds like a herd of elephants is rehearsing for a marching band.”

Wanda giggled, hiding her face in Charles’s sleeve. Charles, looking entirely too much like a guilty child himself, straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat. “We were… experimenting with music,” he said, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

“Ah, I see,” Hank said, his tone dry. “Well, I hate to interrupt such important research , but perhaps you could conduct your symphony at a slightly lower decibel level?”

Pietro snorted, sliding off the bench and crossing his arms. “We were doing fine until you showed up,” he teased.

Hank raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?” He turned his gaze to Charles, who was still seated between the twins, his hands resting on the keys. “And you, Professor? Care to explain why our esteemed leader is behaving like a child?”

Charles chuckled, shaking his head. “I suppose I got caught up in the moment,” he admitted. “But I must say, it’s been… quite refreshing.”

Hank’s expression softened, the faint smile breaking through entirely. “Well, as long as you’re having fun,” he said, his tone gentler now. “But don’t blame me when that piano refuses to cooperate next time.”

As Hank turned to leave, Pietro called after him, “Hey, you’re just jealous you weren’t invited!”

Hank paused in the doorway, glancing back with a smirk. “Maybe I am,” he said, before disappearing down the hall.

The three of them sat in silence for a moment, still catching their breath from the chaos. Charles looked down at the twins, their faces flushed with laughter, and felt a warmth he hadn’t experienced in years.

“Well,” he said, placing his hands back on the keys, “shall we try again?”

Wanda and Pietro groaned in unison, but there was no denying the sparkle in their eyes. Even if they never mastered the piano, they had found something far more valuable in that moment: a sense of belonging, of family. And for Charles, that was more than enough.

As Charles began to play a quiet, simple tune, the twins slowly returned to their places beside him, their excitement still buzzing in the air but tempered now with a deeper sense of calm. Charles glanced at them, the corners of his mouth lifting at the sight of their eager faces, both lit up with energy, yet settling into something resembling concentration.

“I think we should start with something simple,” Charles said, his fingers moving lightly across the keys again, this time with a gentler melody. “How about we try playing together? Just the first few notes.”

Pietro, who had been fidgeting with his hands, leaned in closer, his eyes trained on Charles’s fingers. “You want us to play… together ?” He raised an eyebrow as if the concept itself was an unspoken challenge. “We can barely stay in rhythm on our own.”

Wanda, ever the optimist, nudged her brother. “It’ll be fun! We can do it.”

Charles smiled at her encouragement, the warmth in his chest deepening as he began to guide their hands once more, showing them the first few notes of the melody. He felt the familiar tug of old memories: teaching students, young minds eager to learn and explore, but this—this felt different. There was no lecture, no formal lesson. It was just the three of them, quietly finding their own rhythm, their own space.

Wanda was quick to follow his lead, her small fingers carefully pressing the keys, her face scrunched in concentration. She glanced up at Charles, catching his eye and nodding, as if reaffirming that this was a game, a new adventure. Pietro, on the other hand, wasn’t as patient. He tapped his fingers restlessly against the keys, making sharp, hurried notes that didn't quite match the flow of the song Charles was trying to teach.

“Pietro, remember—slow down. One note at a time,” Charles gently reminded him, feeling the subtle pressure of his own impatience as well. He couldn’t help but smile when Pietro let out a frustrated sigh and quickly began to tap his foot against the floor, his impatience tangible.

“ Fine , but it’s way more fun when you just… slam the keys!” Pietro muttered under his breath, but he made an effort to tone it down, focusing again on following Charles’s fingers.

Wanda giggled, watching her brother as if trying to contain a secret. Her gaze flicked back to Charles, and she made a determined effort to follow along, matching the first few notes he played. It was slow and cautious, but there was something beautiful in how they tried, something raw and real.

“There you go,” Charles said, his voice soft, almost reverent. “That’s it.”

After a few moments, the three of them played together, a series of scattered notes and quiet laughter blending with the music. It wasn’t perfect—nothing close—but it was their own version of it, unique and entirely theirs. Pietro’s fingers occasionally clashed with Wanda’s as they fought for space, but each time, they’d giggle and shift, unbothered by the mistakes. The joy of the experience outweighed the frustration, and Charles could feel that in every note they played.

Suddenly, Pietro, unable to hold back, slammed both hands down on the keys in an exaggerated fashion, causing a loud dissonant chord that reverberated through the room. Wanda gasped and laughed at the same time, her eyes wide with mock horror.

“Pietro!” she scolded, playfully elbowing him.

Charles chuckled but didn’t miss a beat, his own hands joining in. He followed Pietro’s lead, banging out a series of messy chords on purpose, throwing his fingers across the keys with an exaggerated flourish. It was chaos, but it was theirs. The noise was almost absurd, and yet it carried a sense of freedom, an expression of innocence that Charles couldn’t help but embrace.

The twins joined in without hesitation, pressing their hands against the piano with equal vigour, and for a moment, there was no need for words. The music became a language of its own, chaotic and wild, but undeniably full of life. It was like a game, an unspoken agreement that this was their space, their moment, and it was theirs alone.

They continued playing, slamming keys, laughing, and shouting playful jabs at one another until the door creaked open again. This time, it was Hank, his face half-exasperated, half-amused as he took in the scene.

“Not again,” Hank muttered, his voice tinged with a mixture of concern and resignation. “Is there no such thing as quiet in this house?”

Charles, still caught up in the fun, let out a deep breath, his chest tight with laughter. “Well, Hank, you see, it’s a learning experience. A very… loud learning experience.”

The twins stopped playing, still breathing heavily from their antics. Wanda looked at Hank with wide, innocent eyes, and Pietro, ever the mischievous one, grinned.

“Isn’t it fun?” Pietro asked, wiggling his fingers on the keys.

“It’s very fun ,” Hank agreed dryly, but there was a fondness in his voice. He leaned against the doorframe, watching them with a soft smile that was entirely rare for him. “Though, I might suggest you consider lowering the volume.”

“We can’t help it!” Wanda said with a little shrug, her hands still resting lightly on the keys. “It’s just how we play.”

“I see,” Hank said, looking between them all. “Well, at least I’m glad to see you’re getting along.”

Wanda beamed at him. “We’re a team now. We have to work together!”

“And have fun together,” Pietro added with an impish smile. “That’s the best part.”

Charles glanced between Hank and the twins, feeling an unspoken connection settle in his chest. The warmth from earlier—the simple joy—hadn’t faded. It lingered, stronger than before. It was the kind of warmth that made the mansion feel more like a home than it ever had.

“We’re learning,” Charles said quietly, his voice almost reflective. “And I think we’re doing just fine.”

Hank nodded a rare softness in his expression. “I think so too.”

For a brief moment, all of them simply stood there—Charles, Hank, Wanda, and Pietro—silent, but not awkward. There was a sense of understanding, of quiet acknowledgement, that had been building over the past weeks. It was a bond. A growing one. It wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs. And for the first time in a long while, it felt like it might just last.

“Are we done for today?” Pietro asked, his face scrunching in mock disappointment.

“I think that’s enough for now,” Charles replied with a grin, standing up from the piano bench and stretching. “But we’ll try again tomorrow. I’ll even teach you how to play the right way.”

Wanda’s eyes lit up. “Can we do it together again?”

“Absolutely,” Charles said, his voice warm, full of promise.

The three of them filed out of the room together, leaving Hank standing in the doorway. He watched them go, his heart softening with the realization that, in some quiet, unspoken way, they were becoming a family. It wasn’t something any of them had planned or expected, but it was happening. And it was beautiful.

Hank exhaled slowly, the smile never quite leaving his face as he finally turned back to his own work, a sense of peace settling over him.

It was chaotic. It was loud. But it was family. And for now, that was enough.

Later that evening, Charles sat in his favourite armchair by the fire, his hands resting on the arms of the chair, his eyes closed in quiet reflection. The events of the day had settled into his mind, like a well-placed book on a shelf. He could still feel the energy of the twins, their laughter, and the innocence they brought to even the most ordinary moments. It had been a good day. But Charles couldn’t deny the weight of the day’s lesson—how much they had all grown since their arrival.

The twins had never been easy to understand, and even now, there were things about them that made Charles pause. But their curiosity, their willingness to try, to play , to be together ... That was something rare. Something he hadn't realized he had been longing for until it was right there in front of him.

He opened his eyes, gazing into the fire as it flickered and danced. He thought about what Hank had said earlier—that the twins were becoming a family, a unit. It had never seemed so clear as it did in those quiet moments by the piano when the noise and the chaos had fallen into place in the most innocent, pure way. They were still finding their way—he was still finding his way—but the path was opening up before them.

Charles exhaled softly, letting the warmth of the fire settle deep in his bones. He hadn’t been able to let go of the past—not entirely, not yet—but in these small, simple moments, he was starting to believe there was room for the future. Room for them.

A soft knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts. Charles turned, raising an eyebrow.

“Come in,” he called.

The door creaked open slowly, and Wanda peered in, her eyes shy but full of that same warmth that had filled the room earlier. “Charles?” she said softly, stepping inside with an air of hesitation.

“Yes, Wanda?” Charles asked, leaning forward, a gentle smile forming on his lips.

Wanda hesitated for a moment, glancing back down the hallway as if making sure no one else was listening. “I just… wanted to say thank you,” she said, her voice quieter now, vulnerable in its sincerity. “For today. For teaching us... even if it was loud.”

Charles chuckled, his heart swelling. “You’re very welcome, Wanda. It was my pleasure. I think we made some beautiful music today.”

She smiled, her eyes sparkling with that same childlike innocence that had captured Charles from the moment he first saw her. She took a small step forward, then another, and before Charles knew it, she was standing beside him. She hesitated, almost as if unsure whether to do something, but then, in one fluid movement, she reached out, wrapping her small arms around his shoulders.

Charles froze, momentarily taken aback. It wasn’t the first time they had shown him affection, but it still felt different—new, perhaps. He wasn’t used to this kind of closeness, especially not with the twins. He had always been more distant, more reserved. But as Wanda’s arms tightened around him, the warmth of her gesture pulled something deep within him, something he hadn’t even realized he had been needing. Slowly, carefully, he wrapped his arms around her in return, holding her gently.

Wanda pulled back after a moment, a soft smile playing on her lips. “I like it here,” she said quietly, her words full of an emotion that made Charles’s heart ache just a little. “I like being with you and Pietro and Hank. It’s... nice.”

Charles blinked, his throat tightening at the simplicity of her statement. It was so honest, so raw. In that moment, he realized just how much they had come to mean to him, in such a short time. He thought of everything they had been through—everything they’d lost—and the fact that they were still here, still willing to try … it made him believe in things he hadn’t thought about in years.

“I’m glad you’re here too, Wanda,” Charles said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

There was a long pause, and then Wanda said, almost shyly, “Pietro says we should all play tomorrow. You, me, and him. More… music.”

Charles’s eyes softened. “I’d like that very much,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips. “We’ll make sure it’s a little quieter tomorrow.”

Wanda giggled, the sound of it echoing softly in the room. “Deal.”

With that, she turned to leave, but then paused in the doorway, glancing back at Charles with a more serious look in her eyes. “Thank you for letting us stay,” she said. “I… I think you’re a good teacher. And a good friend.”

Charles’s breath caught in his throat for a moment. He hadn’t expected those words, but hearing them from her—he couldn’t deny how much they meant.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, his voice thick with emotion. “Thank you for giving me a chance.”

As Wanda disappeared down the hall, Charles stayed where he was, his heart full. The quiet of the mansion seemed a little less lonely now. A little less empty.

Outside, the stars twinkled above, and for the first time in a long while, Charles felt that, maybe, just maybe, things would be alright.

The next morning, Charles awoke to the sound of clattering dishes and excited voices. He smiled to himself, feeling a warmth spread through his chest. Today would be another step forward. Another day where they would learn, grow, and, most importantly, continue to build the family they had started here.

He wasn’t sure exactly where it was leading, but for the first time in a long while, he felt certain that the journey would be worth it.

And that was enough.

As he made his way down the stairs, Charles could hear the familiar sounds of Hank in the lab, a constant presence in the mansion, always busy with his experiments. But today, something was different. The usual solitude of the mansion seemed to be replaced by a vibrant energy—a kind of lightness in the air that Charles couldn’t quite place but welcomed nonetheless.

Stepping into the kitchen, Charles found Wanda and Pietro amid a chaotic breakfast preparation. Wanda, with her usual grace, was trying to stack pancakes on a plate, but Pietro was laughing too hard, too fast, and had knocked over a glass of orange juice. The sticky liquid pooled on the counter, a small disaster in the making.

Charles chuckled at the sight, feeling a warm smile tug at his lips. “I see the morning’s off to a… lively start.”

Wanda froze for a second, then turned to him with a sheepish grin. “We wanted to make breakfast for you,” she said, her voice earnest and sweet, with just a hint of embarrassment. “A thank you for yesterday… for, you know, teaching us music and… everything.”

Pietro jumped in, his usual cocky demeanour softened by an unexpected tenderness. “Yeah, but I don’t think the pancakes are going to win any culinary awards,” he added with a playful wink.

Charles raised an eyebrow, glancing at the disaster of the kitchen. “I’m sure they’ll be delicious,” he said, his tone light and teasing. “After all, it’s the thought that counts, right?”

Wanda nodded vigorously. “Exactly! And we—uh—we made extra for Hank, too.” She shot Pietro a sideways glance, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Pietro rolled his eyes but nodded. “He deserves it too, I guess.”

Charles smiled at them both, his heart swelling at the effort they had put into something as simple as a shared meal. He hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected them to look for ways to show gratitude for something as ordinary as a lesson in music. But, in a way, it was the perfect reflection of their bond, a bond that was still being shaped by the events that had brought them here. They were learning to trust each other, to care for one another in small, yet significant ways.

As they continued their cooking escapade—where a few more eggs ended up on the floor than in the pan—Charles felt a deep sense of contentment. It was a new kind of peace, one that he hadn’t experienced in years. The chaos, the mess, the joy—it was all part of something greater. A family. A place where each of them, no matter their past or their flaws, was accepted and, most importantly, loved.

When Hank arrived a few moments later, his usual dishevelled appearance complemented by a hesitant but hopeful smile, the scene felt even more complete. Wanda and Pietro beamed as they handed him a plate of pancakes, and Hank, as usual, made a show of pretending to inspect the food with exaggerated care.

“Well, I see we have a culinary masterpiece on our hands this morning,” Hank said, his voice warm with affection. “I must say, I’m impressed with the dedication you’ve shown.”

Pietro shrugged, a grin plastered on his face. “You should be. We had to fight a pancake rebellion to get this far.”

Hank laughed, sitting down with the plate of food. “I can’t say I’ve ever been involved in a food fight quite like this one.”

Charles took a seat beside him, the conversation flowing easily now like they were all finding their rhythm. Even in the chaos of their mornings—of pancake disasters and spilt juice—there was something beautiful about it. They had come together in a way that Charles hadn’t dared to dream, not so long ago.

As the breakfast conversation continued, filled with laughter and teasing, Charles found his thoughts drifting. He glanced over at the twins, the same twins who had walked into his life so unexpectedly, bringing with them a whirlwind of change and upheaval. He hadn’t known what to expect when they arrived, but in moments like these, when they were laughing together at a botched breakfast or bickering about the best way to play a game of chess, he realized just how much they had already become a part of him.

Hank, sensing the shift in the mood, smiled at Charles across the table, as if to silently acknowledge the unspoken bond that had been forged between them all. Charles met his gaze, the two of them sharing a quiet understanding—a recognition of the family they were building together.

“You know,” Hank said, breaking the silence that had settled between them, “I think we’re starting to make quite the team here. You, me, the twins... It’s a good thing.”

Charles smiled softly, his heart full. “I couldn’t agree more.”

After breakfast, as they all moved into the living room to relax, Pietro and Wanda ended up curled up together on the couch, their heads leaning against each other. They were quiet for a while, content in the simplicity of the moment.

Charles, watching them from across the room, couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude. They were still growing, still learning how to trust each other fully, but moments like this—small, peaceful, and intimate—were proof that they were making progress. They were building something real. Something that would last.

With a soft breath, Charles closed his eyes for a moment, letting the quiet surround him, knowing that this was just the beginning of something much greater.

In the distance, the sound of piano keys echoed down the hallway, and Charles couldn’t help but smile.

Today would be another day of learning, of growing, and, perhaps, of more laughter and music.

And for the first time in a long while, Charles felt ready for whatever was to come.

Chapter Text

Charles sat in his study, the soft hum of the mansion echoing around him, the usual peaceful silence now oppressive. He had just finished a meeting with Hank, and the mansion felt quieter than usual. There were times when the silence brought peace, but tonight it felt suffocating as if the very walls were pressing in on him.

It was hard to concentrate—hard to focus on anything other than the weight that had begun pressing on his chest.

The twins.

His thoughts always seemed to come back to them.

How had it all happened? How had he come to care for them so deeply, so quickly? He had seen it in their eyes when they first arrived—the uncertainty, the guardedness—but now, he could barely remember what it was like before they became part of his world. The time they had spent together had forged something unspoken between them—a bond he had never expected to form, not like this.

Charles had taught them about the mansion, about their powers, and about themselves. He had watched them grow, learned the quirks of their personalities, and taken a quiet pride in their small victories—Wanda learning to control her telekinesis just a little better, Pietro pushing the limits of his speed. The twins were becoming his, in a way. And somehow, over the months, they had slipped under his skin. The way they called him Charles, the way they sought him out when they needed guidance or reassurance, had become second nature.

But it was more than that. It wasn’t just teaching them or guiding them—it was fatherhood.

Or what it would have felt like, had the circumstances been different. The twins were almost like children to him now. They would always be, no matter how much they fought or how much they struggled with their powers. He had become a steady presence in their lives, someone they turned to, someone they trusted.

And yet...

Charles exhaled deeply, his fingers lightly brushing over the chess pieces. His mind, once a fortress of control and calm, was now a battlefield of conflicting emotions.

They were Erik’s children.

The thought twisted in his chest, like a slow, insidious ache. Erik. His mind flashed to the man—the one he had loved and lost. How had he ended up here, in this quiet mansion with the children of the man who had walked away from him?

Wanda and Pietro were so much like Erik. The same sharp eyes, the same defiance, the same intensity. Charles could see it in their every move, their every glance. But there was more—so much more. They were his family, now. But Erik—Erik had left him.

Charles’s gaze drifted to the window, the grey sky outside matching the greyness that had suddenly filled his heart. How had he not realized before? How had he failed to connect the dots? The twins were born after Erik had left him. The timeline clicked together in his mind with an unsettling clarity.

Pietro, with his speed, and Wanda, with her power to alter reality—these were children conceived after that final, painful separation. A sickening realization settled over him. They were Erik’s children, not his.

He tried to push the thought away, but it wouldn’t leave him. No matter how much he had grown to love them, no matter how deeply he cared for them, they were still his ghosts, his past. And they were children born into a world he no longer shared with their father.

The ache in his chest grew. The bond he had with them—was it real? Was it just a way for him to fill a void? The more he tried to rationalize it, the more impossible it became to ignore the truth.

Erik had probably moved on. He had found a life without Charles. The thought stung, even after all these years, even though he had told himself he had long since accepted the loss of their relationship.

But had he?

Charles clenched his fists, a sudden wave of bitterness flooding his veins. Erik was gone. He had built a life without him, moved on, and probably never looked back. While Charles, here in this mansion, was clinging to the ghosts of their past—holding on to something that had ended so long ago.

He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the tightness in his throat. Why couldn’t I let it go?

The twins were here, with him, and they needed him. He could see that now— they needed him . They had come to him for so much more than guidance or training. They had come to him for affection, for understanding, for a sense of safety. Charles was their protector, their mentor. They didn’t know the full story, but they didn’t need to. They were children. His children, in a sense.

Yet, the more he thought about it, the more it felt like a betrayal. How could he love them like this, when their father— his love—was no longer part of the equation? How could he act as their father when he wasn’t really their father at all? They were Erik’s, and nothing could change that.

Charles stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. His heart raced, the pressure in his chest growing unbearable. It’s over, he thought, and it always will be.

Charles found himself, once again, in the familiar comfort of his study. The walls of books seemed to close around him, the faint scent of aged paper and leather filling his senses. It was his space—a place of thought, of reflection, and, in the past, of shared moments. But tonight, the weight of that familiarity was different. The silence was heavier, as if it, too, was holding its breath, waiting for something that could never return.

He sank into the leather chair that had long been his favourite, the chessboard before him. The pieces, perfectly arranged, seemed like a mockery of the order he so desperately sought.

His fingers hovered over the pieces, but he didn’t move them. Instead, his eyes fixed on the empty space beside him—the place where Erik used to sit. Where Erik used to smile that smile of his, the one that never failed to soften Charles’s defences. The two of them had spent countless hours at that board, arguing over strategies, laughing at each other’s blunders, and, in moments of quiet, discussing everything that mattered—the world, their hopes, their dreams.

The room was still, but his mind raced.

“Do you ever think about our future?” The words echoed in his mind, a distant echo from a time when things had seemed full of possibilities. It was from one of those rare moments when they had both stopped playing, the pieces left untouched and simply talked. The future, their plans, and the world they hoped to change together.

“Of course,” Erik had replied, that half-smile playing on his lips. “I imagine a world where mutants don’t hide, where we don’t have to fight, where... we can live freely.”

Charles had laughed softly at the idealism in Erik’s words, but deep down, he had shared the same vision. They had both been so certain then. “And what if it doesn’t happen?” Charles had asked, almost playfully, though there was a hidden sadness in his voice.

Erik had paused, his fingers tracing the edge of his glass, his eyes distant. “Then we make our own future. Together.”

Charles’s heart clenched, the memory of that simple declaration reverberating through him. The future they had dreamed of—it was gone now, shattered by time, by their differences, by the hurt and the betrayal.

The sharp ache in his chest intensified. Had Erik meant it? The question swirled in his mind, unanswered, as it had been for years. Charles had always held onto that hope, clinging to the idea that someday, perhaps, Erik would come back—that they could pick up where they had left off. But the years had passed, and with them, any trace of that shared dream had faded, like the last echoes of a song once sung.

Charles squeezed his eyes shut, the memories crashing over him. He hadn’t realized until now how much he had kept them locked away, how much he had clung to that dream of a future with Erik. A future they had never built. A future that Erik, it seemed, had left behind long ago.

The weight of that realization hit him like a physical blow. He had moved on, in a way—he had to , for the sake of the children, for the sake of the mansion, for the sake of the world they were trying to build. But he had never really let go. Not completely. He had built a life without Erik, yes, but in doing so, he had never allowed himself the full freedom of embracing the present, of fully letting go of the past. He had never stopped loving Erik. Not truly.

Erik had moved on, had found a new life, perhaps with others, with people who didn’t carry the baggage of their shared history. But Charles had stayed here, haunted by the fragments of what they had once hoped for, and now... now those pieces were all that remained.

The chessboard in front of him seemed like a cruel reminder. The game they had always played was now a symbol of everything they had lost. Charles’s fingers hovered once more over the pieces, but he didn’t know where to start. How could he possibly continue the game when the other half of it was missing?

It was then that he realized something else—that what he had with the twins, the bond he had formed with them, was not a replacement. It could never be. No matter how much he had come to care for them, no matter how much they had come to rely on him, they were not his to claim. They were Erik’s. And that, too, made this all the more complicated.

For a moment, Charles allowed himself to sit in the quiet, to feel the weight of the loss. The years had passed, but the wound was still there, still raw and open. He had tried to bury it beneath his duties, beneath the mansion, beneath the role he had taken on as their leader. But in moments like this, when the silence became too much, he could still hear the echoes of the past, still feel the absence of the man who had once shared his life.

With a shuddering breath, Charles rose from the chair, his heart heavy. He would have to let go eventually, he thought, but the thought felt impossible. How do you let go of something that’s never really left you?

He turned away from the chessboard and walked toward the window, his gaze settling on the sprawling mansion grounds. Somewhere out there, beyond the gates, Erik was living his life. He had moved on. But Charles was still here, still carrying the weight of their past—and, it seemed, always would.

Charles leaned against the doorframe of the study, watching the twins with a quiet intensity. They were in the large common room, their usual spot for play and experimentation. Wanda was seated cross-legged on the floor, her fingers curled around a small wooden puzzle, her brow furrowed in concentration. Pietro was standing beside her, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his hands occasionally flaring with blue energy as he impatiently tried to "speed things up" for her.

"Focus, Wanda! You have to twist it like this!" Pietro insisted, grabbing the puzzle pieces from her hands, attempting to fix the pieces faster than she could follow.

Wanda huffed, clearly frustrated, but she didn’t pull away from him. Instead, she shot him a playful glare. "I know how to do it, stop rushing me!"

Pietro paused, then with exaggerated slowness, he moved a piece into place, watching her carefully. "There, I did it for you."

Wanda rolled her eyes, but there was no malice in her gaze. "Thanks, I guess." She picked up the next piece, a quiet smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

Charles couldn’t help the tug at his heart. He had watched their bond deepen over the weeks. They had grown closer—closer than he ever thought possible. The tenderness in their interaction was unmistakable, yet it was entirely innocent. They really are just children, he thought with a small sigh, children who have never had the chance to truly be children.

His mind wandered, as it often did now, to the memory of their parents—their real parents. Erik. There was no way Charles could separate his feelings for the twins from the shadow of Erik’s absence. The twins may have found a home here, in the mansion, with him. They were his responsibility now, in every sense. He was the one teaching them, guiding them, and helping them navigate their developing powers. Wanda's telekinesis was becoming more refined by the day, and Pietro was learning to control his speed without unintentionally causing havoc.

But watching them, so absorbed in their simple, childlike antics, was a reminder of what had brought them here. They were meant to have a family, he thought. But not this one. Not with me.

Wanda suddenly giggled, her hand lifting in the air as a puzzle piece floated up, spinning above her fingers before it dropped back into place. Pietro’s eyes widened, and he couldn’t help but laugh too. "Okay, now that was cool."

They fell into another round of playful bickering, trying to outdo each other, racing to complete the puzzle. As Charles watched them, his chest tightened. They’ve come so far, he thought, his gaze lingering on the way they leaned on each other, how they were so attuned to each other’s movements as if their bond was innate. It was beautiful, the way they had become each other's constant. And yet...

His thoughts turned inward once again. I’m not their father, he realised with a sharp pang. I’m not even the person they need me to be. I wasn’t there for them when they needed a family. I wasn’t there for them when they needed Erik.

The irony of it all hit him like a wave. Here he was, the one who had promised to help them— to protect them , he reminded himself—and yet he was constantly confronted by the fact that they weren’t his. Not in the truest sense of the word. And he wasn’t their father, no matter how much he had come to care for them. Wanda and Pietro had only ever known their father, Erik. A part of Charles knew that, deep down. That was the root of his confusion.

Still, he had let himself believe, just for a moment, that perhaps he had become part of their family. That somehow, through his teaching, his guidance, his constant presence, they had come to think of him as their protector, their mentor, someone they could trust.

But he felt a growing distance, a chasm between them. They had been so hurt before, so fractured by their past, and no matter how much Charles wanted to mend that, he was too aware of his own inadequacies. Could he really fill the void that Erik had left? Would they always be searching for a version of their father that Charles could never truly be?

"Charles?" Wanda’s soft voice brought him out of his reverie. She was watching him now, her brow furrowed. "Are you okay?"

He blinked, shaking his head slightly to clear the fog of his thoughts. "Yes, I’m fine," he replied, offering her a smile that he hoped conveyed more certainty than he felt.

Pietro, who had been watching the exchange from the corner of his eye, suddenly grinned. "You don’t look fine. You look like you were thinking about something really serious. What’s going on in that brain of yours, huh?"

Charles chuckled softly, but there was a bittersweet edge to the sound. It’s my brain that’s the problem, he thought, but he didn’t say it out loud.

"I was just remembering something," he said, his voice a little steadier now. "It’s nothing to worry about."

The twins seemed satisfied with that answer, as they both turned back to the puzzle, but Charles couldn’t help but watch them for a moment longer. They were meant to have someone else, he thought again. Someone who had always known them, always been there for them... Erik.

But he couldn’t change that. No matter how deeply he had come to care for them, how much his heart ached to be there for them in the way they deserved, the truth remained: they were not his children. They were his responsibility, yes, but they were also a reminder of a life that had never come to be.

As the twins bickered again, their voices filled with laughter, Charles found himself caught between two worlds. The one that had come before, with Erik, full of love and unspoken promises, and the one that had come after, with Wanda and Pietro, full of new possibilities, but also deep uncertainty.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sounds of their playful banter wash over him, trying to hold onto the peace of this moment. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that, no matter how much he gave them, there was always going to be a part of him that was not enough.

The day had grown quiet in the mansion, with the usual hum of life in the house settling into a more peaceful rhythm. The twins were upstairs, fiddling with their powers in their room while Charles was deep in thought, seated in the study by the window. The storm outside had subsided, but the air still carried a cool bite. The sky, overcast and grey, matched his mood perfectly.

Charles's mind wandered again—back to Erik, to their years together, and to the painful realization that he had never truly moved on from the man who had once been his everything. A soft knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. He looked up, startled, and quickly wiped his face, the last traces of the internal storm he had been wrestling with still lingering. It was strange, how the twins’ mere presence could stir emotions he hadn’t allowed himself to confront in years.

"Charles?" Wanda’s voice called softly, just outside the door.

Charles stood up, smoothing his shirt as he made his way to the door. He opened it to find Wanda standing there, her usual composure faltering for a moment, her eyes wide and searching, like she was uncertain whether to approach him.

"Is everything okay?" he asked, offering her a reassuring smile, though his heart was still heavy.

Wanda hesitated, her gaze flicking to the floor. For a moment, she looked as though she might turn away, but then she stepped forward, her face crinkling with unspoken distress.

"It’s... Pietro," she began, voice wavering. "He’s upset. I don’t know why, but he’s been acting strange ever since we finished the puzzle. I tried to help him, but... he didn’t want to talk to me."

Charles’s heart softened. "Let me go talk to him," he said gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. The simple gesture felt awkward, the weight of his own uncertainty pressing down on him. His hand lingered for a second longer than it should have before he withdrew it, as though reminding himself that no matter how much he cared, there was a boundary he didn’t quite know how to cross.

Wanda’s eyes flicked up to him, a question in them, as though sensing the hesitation in his touch. She opened her mouth as though to say something, but then she stepped back, nodding quickly.

"I’ll be okay," she said softly, voice tinged with a certain resignation. "I just... I thought maybe you could help him."

Charles nodded, his throat tightening. "Of course, Wanda. I’ll be right there."

As she walked away, Charles stood in the doorway for a moment longer than necessary, his thoughts still a storm of conflicting emotions. He’d always believed that being a mentor to the twins meant providing for them, protecting them—guiding them through their challenges. And yet, something about this felt different. Why can’t I just be there for them? he thought, his chest constricting. Why do I feel so disconnected when all they want is comfort?

His feet moved before his mind could catch up, and soon enough, he was standing outside the twin's room, knocking softly. There was a faint sound of scuffling from within, followed by an almost imperceptible groan.

"Come in," Pietro’s voice called, hoarse and distant.

Charles stepped in quietly, his eyes immediately scanning the room. Pietro was sitting on his bed, his legs pulled to his chest, his face turned toward the window. His body was rigid, like a wire drawn too tight.

"Pietro," Charles began softly, walking toward him, "What’s going on?"

The boy didn’t answer immediately. He just stared out the window, his eyes distant, his expression unreadable. Charles could feel the tension in the room, thick and heavy. He hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to break the silence. Pietro was rarely this withdrawn, even in his most frustrated states.

"Are you okay?" Charles asked again, this time a little closer.

Pietro shrugged, not meeting Charles’s gaze. "I’m fine," he muttered, but the tightness in his voice betrayed the lie.

Charles moved to sit beside him on the bed, his hand hovering near Pietro’s back, unsure if the boy would welcome the touch. What if he doesn’t want me here? What if I’m overstepping? The thought chilled him. He had no way of knowing how much he could push, how much he was allowed to be this close to them.

But just as he was about to withdraw, Pietro suddenly turned to him, his eyes wide with a mix of confusion and desperation. "I don’t know what’s wrong with me," he admitted in a whisper as if the words were hard to say. "I keep thinking about... things. About before."

Charles’s heart twisted, and without thinking, he placed his hand on Pietro’s back. But even as he did, he felt a sudden wave of hesitation flood over him. Was it his place to comfort Pietro like this? Shouldn’t he be more distant? The lines between mentor and something else—something closer—felt so blurry now.

Pietro didn’t pull away. In fact, he seemed to lean into Charles’s touch, his body finally relaxing just enough to show the vulnerability he’d been hiding.

Charles swallowed, struggling with his own conflicting emotions. How could I ever replace Erik? he thought, the weight of it pressing down on him. What if Erik has moved on? What if they don’t need me like they needed him?

But before he could get lost in the spiralling doubts, Pietro’s voice interrupted the thoughts. "I don’t want to be a burden," he said softly, almost too quietly. "I don’t want to make you... feel... like you’re stuck with me."

Charles felt a pang in his chest at the words. A burden? How could he possibly think that?

"You’re not a burden, Pietro," he said firmly, his voice gentle but sure. "You’re not. You’re part of this family. And that means, no matter what, you can always come to me. Always."

It was then that Pietro finally looked at him, his eyes searching. And Charles, for the first time in a long while, allowed himself to lean into that look. He didn’t pull away, didn’t second-guess himself. He embraced the moment fully, giving himself over to the connection, the warmth of the moment.

But just as he was about to pull him into a full embrace, a subtle hesitation lingered in the back of his mind. They are not really my children. I can’t just—

Before the thought could take root, Pietro shifted in his seat, his head resting on Charles’s shoulder. The quiet, almost innocent trust of the gesture pierced through Charles’s walls, and he exhaled slowly, his own body relaxing despite the uncertainty swirling in his chest.

At that moment, as the world outside the window faded away, Charles realised something: He didn’t have to be their father to love them. He didn’t have to fill Erik’s shoes—he could just be there. And for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to simply be that— there for them. Not as a replacement, but as a presence, a constant that the twins needed.

And in that small, quiet act of letting go of his doubts, Charles found a flicker of peace—however fleeting.

Later that evening, the mansion was steeped in the kind of quiet that often came after a long, emotionally charged day. Charles sat alone in his study, staring at the chessboard that had been left untouched for years. His fingers hovered over a white pawn, absently tracing its edges as his mind wandered back to the earlier moment with Pietro. The memory of the boy leaning on him stirred both warmth and unease in his chest. The lines of his life felt more blurred than ever—his past with Erik, his present with the twins, and the future he couldn’t quite imagine.

The sound of soft footsteps broke his reverie. Charles didn’t need to look up to know it was Hank; the scientist’s familiar gait had a certain rhythm to it, careful and deliberate, almost like he was testing each step before committing to it.

“Charles?” Hank’s voice was gentle, but it carried a note of concern.

Charles sighed, placing the pawn back on the board. “You’re up late, Hank.”

“I could say the same for you,” Hank replied, stepping into the room. He leaned against the doorframe for a moment, studying his friend. “You’ve been... quieter than usual. And that’s saying something.”

Charles chuckled softly, though the sound lacked real humour. “I suppose I have been. Just... thinking.”

Hank raised an eyebrow, his expression was both sceptical and knowing. “Thinking or brooding?”

Charles smirked at the teasing tone but didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he gestured to the chair opposite him. “Sit, Hank. It seems we’re both awake, and I could use the company.”

Hank obliged, settling into the seat across from Charles. His sharp eyes swept over the chessboard, then returned to Charles’s face. “I’ve known you long enough to tell when something’s bothering you. Is it the twins?”

Charles exhaled deeply, leaning back in his chair. “Not in the way you might think. They’ve been... extraordinary. Resilient, curious, and far more adaptable than I could have hoped. They’ve brought a life to this place I didn’t realize it was missing.” He paused, his fingers steepling beneath his chin. “And that’s precisely the problem.”

Hank tilted his head, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “How so?”

Charles hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “They’ve become... important to me. More than just students or wards. I feel a sense of responsibility for them that goes beyond anything I’ve experienced before. Like a... father, almost.”

Hank didn’t interrupt, letting Charles work through the confession at his own pace.

“And yet,” Charles continued, his voice quieter now, “they’re not truly mine to care for. They’re Erik’s children, Hank. His, not mine. And every time I look at them, I’m reminded of that. Reminded of what we had, and of how thoroughly he’s moved on from it.”

Hank frowned slightly, leaning forward. “Is that what this is really about? Erik?”

“It’s about everything,” Charles admitted, his voice carrying a raw edge. “Erik, the twins, what this house has become since they arrived. I’ve built a life here—a purpose. But suddenly, they’re here, and it’s as though they’ve become the center of it all. And I’m not sure I’m allowed to feel that way. Not when Erik is their father. Not when he...” He trailed off, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair.

“Not when he might have left you behind?” Hank finished softly.

Charles looked up sharply, but there was no judgment in Hank’s expression—only understanding. The scientist shifted in his seat, his hands clasped together as he spoke. “Charles, I’ve known you for years. You carry things longer than you should—grief, guilt, regret. And I think you’re doing it again now.”

Charles’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t interrupt.

“Yes, they’re Erik’s children,” Hank continued, “but they’re here with you . They’re not just Erik’s anymore, Charles. They’re part of your life now. And from what I’ve seen, they’re thriving because of you. They come to you for comfort, for guidance. That doesn’t happen by accident.”

Charles swallowed hard, the weight of Hank’s words settling over him.

“Look,” Hank said, his tone softening, “I get that Erik’s shadow looms large. It always has. But you’re not competing with him here. You’re giving those kids something they’ve never had—a home, stability, someone who sees them for who they are and still wants to stick around.”

Charles leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “But what if it’s not enough? What if I can’t be what they need? What if Erik comes back and—”

“Charles,” Hank interrupted firmly, “what if Erik doesn’t? What if this is it? You can’t live in the ‘what ifs.’ You have to live in what’s here, now. And right now, you’ve got two kids upstairs who clearly adore you, whether you realize it or not. Don’t let your fear of the past—or of Erik—stop you from being there for them.”

The room fell silent, the weight of Hank’s words pressing down on both of them. Charles stared at the chessboard, the familiar patterns of white and black suddenly feeling more symbolic than ever. His life had always been a game of strategy, of weighing moves and counter-moves, of anticipating every possible outcome. But this wasn’t a game. This was real, messy, and uncharted territory.

Hank stood, clapping a hand on Charles’s shoulder. “You’re doing better than you think, Charles. And for what it’s worth, those kids are lucky to have you.”

Charles nodded slowly, his throat tight. “Thank you, Hank.”

As Hank left the study, Charles remained seated, his gaze fixed on the chessboard. He picked up the white pawn again, turning it over in his fingers. The twins’ laughter echoed faintly from upstairs, and for the first time in hours, a small smile tugged at his lips. Maybe Hank was right. Maybe it wasn’t about replacing Erik or trying to be something he wasn’t. Maybe it was just about being present—for Wanda, for Pietro, and himself.

And as the night deepened, Charles allowed himself the smallest flicker of hope that he could rise to the challenge.

The study’s dim light flickered, the candle flames casting restless shadows across the room as Charles remained seated, lost in thought. Hank’s words lingered, like the echoes of a melody that refused to fade. He stared at the chessboard, the familiar setup unchanged but the game itself entirely different. Erik had always been a master strategist, unpredictable yet brilliant. But life, Charles realised, had no clear strategy—only choices made moment by moment.

The sound of soft footsteps broke his thoughts again, this time lighter and quicker than Hank’s. He turned toward the door just as Wanda and Pietro peeked inside, their expressions a mix of hesitation and mischief.

“Sorry,” Wanda began, her voice almost a whisper. “We heard you were still awake... we didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Charles shook his head, gesturing for them to come in. “You’re not disturbing me. Come, sit.”

The twins exchanged a glance before stepping into the room, Wanda perching on the edge of the couch while Pietro leaned against the doorway. Despite their casual stances, there was a nervous energy about them, as though they were debating whether to speak their minds.

“What’s on your minds?” Charles asked gently, folding his hands in his lap.

Pietro glanced at Wanda, who nudged him with her elbow. He groaned dramatically before speaking. “We just wanted to check if you were okay. Hank seemed... worried.”

Charles blinked, surprised by their perceptiveness. “Hank has a tendency to overthink,” he said with a faint smile, though he felt the twins’ concerned eyes studying him closely.

“Are you sure?” Wanda pressed her brow furrowing. “You’ve been... quieter than usual. Even for you.”

Charles hesitated, unsure how much to share. These were children—young, impressionable, and already carrying burdens far heavier than they should. Yet they had also become an unshakable part of his life. Perhaps they deserved more honesty than he typically allowed himself to offer.

“I’ve been reflecting,” he admitted finally. “On many things. My past, my present. On what it means to care for others deeply.”

Wanda tilted her head, her gaze piercing. “Like... us?”

Charles felt his throat tighten, but he nodded. “Yes. Like you. Both of you.”

Pietro shifted uncomfortably, crossing his arms. “You’re not about to go all sappy on us, are you?”

Wanda rolled her eyes. “Pietro.”

Charles chuckled, the sound lightening the tension in the room. “No, Pietro, I won’t ‘go all sappy.’ But I will say this: having you here has changed my life in ways I never expected. It’s not always easy—far from it—but it’s something I wouldn’t trade for anything.”

The sincerity in his tone seemed to disarm them. Wanda looked down at her hands, a small smile playing on her lips, while Pietro cleared his throat, clearly unsure how to respond.

“Well,” Pietro said after a moment, his voice quieter than usual, “it’s not like we make it easy for you either.”

Charles smiled, his heart swelling with a mixture of affection and sorrow. “No, you don’t. But that’s what makes it worthwhile.”

The three of them sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. Then, as if sensing the shift, Pietro straightened. “Okay, this is getting way too emotional for me. I’m going to bed.”

Wanda rolled her eyes again but stood as well. “Goodnight, Charles.”

“Goodnight,” Charles replied, watching them leave. Just before they disappeared down the hall, Wanda turned back, her expression thoughtful.

“Thank you,” she said softly, her words carrying more meaning than the moment seemed to warrant. Before Charles could respond, she was gone.

Alone again, Charles leaned back in his chair, the faint sound of their retreating footsteps fading into the distance. He didn’t feel entirely at peace—there was still too much unresolved, too many questions he couldn’t yet answer. But for the first time in a long while, he felt a glimmer of hope.

Chapter Text

The mansion’s backyard was alive with motion as Pietro raced back and forth, testing the limits of his speed. He’d been running for almost an hour now, his silver hair a streak against the fading light of the afternoon. Leaves swirled in the air as he darted by, creating miniature cyclones scattered across the lawn.

Hank stood to the side, his clipboard in one hand and a handheld device in the other, squinting at the numbers flashing on the screen. The wind from Pietro’s passing sent his papers flying, and he scrambled to grab them before they disappeared into the trees.

“Pietro!” Hank shouted, exasperated as the younger man skidded to a stop before him. “If you keep turning the backyard into a wind tunnel, I’m going to need a net to catch my research!”

Pietro grinned, completely unfazed. “Relax, Hank. It’s all in the name of science, right? You’re welcome, by the way.”

Hank raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

“For giving you so much data to work with,” Pietro quipped, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Come on, what’s next? You want me to run backwards? Zigzag? Or maybe—”

“Precision,” Hank interrupted firmly, pointing to a series of markers he’d set up across the lawn. “Speed is impressive, Pietro, but it’s useless without control. If you’re off by even a fraction of a second at high velocity—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Pietro said, waving him off with a roll of his eyes. “Crash and burn. Got it. Let’s just do this already.”

He crouched, ready to take off, his body taut like a coiled spring.

“On my count,” Hank said, glancing at his stopwatch. “Three… two… one…”

Pietro launched forward in a blur, the grass beneath his sneakers smoothed from the friction. He zipped through the markers with ease, each movement precise and effortless. But as he pushed himself harder, something strange began to happen.

The world around him shifted. The vibrant greens and golds of the backyard dulled as if someone had turned down the saturation. The wind that usually roared in his ears softened to a whisper, and the markers he was supposed to be dodging seemed frozen in place.

“What the…” Pietro’s voice trailed off as he slowed to a stop, his breathing uneven. The sensation was surreal—like time itself slowed, leaving him suspended in a moment that stretched endlessly.

He stumbled, his concentration shattered, and landed on the ground in an unceremonious heap.

Hank was at his side in an instant, worry etched into his features. “Pietro! Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Pietro muttered, shaking his head as he sat up. “But something weird happened. It was like… everything just stopped. Or slowed down, I guess.”

Hank frowned, helping him to his feet. “Slowed down? What do you mean?”

Pietro gestured vaguely around him, struggling to find the right words. “It was like I was moving, but the rest of the world wasn’t. It felt… off.”

Hank’s expression shifted from concern to intrigue, his scientific curiosity igniting. “Interesting. Let’s try again. Carefully this time.”

The second attempt confirmed Pietro’s suspicions. As he accelerated, the same phenomenon occurred. The world blurred and muted around him, the edges of reality softening into something unfamiliar. This time, he forced himself to stay calm, deliberately slowing his movements to test the boundaries of this strange ability.

When he finally came to a stop, Hank was already scribbling notes furiously.

“It’s not time slowing,” Hank said, his voice tinged with awe. “It’s your perception accelerating. Pietro, you’re moving so fast that your brain processes information at a rate far beyond normal human capacity.”

“Great,” Pietro said, though his grin was smaller than usual. “So now I’m not just fast—I’m freaky fast.”

“It’s more than that,” Hank said thoughtfully. “This kind of ability could have significant implications. You could predict movement, react to dangers with near-perfect timing—but only if you learn to control it.”

Charles had been observing from a distance, drawn by Pietro’s fluctuating emotions. He approached the pair slowly, his shoes tapping softly against the stone path that led to the backyard.

“Is everything alright?” he asked, his gaze flicking between Hank and Pietro.

Pietro hesitated, his usual bravado faltering. “Yeah, I guess. It’s just… this new thing I can do. Hank says it’s all about control, but it feels…” He trailed off, searching for the right word.

“Overwhelming?” Charles offered gently.

Pietro nodded, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“Discovering new facets of your abilities can be disorienting,” Charles said, his tone calm and reassuring. “But it’s also an opportunity to grow—to understand yourself in ways you didn’t before.”

“Great pep talk, Professor,” Pietro muttered, though there was no malice in his voice. “But what if I screw it up?”

“You will,” Charles said simply, surprising Pietro. “And that’s part of the process. Every mistake teaches you something. And you’re not alone in this—you have Hank, Wanda, and even me to help you.”

The sincerity in Charles’s words seemed to ease some of Pietro’s tension.

“Thanks, Professor,” Pietro said quietly, his usual smirk returning. “But don’t expect me to get all mushy about it.”

Charles chuckled. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

As Charles and Pietro finished their conversation, Wanda appeared at the edge of the backyard, her red cardigan catching the late afternoon sun. She had been watching from the sidelines for a while, her expression thoughtful.

“Pietro,” she called her voice soft but carrying a note of concern. “Are you okay?”

Pietro glanced at her, his usual cocky demeanour slipping into something softer. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a new power thing. You know, the usual.”

Wanda’s brow furrowed as she approached, her steps slow and deliberate. “It didn’t feel like the usual. I could sense you… struggling.”

Pietro hesitated, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. Charles stepped back slightly, giving the twins the space they needed. Hank, meanwhile, busied himself with his notes, though it was clear he was still listening.

“It’s weird,” Pietro finally admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Everything slows down—like I’m the only one moving. It’s like the whole world’s just… not there anymore.”

Wanda tilted her head, her hands moving slightly at her sides as if testing the air around him. “You’re not alone in that moment, Pietro. I’m here. I can help.”

He raised an eyebrow, his usual teasing tone creeping back in. “Help how? You gonna wave your magic hands and make it go away?”

“Maybe,” Wanda said with a small smile, though her tone was serious. “Or maybe I can help you understand it.”

Pietro opened his mouth to retort but stopped when he saw the sincerity in her eyes. He sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Alright, fine. What’s the plan, Witchy?”

Wanda ignored the nickname and reached out, placing her hands lightly on Pietro’s temples. “Just… trust me. Close your eyes and focus.”

He frowned but complied, his eyes slipping shut as Wanda’s magic sparked faintly to life. A soft, crimson glow surrounded them, and Pietro felt an odd sensation—not unpleasant, but unfamiliar.

Through her magic, Wanda gently connected to the thread of energy that fueled Pietro’s speed. She didn’t try to control it, only observe it, letting her mind brush against his in a way that felt both intimate and grounding.

“Do you feel that?” she asked softly.

“Yeah,” Pietro murmured. “It’s… steady. Not like before.”

“That’s because you’re not fighting it,” Wanda explained. “You’re letting it flow. That’s the key, Pietro. You don’t have to control everything—sometimes, you just have to let it be.”

When Pietro opened his eyes, the world seemed sharper and clearer, but not overwhelming. He glanced at Wanda, his usual bravado gone. “How’d you do that?”

She smiled faintly. “You’re my brother. I’ve been grounding you my whole life.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he muttered, though his smirk didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Charles stepped forward then, his expression one of quiet pride. “You see, Pietro? You have more support than you realize. And you,” he said, turning to Wanda, “have a remarkable ability to connect with others. Don’t underestimate that.”

Wanda looked down, a faint blush colouring her cheeks. “It’s nothing. He’s my twin. It’s just… natural.”

“Maybe,” Charles said gently, “but it’s also extraordinary.”

The twins shared a glance, their bond palpable even without words.

Hank, who had been watching quietly, cleared his throat. “Well, as touching as this is, I think we’ve had enough excitement for one day. Pietro, if you’re going to keep testing your powers, I suggest we move to the lab before you accidentally cause a blackout.”

“Relax, Big Guy,” Pietro said, his confidence returning. “I’ve got it under control now. Mostly.”

The group began to head inside, the tension from earlier replaced with a lighter, more hopeful atmosphere. Wanda and Pietro walked ahead, their playful banter filling the air, while Charles lingered behind with Hank.

“You were right,” Charles said quietly. “They’ve come so far.”

Hank smiled. “And so have you, Charles.”

Charles didn’t respond immediately, his gaze lingering on the twins. For the first time in a long while, he felt a glimmer of peace—not because the pain of the past had disappeared, but because, in this moment, he was surrounded by something new. Something worth holding onto.

And for now, that was enough.

As the group made their way inside, the mansion seemed to hum with quiet energy, the kind that only came from moments of connection and progress. Wanda and Pietro were still playfully teasing each other as they walked ahead, their footsteps echoing faintly in the hall. Charles and Hank followed at a slower pace, their conversation continuing in low tones.

“They’ve certainly shaken up life here, haven’t they?” Hank said, a small smile playing on his lips.

Charles nodded, his hands clasped behind his back. “They’ve reminded me what it feels like to have hope again.”

Hank glanced at him, his expression softening. “That’s a big step, Charles. They trust you—you’ve earned it.”

“I wonder,” Charles said, his voice tinged with doubt. “Or perhaps they’ve simply adapted to a life where trusting someone is their only choice. It’s a fragile bond, Hank. One misstep, and it could shatter.”

Hank frowned but didn’t press further. He knew Charles well enough to understand when to offer comfort and when to let silence do the work.

Ahead, Wanda stopped suddenly, her gaze fixed on a painting hanging crookedly on the wall. It was a landscape—rolling hills, a calm sky—but the colours had faded with time, and a tear in the corner revealed the canvas underneath.

“This one’s always been like this,” Wanda said, her tone curious.

Pietro turned, raising an eyebrow. “So? It’s just an old painting.”

“It doesn’t have to stay old,” Wanda replied, reaching out with her magic. A soft red glow surrounded the painting as the tear mended itself and the colours brightened, returning to their original vibrancy.

Pietro rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his grin. “Show-off.”

“Better than letting things fall apart,” Wanda retorted, crossing her arms.

Charles and Hank caught up just as the glow faded. Charles looked at the painting and then at Wanda, his expression unreadable for a moment.

“You’ve given it new life,” he said finally, his voice warm.

Wanda shrugged, brushing off the praise. “It wasn’t much.”

“It was,” Charles countered gently. “You saw something worth saving, and you acted. That’s no small thing.”

Pietro shifted uncomfortably, his usual defence mechanism kicking in. “Alright, enough with the sentimentality. What’s for dinner?”

Hank chuckled. “I’ll see what I can scrounge up. Don’t get your hopes up for anything gourmet.”

As Hank headed toward the kitchen, the twins followed Pietro’s exaggerated groans about food filling the air. Wanda lingered for a moment, casting one last glance at the painting before catching up with her brother.

Charles remained behind, his gaze still fixed on the restored artwork. The sight stirred something deep within him—a sense of renewal, of things that had been broken finding their way back together.

“Something on your mind?” Hank’s voice broke his reverie as he returned, carrying a tray with mugs of tea.

Charles smiled faintly, accepting one of the mugs. “Just… reflecting. They’ve brought so much change into this house.”

Hank sipped his tea thoughtfully. “Change isn’t a bad thing, Charles. You’re learning to adapt, too.”

Charles gave a quiet laugh. “Adaptation has always been Erik’s specialty, not mine.”

Hank tilted his head. “Maybe. But I think you’re underestimating yourself. You’ve done more than just adapt—you’ve started building something new. And that’s worth holding onto.”

Charles didn’t respond immediately, his thoughts turning back to Wanda and Pietro. They were far from perfect, but neither was he. Together, though, they were finding a way forward—a way to heal, to trust, to hope.

And in the quiet moments like these, Charles allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, they were becoming a family after all.

Charles lingered a moment longer, the faint warmth of the tea seeping into his hands as he cradled the mug. He looked at the painting Wanda had mended, its renewed vibrancy seeming almost out of place against the faded walls of the mansion. It was a small gesture, yet it spoke volumes—a quiet declaration that some things were worth salvaging, even if they seemed beyond repair.

He thought of Erik again, of the promises they’d once made, the visions of a shared future that now seemed like relics of a different life. The mansion was filled with ghosts—of students who had come and gone, of friends who had grown distant, and of a love that had left him aching but unwilling to forget.

But now, new voices were filling these halls, new life and laughter. The twins had arrived like a storm, unpredictable and occasionally overwhelming, but they’d brought something with them that Charles hadn’t realized he was missing: a reason to hope.

“Are you just going to stand there brooding all evening?” Hank’s teasing voice broke through his thoughts.

Charles glanced at him, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “It’s part of my charm, or so I’ve been told.”

Hank chuckled, taking a seat on the arm of a nearby chair. “Well, if brooding is your charm, the twins have certainly mastered the art of chaos.”

“They have,” Charles agreed, his tone soft. “But it’s a chaos I’ve come to welcome. They remind me of how much life there is yet to live, how much there is still to fight for.”

Hank studied him for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “You’ve taken on a lot, Charles. They look up to you more than you realize. But you’re only human—you’re allowed to feel overwhelmed sometimes.”

Charles nodded, his gaze drifting toward the sound of the twins’ voices coming from the kitchen. Pietro’s exaggerated complaints and Wanda’s sharp retorts blended into a symphony of sibling camaraderie, and for a moment, it filled the mansion with a warmth it hadn’t known in years.

“I’ve spent so much of my life trying to guide others, to help them find their paths,” Charles said quietly. “But with Wanda and Pietro… it feels different. They’re not just students. They’re—” He hesitated, the word catching in his throat.

“Family,” Hank finished for him.

Charles glanced at him, his expression caught between gratitude and vulnerability. “Yes,” he admitted. “Family.”

Hank clapped a reassuring hand on Charles’s shoulder. “Then stop doubting yourself. You’re doing fine, Charles. They’re lucky to have you, and I’d say you’re lucky to have them, too.”

Charles managed a faint smile. “I suppose I am.”

Hank stood, stretching. “Well, I’m off to referee whatever chaos they’re stirring up in the kitchen. Coming?”

“In a moment,” Charles said, his voice distant as his gaze returned to the painting.

Hank left with a knowing smile, his footsteps fading down the hall. Charles remained where he was, the sound of laughter and bickering echoing faintly from the kitchen.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Charles allowed himself to believe that the mansion wasn’t just a place for rebuilding—it was a home. And within its walls, a family was slowly, imperfectly, coming together.

He raised his mug in a quiet toast to the future, to the twins, to Erik, and to himself. There was still so much left to heal, so much left to learn, but for now, this was enough.

Charles sat in the stillness of the room for a few moments longer, his eyes fixed on the painting that now seemed to capture something of his own heart. It was strange, how something so simple—a few restored threads, a few hours of care—could hold so much weight. The twins had found their way into his life in ways he had never expected, their presence knitting itself into the very fabric of the mansion.

As the last echoes of Hank’s footsteps faded, Charles let his thoughts wander again, this time less heavy. It was true that Erik had left a scar on his soul that time hadn’t fully healed, but there were other scars—ones that came from the bonds forged with those still here.

Wanda and Pietro’s laughter pierced through his thoughts once more, a chaotic but somehow comforting sound that called him back to the present. The house was alive. The twins were alive in it, filling it with their quirks, their needs, their questions. They were teaching him as much as he was teaching them, in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

With a soft sigh, Charles pushed himself to his feet, setting the mug down with more finality than he intended. He hadn’t allowed himself to embrace the idea of family, not fully. The loss of Erik had cast a long shadow over any hope of it. But now, standing in this room filled with the remnants of a love lost and a future uncertain, Charles felt something new. He felt the pull of what could be, not just of what was.

He walked towards the kitchen, the sound of the twins growing louder as he approached. As he stepped into the doorway, his eyes caught sight of the two of them, wrapped up in their usual banter, hands busy with whatever creation they’d decided to cook up—or, more likely, destroy.

Pietro was waving a spatula dramatically, his words flowing as fast as his movements. “I told you this was a terrible idea! Why did you think this would work?!”

Wanda was scrunching her nose, her hands covered in flour, an expression of utter determination on her face. “Because I know we can do it if we just focus. Just one more try.”

Charles couldn’t help but chuckle at the scene, leaning against the doorframe. “I think I’ve had enough of your ‘just one more try’ approach in the past few days to last me a lifetime.”

The twins froze for a moment, turning to look at him, their faces a perfect blend of mischief and surprise.

“Charles!” Wanda exclaimed, her face lighting up. “Come help us! We’re going to make something amazing !”

Pietro raised an eyebrow, his usual sarcasm creeping into his tone. “Or destroy the kitchen. Depends on how you look at it.”

Charles smiled, shaking his head softly. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a cook.”

“No worries!” Wanda said cheerfully, holding up a small bowl, which was a mixture of various ingredients in a far-from-ideal state. “You’re just here to make sure it’s perfect.”

Charles stepped into the kitchen, taking a seat at the table as Wanda and Pietro continued to clumsily stir their concoction. He watched them with a soft smile, his heart swelling with an unfamiliar warmth. These moments—the simple, everyday moments—were what he’d once thought were beyond his reach. But now, with Wanda and Pietro in his life, he was beginning to understand that this was enough.

He didn’t need to chase a past that would never return. He didn’t need to measure himself against a relationship that had fractured so long ago. There was a future here, in this kitchen, with these children—these young people—who had chosen to trust him.

As the twins squabbled over the next step, Charles leaned back in his chair and allowed himself to be swept along in their energy. It was chaotic, it was loud, and it was messy, but it was also real. It was their home, his home, in a way he hadn’t allowed it to be in years.

Wanda caught his eye and smiled warmly. “You’re still here, right?” she asked, as though testing the waters.

Charles nodded, his voice was soft but firm. “I’m right here, Wanda.”

Pietro glanced over with a smirk. “Good. We need all the help we can get, especially if you’re the one keeping us from burning the place down.”

Laughter bubbled up from all three of them, the sound filling the kitchen, and for the first time in what felt like ages, Charles allowed himself to feel at peace. The past would always be there, just as Erik would always be a part of him. But the future—his future—was right here, in this house, with the twins who had found their way into his heart.

Charles sat back, the warmth of their presence settling into his chest. He was learning, slowly but surely, that family wasn’t about perfection—it was about these moments. These small, fleeting moments where everything, for a brief second, felt whole again.

And that, he realized, was more than enough.

The kitchen buzzed with energy, the sound of laughter and clattering utensils filling the space. Wanda and Pietro continued to argue over the finer points of their culinary disaster—Pietro was too impatient with the measurements, while Wanda, ever determined, refused to let him abandon the project so easily.

Charles watched them, his eyes softening. There was something about the way they worked together—sometimes with sharp words, sometimes with laughter—that was a little chaotic but also... beautiful. He'd never expected to find himself here, in this moment. It was strange, how life could take unexpected turns, how things that once seemed so impossible could gradually become so very real.

Wanda reached for the pan on the stove, but it slipped from her grasp and tumbled to the floor with a loud clatter. She gasped, and for a split second, there was silence.

Pietro froze, eyes wide, then immediately knelt to inspect the damage. “You’re lucky it didn’t shatter!” he said with a grin, though it was clear he was only pretending to be mad.

Wanda, her face turning a shade of red, pushed her hair out of her face with a huff. “It was an accident! Anyway, we’ll just start over.”

Before Charles could speak, Pietro shot a look at him, his usual sarcasm taking over. “See what I mean? You’re going to have to come to the rescue, Charles. I’m not letting her sabotage our dinner plans without your expertise.”

Charles chuckled softly, pushing away from the table. "Alright, alright, I’ll help."

He moved to where Wanda was trying to salvage what was left of the pan, giving her a gentle hand to steady it. His fingers brushed hers for a moment—just a fleeting touch—but it sent a warmth through him that was both unexpected and comforting.

“I think we might need to rethink the whole cooking concept,” he said gently, his voice more teasing than serious. “Maybe baking would be safer. Less... potential for disaster.”

Wanda laughed softly, and for a brief moment, it was as if the kitchen held only the three of them, wrapped in a cocoon of simple, unspoken understanding. They were in this together, this chaotic, imperfect, wonderful family they had made.

Pietro, sensing the lighthearted turn in the moment, moved to the counter, grabbing some of the remaining ingredients in a mock-serious tone. “Fine, we’ll take your advice this time, Charles. But I’m telling you, baking is even worse. Who needs flour anyway?”

Charles smiled, then his gaze flickered toward the window, the afternoon sun slipping lower in the sky, painting the room with warm hues.

The twins were no longer the lost children they had once been, stumbling into his life with confusion and fear. They had grown, in ways he never could have predicted. And Charles had grown alongside them, allowing himself to feel a tenderness he’d long shut off, letting the barriers he’d built so carefully begin to crumble.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, but with a sincerity that only they could understand. “For trusting me... for letting me be part of this.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, and then Wanda turned to him, her face softening as she gave him a small, knowing smile.

“We’re family now, Charles,” she said. “We don’t have to thank you.”

Pietro nodded in agreement, his usual bravado momentarily slipping away. “Yeah, we’re stuck with you. Just like you’re stuck with us.”

Charles chuckled, the heaviness in his chest easing just a little more. Family.

The word tasted different on his tongue now. Not a shadow of what had been, but something new. Something real.

As the last of the ingredients were measured out, as the kitchen became quieter with each passing minute, Charles let the warmth of the room settle deeper into his bones. No, it hadn’t been the future he imagined when Erik had been by his side. But this? This could be just as meaningful.

He wasn’t sure where life would take them all, but for now, he felt like he had a place. With the twins, with Hank, with this strange, beautifully imperfect family they had come to build together. And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.

As the evening stretched on, they finally sat down to their creation—far from perfect, but filled with laughter and shared moments that would linger in their hearts long after the meal was finished. They were a family, after all, in their own messy, beautiful way. And that was all they needed.

Charles leaned in the doorway to the living room, his arms folded across his chest as he watched the twins turn the space into their personal playground. Pietro zipped from one end to the other in bursts of energy, narrowly avoiding furniture while letting out gleeful whoops. Wanda, seated cross-legged on the floor, giggled as she levitated cushions in his path, hoping to trip him up. The room was filled with laughter and the occasional dramatic “Watch out!” as Pietro narrowly dodged yet another airborne pillow.

Charles finally cleared his throat, stepping into the room with a knowing smile. “Alright, you two. That’s enough for tonight—it’s time for bed.”

Pietro immediately skidded to a halt, his expression a mix of disbelief and rebellion. “Bed? Are you kidding? I’m not even close to tired!” He gestured dramatically at himself. “Look at me! Wide awake.”

Wanda chimed in, equally defiant. “Yeah, me too! We’re not tired at all, Charles. Not even a little.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Not tired, you say? Interesting. I seem to recall a certain someone falling asleep at the dinner table last night.”

“That was different!” Wanda protested, hopping to her feet. “That was because you made us eat vegetables.”

Pietro nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, vegetables are basically sleep traps. This is totally different.”

At that moment, Hank appeared in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame with a smirk. “I see the bedtime negotiations have begun.”

Charles sighed. “Negotiations would imply they’re willing to compromise.”

Hank chuckled, stepping into the room. “Oh, I’ve been through this before. They’ll try every trick in the book to avoid going to bed.”

“Not true!” Wanda declared, puffing out her chest. “We’re just… not ready yet. Maybe we could stay up a little longer?”

“Just five more minutes,” Pietro added, holding up his fingers for emphasis.

Charles crossed his arms, his expression firm but amused. “Five minutes turns into ten, and ten turns into an hour. No, it’s time for bed.”

The twins groaned in unison, collapsing dramatically onto the sofa. “But we’re not tired!” Wanda wailed, burying her face in the cushions.

“I’m full of energy!” Pietro added, bouncing slightly for effect before flopping down beside her.

Hank shook his head, leaning closer to Charles. “You know, this could take a while. Want me to bring coffee?”

“No need,” Charles replied, his voice wry. “I’ve handled unruly children before.”

The twins, however, were just getting started. Wanda sat up, her eyes wide with feigned innocence. “What if we promise to go to bed early tomorrow? Extra early?”

“And what if we read something boring before bed tonight?” Pietro suggested. “Like one of Hank’s science books.”

“Hey!” Hank protested, but there was no malice in his tone.

Charles held up a hand, silencing the bickering. “Enough stalling. Bedtime means bedtime.”

“But we’re not kids!” Wanda exclaimed.

“Oh really?” Charles replied, his voice tinged with teasing. “What are you, then?”

“Grown-ups,” Wanda declared, crossing her arms.

“Very mature grown-ups,” Pietro added, attempting to stand tall but swaying dramatically.

Hank chuckled. “Mature? That’s debatable.”

The twins doubled down on their protests, pulling out every excuse they could think of. Wanda feigned a yawn and immediately said, “See? I was just testing you. Still not tired.” Pietro tried to sneak away toward the kitchen, claiming he needed “a midnight snack for energy,” but Hank intercepted him with ease.

Despite his firm tone, Charles couldn’t help but feel his heart swell as he watched them. Their youthful defiance, their teamwork, their laughter—it was a reminder of how young and innocent they truly were.

Finally, their energy began to wane. Wanda let out a small yawn she couldn’t hide, and Pietro’s bouncing slowed until he was slumped against the sofa. Charles walked over and sat between them, his presence calming. Without thinking, Wanda leaned against his shoulder, her eyes drooping, while Pietro curled up on his other side.

Hank raised an eyebrow, nodding toward the now-sleeping twins. “Look at that. They fought the good fight, but they lost.”

Charles smiled softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s moments like these that remind me how much they’ve been through… and how much they’ve given me.”

“They’re lucky to have you,” Hank said, his tone uncharacteristically gentle.

Charles didn’t reply, his focus on the small, peaceful forms leaning against him. Carefully, he slid one arm under Wanda and the other beneath Pietro, lifting them with ease. Wanda’s fingers clung to the edge of his sleeve, even in her sleep, and Pietro let out a quiet sigh, settling against him.

“Need help?” Hank asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

“I’ve got them,” Charles said, his voice warm. “Goodnight, Hank.”

Hank watched as Charles carried the twins out of the room, the sight unexpectedly touching.

Charles moved quietly through the dimly lit halls of the mansion, their even breathing steady against him. When he reached their rooms, he laid Wanda down first, brushing a strand of hair from her face before tucking her in. Pietro followed, curling instinctively under the covers as Charles adjusted the blanket around him.

Standing in the doorway, Charles lingered for a moment, his expression soft. This was his family—not the one he’d imagined, but the one he’d been given. And as he turned off the light and closed the door, he couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude.

The mansion was quiet, its vast halls stretched in peaceful silence that only intensified the isolation that hung in the air. The soft glow of the moon crept through the curtains, casting a gentle light that seemed to highlight the stillness of the night. But for Wanda, the stillness only made the fear louder.

The darkness was suffocating. The hum of something large and metal was relentless, vibrating through the ground beneath her feet. The air was thick with a crushing weight. Screams echoed through the streets, but they were distant, faint—barely audible through the pounding in her head. The smell of burning buildings filled the air, the sound of footsteps—heavy, purposeful, mechanical—growing closer with each breath she took. She looked for Pietro and called his name, but the words were swallowed by the roaring of the world around her. He was always there, always by her side, but now he was lost in the chaos. She was alone. Alone with them.

And then—

“You can’t stop this.”

The voice, cold and detached, sent a shiver down her spine, cutting through her chest like ice. Wanda tried to run. She pushed herself, the power inside her surging to protect her brother, to protect them both—but it was no use. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't escape.

“You can’t save anyone.”

The nightmare spiralled, trapping her in a loop of dread and hopelessness, until she jolted awake with a sharp, strangled gasp. Her chest heaved, the remnants of the dream still clawing at her consciousness, leaving a bitter, unsettled taste in her mouth. The world around her felt too quiet, too still in contrast to the storm that had raged in her mind. The tears came then, slow and relentless as if they were the only way to expel the fear she couldn't shake.

She glanced at Pietro’s bed. He was there, curled into the blankets, his breathing steady, undisturbed by the horror that had gripped her. He was safe. He was asleep. But that realization didn’t ease the cold knot of fear in her stomach. Not tonight. Not after the dream.

Wanda couldn’t stay there, couldn’t lie still, not with the feeling of the nightmare still echoing in her mind. She slipped from her bed quietly, the floor cool against her feet, each step felt like it was pulling her toward something. She needed to feel safe. She needed something more than the nightmare that clung to her skin like a second layer.

When she reached Charles’s room, the door was slightly ajar—just enough to let her slip inside without disturbing the stillness of the house. She hesitated for a moment, her hand trembling on the doorknob, then gently pushed it open. The soft lamplight cast shadows on his desk, on the chair beside the bed, and most importantly, on the man who lay there, still and peaceful in his sleep.

He looked so calm, so safe, so... untouchable. Wanda had never really thought about it, but there was something in the way Charles carried himself, something in the softness of his expression when he was at rest, that made him seem untouchable to her. Yet, tonight, she couldn’t help but feel drawn to him, like he was the only one who could make the nightmare disappear, the only one who could make her feel whole again.

Her heart raced as she stepped closer to the bed, her small hand reaching out to him. She nudged him lightly, her voice small, barely a whisper, “Charles…”

He stirred almost immediately, his eyelids fluttering as he woke, his mind clearing quickly at the sound of her voice. His gaze softened when he saw her, the worry clear in his eyes. He sat up a little, adjusting the sheets as he rubbed his eyes. The dim light accentuated the soft lines on his face, making him look older and more tired. Yet, when he looked at her, there was nothing but concern.

“What’s wrong, my dear?” His voice was gentle, laced with sleep but filled with warmth. There was no question, no hesitation—he was already reaching for her, pulling her into the safety of his embrace.

Wanda didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. She just crawled into bed beside him, curling herself as tightly as she could against his side. The comfort of his presence was immediate, and soothing, like the world outside had suddenly faded away. She buried her face against his chest, her hands fisting the fabric of his shirt. Her breath came in shuddering gasps, the last remnants of the nightmare slowly being replaced by the rhythmic beating of his heart. Safe.

“I had a bad dream,” she mumbled, her words muffled by the fabric of his shirt.

“I know, sweetheart,” Charles whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head. His arms wrapped around her, holding her close, offering her all the protection he could. “But you’re safe now. I’m right here.”

Wanda didn’t answer, didn’t try to say anything more. She just held onto him as if she were afraid that if she let go, the nightmare would come rushing back. Her body was small and fragile in his arms, and he held her like the most precious thing in the world.

She pressed herself deeper into his chest, still trembling. There was nothing in her but this overwhelming need to feel him— her protector, her safety. She barely noticed that her voice, low and soft, slipped out before she realized what she was saying.

“I—I didn’t know where else to go…” she whispered, her words breaking through the quiet. “I just… I wanted my daddy.”

The words hung in the air like they were both a revelation and a plea. Her voice, so small, so raw with the weight of a child’s fear, cut through him in a way he wasn’t prepared for. Daddy. She had called him that. So naturally. So easily. It slipped out of her mouth before she even realized what she was saying.

Charles froze, his heart nearly stopping as the sound of the word reverberated in his chest. He swallowed hard, a mixture of overwhelming love and sadness pulling at him. He had never been a father before, never had the chance to feel this kind of tenderness for anyone, but in that moment, holding Wanda close, he realized that she had claimed him in a way no one had before. She had claimed him as hers. Her daddy.

The realization nearly brought tears to his own eyes, but he held them back, not wanting to disturb the peace between them. His fingers gently ran through her hair, calming her as she clung to him, her small body still trembling from the remnants of the dream.

“Oh, Wanda,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

Wanda didn’t reply. She only clung tighter to him, her face buried against his chest, her small body completely relaxed now that she was with him. The feeling of her in his arms—so fragile, so trusting—made something in his heartache with an intensity that took him by surprise. She was his. She needed him.

Charles looked over at the space next to him, half-expecting to see Pietro charging in, as he always did. But there was nothing. No footsteps. No familiar face rushing to join his sister. For a moment, the quiet unsettled him, but he quickly dismissed the thought. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that Wanda was here, in his arms, safe.

He kissed the top of her head, feeling the weight of her small body against him as her breathing evened out, her grip loosening as sleep overtook her. He held her close, reluctant to let go, wishing he could protect her from everything. From the nightmares, from the world outside, from the things she didn’t yet understand. And Charles would hold her, cradle her, for as long as she needed him. She was his baby now.

As Charles lay there, his arms still wrapped around Wanda, the soft, steady rhythm of her breath against his chest was the only sound in the room. The warmth of her tiny body pressed so close to his made him feel as though he could protect her from everything. The nightmare that had gripped her was fading, replaced by the gentle comfort of his presence.

He found himself lost in the quiet intimacy of the moment, his fingers tracing small circles on her back, trying to anchor both of them to the peaceful reality they now inhabited. The weight of his role as her protector, her father, felt both overwhelming and comforting all at once. It was a responsibility he had never imagined for himself, but here she was, his daughter, wrapped in his arms. And somehow, despite the complex emotions swirling inside him, he knew it was exactly where he was meant to be.

Outside the window, the night deepened, the mansion sinking into a serene stillness. The house seemed to hold its breath, as though honouring the tender moment between them. And though Charles had long ago learned to hide his emotions behind a mask of calm, with Wanda nestled so perfectly in his embrace, there was no hiding the tenderness that filled his heart. This was real. She was real. She was his.

In the soft darkness of the room, Charles’s thoughts shifted to Pietro, wondering where his other child had gone off to. Normally, they were inseparable, but tonight, Pietro had stayed behind. Charles couldn't help but feel a pang of longing for the other twin, wishing he could hold them both in this moment and share the same quiet warmth. But, for tonight, it was just Wanda. And that was enough.

Pietro's absence didn't go unnoticed by Charles, but he trusted that Pietro, as always, would come to him when he was ready. The bond between them was unspoken, but it was strong. Pietro knew that when he needed it, Charles would be there—just as he was for Wanda now.

Charles’s thoughts slowed, and his eyelids grew heavy. The gentle weight of Wanda in his arms, the soft, comforting sound of her breathing, lulled him into a state of tranquillity he hadn’t experienced in years. He could feel her heartbeat against his chest, steady and calm, and for the first time in so long, he allowed himself to just be —to stop thinking, stop planning, and just hold her.

He would never let go. He wouldn’t have to.

With a soft exhale, Charles pulled the blankets up around them both, as if warding off any remnants of the nightmare that still clung to her. And in that moment, with Wanda tucked so safely under his chin, he made a silent promise to her. A promise that, no matter what, he would always be there. To protect, to guide, to love. No matter the storm outside, inside this room, she would always find warmth in his arms.

And as he succumbed to the quiet peace of sleep, a small, content smile tugged at his lips.

The night stretched on, and within the protective cocoon of his arms, Wanda remained deeply asleep, her small hand resting over his heart, as though she too had finally found peace.

The clock ticked softly in the background, marking the passage of time. Hours passed, and the mansion, with its towering walls and quiet halls, stood sentinel over them, guarding this fragile moment of connection.

And somewhere in the distance, the rest of the world continued, but for Charles and Wanda, the only world that mattered was this one—quiet, tender, and full of love.

The night passed without further interruption, the world outside fading into the background as Wanda and Charles slept, entwined in a silent, unspoken understanding of the bond they had forged. It wasn’t perfect, and the road ahead would be filled with its own challenges. But for now, in the stillness of the night, they were exactly where they needed to be.

Together.

Chapter Text

Warm morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a golden glow over the room. Charles stirred slightly, the weight of the previous night still heavy in his chest. As his eyes fluttered open, his gaze immediately fell on Wanda, curled up against him, her chest rising and falling softly with each breath. She was still there.

It wasn’t a dream.

A wave of relief and warmth washed over him. Charles simply lay there, watching her small, peaceful form for a fleeting moment. Her red-brown hair was tousled, and one tiny hand rested over his heart as though to anchor herself. The sight made his chest ache—not with pain, but with a love so profound it was almost overwhelming.

He remembered every detail of the night before her tear-streaked face, the way she had clutched at him, trembling and vulnerable. She had called him "Daddy" without even realising it, her voice was so small, so full of trust.

His heart swelled again at the memory.

Wanda began to stir, her small frame shifting closer to his. Her green eyes fluttered open, still bleary with sleep. She looked at him for a moment, confused, and then her face softened.

"Good morning, sweetheart," Charles whispered, his voice warm but soft, not wanting to startle her.

She yawned, her head nestling back against his chest. "Good morning, Daddy," she mumbled, the word slipping out so naturally that she didn’t seem to notice it.

Charles froze for a moment, his throat tightening. There it was again—that word that meant more to him than he could ever put into words.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked gently, smoothing a hand over her hair.

Wanda nodded sleepily. "Better," she whispered. Then, after a pause, she added, "Because of you."

Charles closed his eyes briefly, trying to keep his emotions in check. She was only eight—a child seeking comfort, but her words carried a weight that struck him deeply.

He shifted slightly, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. "I’ll always be here for you," he promised softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Once Wanda had drifted back to sleep, Charles let himself reflect on everything that had happened. He thought about the nightmare that had driven her to him—the terror in her eyes, the shaking of her small frame as she clung to him.

And yet, it wasn’t just the nightmare that lingered in his mind. It was the way she had sought him out, the way she trusted him so implicitly. It was the way she had called him "Daddy," as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

He couldn’t help but wonder about Pietro. Had the boy noticed his sister's absence? Pietro was so protective, so attuned to Wanda’s every need—it felt odd that he hadn’t come running after her.

For a brief moment, Charles worried. He half-expected Pietro to burst into the room at any second, his quick movements filling the space with energy and urgency. But the mansion was quiet, and he realized Pietro was likely still asleep.

The twins had always been a pair, inseparable in ways Charles admired and marvelled at. Yet here Wanda was, alone with him, her presence filling a part of him he hadn’t even realized was empty.

Eventually, Wanda began to stir again, this time more fully awake. She rubbed her eyes and looked up at him, her small face thoughtful.

"Did I wake you last night?" she asked, her voice small and hesitant.

Charles smiled. "Not at all. You needed me, and I’m glad you came to me," he reassured her, his tone gentle.

Her lips trembled slightly, and she looked down. "I was scared," she admitted. "I didn’t want to be alone."

"You’re never alone, Wanda," Charles said firmly, his voice filled with conviction. "Not as long as I’m here."

Her gaze lifted to meet his, her green eyes wide and searching. "You mean it?"

"With all my heart," Charles said softly, his hand resting lightly on her back.

For a moment, Wanda didn’t say anything. Then she leaned forward, wrapping her arms around his neck in a tight hug. Charles held her close, his heart swelling once again.

"Thank you, Daddy," she whispered, the word slipping out again so naturally that it brought tears to his eyes.

He held her tightly, vowing silently to never let her feel alone again.

The soft creak of the bedroom door drew Charles’s attention just as Wanda shifted slightly in his arms, snuggling closer. He glanced up to see a familiar blur of silver and blue—Pietro, his hair still mussed from sleep, rubbing his eyes as he lingered in the doorway.

“Wanda?” Pietro’s voice was soft, more curious than accusatory. His sharp blue eyes darted between his sister, tucked snugly against Charles, and the professor himself, whose expression shifted from surprise to quiet warmth.

Wanda blinked sleepily at her brother. “Morning, Piet,” she mumbled, barely lifting her head from Charles’s chest.

Pietro hesitated for a moment, his brows furrowing as if weighing whether he was allowed to join them. Charles could see the flicker of uncertainty in his face—the slight hesitation that often came when the twins weren’t immediately together.

“You can come here, Pietro,” Charles said gently, his voice warm and inviting. “There’s plenty of room.”

That was all the reassurance Pietro needed. In an instant, he darted across the room, climbing onto the bed with an ease that belied his speed. He settled himself on Charles’s other side, mirroring Wanda’s position.

Charles let out a quiet laugh, a blend of joy and disbelief. Here they were, both of them, his two little ones tucked against him as though this were the most natural thing in the world.

“You didn’t wake me up,” Pietro murmured to Wanda, though there was no bitterness in his tone—only the faintest hint of mock complaint.

“I was scared,” Wanda said softly, tilting her head to look at her brother.

“Well, I’m here now,” Pietro replied firmly, his arm wrapping protectively around her, even as he leaned against Charles.

Charles watched the interaction with a mixture of awe and affection. The twins had always been inseparable, their bond unshakable, but this moment felt different. They weren’t just leaning on each other—they were leaning on him, too.

“You two make my heart so full,” Charles murmured, his voice thick with emotion. He rested a hand on each of their backs, holding them close. “You know that, don’t you?”

Wanda shifted, her hand clutching the fabric of Charles’s shirt as though anchoring herself. “We know,” she said softly, her voice almost a whisper.

Pietro glanced up, his expression uncharacteristically vulnerable. “We’re your kids, right?” he asked, his voice tentative, as though needing to hear the confirmation.

Charles’s breath caught, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. Then he nodded, his voice steady despite the lump in his throat. “Yes. You are. Both of you.”

The twins didn’t respond with words, but their actions spoke volumes. Wanda burrowed closer, and Pietro relaxed fully against him, his head resting on Charles’s shoulder.

Charles let out a deep, contented sigh. “I don’t think I’ve ever been happier than I am right now,” he said softly, his fingers brushing gently through Pietro’s silver hair.

For a while, they simply sat there in the quiet, the weight of the moment wrapping around them like a warm blanket.

As the twins’ breathing evened out, Charles realized they were both drifting back to sleep, their small forms pressed against him. He couldn’t help but marvel at how much his life had changed since they arrived.

It wasn’t without its challenges, but moments like this made it all worth it. These children—his children—had filled a void he hadn’t even known was there. They had brought him joy, purpose, and love in ways he hadn’t dared to dream of.

As he gazed down at them, he thought about Erik, about the past, and about the weight he had carried for so long. But at that moment, none of that mattered. What mattered was here and now—the two small, precious lives entrusted to him, who had chosen him as their father.

Charles tightened his arms around them, pressing a kiss to each of their heads. “My babies,” he whispered, his voice filled with love.

And as the morning sun continued to rise, Charles allowed himself to simply exist in the moment, his heart full and his family complete.

Later that morning, the twins sat with Charles in the breakfast nook, a small sunlit corner of the mansion where the light poured in through the tall windows. Wanda sat cross-legged on her chair, the last remnants of syrup from her pancakes smudged on her fingers. Pietro, ever the whirlwind, had devoured his plate in record time and now leaned back lazily, watching Wanda struggle to pour herself another glass of orange juice without spilling.

“Careful, Wanda,” Charles said softly, reaching to steady the pitcher before it tipped.

“Thanks, Daddy,” Wanda replied absentmindedly, her focus entirely on not splashing the juice onto the table.

Pietro froze, the sound of the word striking him like a crack of lightning. He blinked, staring at his sister as if she’d just grown a second head. Daddy?

Wanda, oblivious to her brother’s reaction, passed the juice pitcher back to Charles with a small smile. Charles, meanwhile, had stilled as well, his expression briefly flickering with surprise before melting into something soft and deeply affectionate.

“Of course, darling,” Charles murmured, his voice almost reverent.

Pietro’s mind raced, a whirl of thoughts colliding. Daddy. The word sounded foreign, yet somehow... right. He wasn’t angry—no, he couldn’t be angry. Wanda had always been more open with her feelings, quicker to accept the warmth Charles offered. But hearing her say it out loud? It stirred something deep within him, something he wasn’t entirely ready to name.

“Wanda,” Pietro finally said, his voice a little too loud in the quiet space.

She glanced at him, puzzled by his sharp tone. “What?”

“You—you called him Daddy,” Pietro said, gesturing toward Charles, who watched the exchange with quiet curiosity.

Wanda shrugged, entirely unfazed. “So?”

“So?” Pietro echoed, leaning forward. “Since when do we call anyone Daddy?”

Wanda tilted her head, her brow furrowing as she considered the question. “I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice softening. “It just... felt right.”

Charles’s heart clenched at the admission, the simple honesty in Wanda’s words a balm to the doubts that had plagued him only hours earlier.

“It is right,” Charles said gently, his voice cutting through the tension. He looked at Pietro, his gaze steady and reassuring. “But only if you feel it, Pietro. There’s no pressure.”

Pietro looked down at his hands, fidgeting with a loose thread on his sleeve. “I’m not mad or anything,” he muttered, his tone uncharacteristically subdued. “It’s just... weird, I guess. We’ve never had a dad before.”

Wanda reached out and placed her small hand on Pietro’s arm. “We do now,” she said simply, her voice filled with certainty.

Pietro glanced at her, his expression softening. It was hard to argue with Wanda when she was this sure of something.

Charles hesitated, unsure whether to speak. He didn’t want to push Pietro, didn’t want to rush something that had to happen naturally. But before he could decide, Pietro looked up, his blue eyes locking onto Charles’s.

“Do you... want to be our dad?” Pietro asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Charles’s breath caught, his chest tightening with emotion. “More than anything,” he admitted, his voice steady despite the lump in his throat.

Pietro stared at him for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether he believed him. Then, without a word, Pietro slid off his chair and crossed the small distance between them. He stopped in front of Charles, his arms stiff at his sides, before finally leaning in and wrapping them awkwardly around Charles’s middle.

Charles didn’t hesitate. He pulled Pietro close, one hand cradling the back of his head.

“I’ve got you, Pietro,” Charles murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll always have you.”

Wanda grinned from her seat, her heart swelling at the sight of her brother accepting the love she had already embraced.

After a moment, Pietro pulled back, his cheeks pink but his expression determined. “Okay,” he said, his voice firmer now. “But I’m not calling you Daddy. That’s still weird.”

Charles chuckled, his laughter light and warm. “That’s perfectly fine,” he assured him.

“Good,” Pietro said, though his lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile.

Wanda giggled, leaning over to poke Pietro in the ribs. “You will eventually,” she teased.

“Will not,” Pietro shot back, but there was no bite to his words.

Charles watched them with a heart full of love, his earlier doubts melting away entirely. He didn’t need a label, didn’t need to hear a specific word. What mattered was this—these moments, this connection, this family they were building together.

Hank had never considered himself an eavesdropper, but the mansion was vast, and sound travelled in peculiar ways. He had been passing the library, arms laden with a stack of books to return to their shelves when a snippet of conversation caught his attention. It wasn’t his intention to linger—but hearing Wanda’s small voice say the word "Daddy" made him pause.

“Do you think Daddy will let us stay up late again tonight?” Wanda asked, her tone hopeful.

Pietro snorted. “Not a chance. He’s been trying to get us to bed earlier all week.”

“Yeah, but he’s soft,” Wanda said confidently. “He can’t say no to us. We just have to ask really nicely.”

Hank nearly dropped the books. Daddy? He blinked, trying to process what he’d just heard.

The twins’ voices faded as they moved further into the library, still chattering away about their plan to charm Charles into letting them stay up past bedtime. Hank stood rooted to the spot for a moment, then carefully set the books down on a nearby table. He needed to talk to Charles.

Charles was in his study, sitting behind his desk and reviewing some old lesson plans when Hank strode in without knocking.

“Charles,” Hank said, shutting the door behind him.

“Hank,” Charles replied smoothly, glancing up with a raised eyebrow. “To what do I owe this uncharacteristic lack of decorum?”

Hank wasted no time. “When were you going to tell me the twins are calling you Daddy?”

Charles’s face lit up with a mixture of surprise and amusement. “Ah,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve heard, then?”

“Yes, I’ve heard!” Hank exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “And I’d like an explanation.”

Charles steepled his fingers, a small, smug smile tugging at his lips. “Well, Hank, it seems that my charming demeanour and paternal instincts have won them over. They’ve decided—entirely on their own, I might add—that I’m their father now.”

Hank stared at him, incredulous. “You do realise they’re Erik’s children, right?”

“Oh, I’m acutely aware,” Charles said, his tone practically dripping with satisfaction. “Isn’t it deliciously ironic?”

Hank sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Charles, this is serious. They’re just kids—they don’t fully understand what this means.”

“Of course, they don’t,” Charles agreed, though his smile didn’t waver. “But that doesn’t change the fact that they came to me. They needed someone, and I’ve been here for them. Unlike Erik, who, as we both know, is currently unavailable.”

“Unavailable,” Hank repeated flatly. “He’s in the Pentagon for killing the president, Charles.”

“Exactly,” Charles said, his voice taking on a playful lilt. “Which makes me the sole custodial parent, doesn’t it? Perhaps we should arrange some sort of visitation schedule. I could write to Erik—‘Dear Erik, the children are doing splendidly. They call me Daddy now. When would you like to arrange your supervised visits?’”

Hank groaned, torn between exasperation and the urge to laugh. “This isn’t a joke, Charles.”

“Oh, but it is,” Charles said, leaning forward with a gleam in his eye. “Erik’s left me to stew in the ruins of our relationship for years , Hank. And now? Now I have his children, and they adore me. It’s practically poetic justice.”

“You’re reveling in this,” Hank accused.

“Just a little,” Charles admitted, holding his thumb and forefinger a fraction apart. “Can you blame me? After everything Erik put me through, this feels like... karma.”

Hank couldn’t help it; a laugh burst out of him. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m honest,” Charles corrected, though his tone was light. “And before you scold me further, you should know that I take this responsibility very seriously. I love those children, Hank. They’re mine now, in every way that matters. But if I can enjoy a bit of revenge along the way, well... can you really begrudge me that?”

Hank shook his head, still chuckling. “I suppose not. But if Erik ever finds out about this, you’re on your own.”

Charles grinned, his expression entirely unrepentant. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

Hank rolled his eyes and turned toward the door, muttering something about needing to finish shelving the books. But as he left, he couldn’t help the small smile that lingered on his face. For all of Charles’s dramatics, there was no denying how much he cared for the twins—or how deeply they had come to care for him in return.

Later that afternoon, Charles found himself sitting in the sunlit drawing room, a cup of tea cooling on the table beside him. Wanda and Pietro were sprawled on the plush rug nearby, playing a game of cards. Or, at least, attempting to—Pietro’s impatience and constant commentary were quickly dissolving any semblance of order.

“Wanda, you can’t put that card there!” Pietro exclaimed, pointing accusingly at the pile she had just added to. “It’s against the rules!”

Wanda’s brow furrowed, her expression deceptively calm. “No, it’s not. I read the rules, and it’s allowed.”

“You read them wrong.” Pietro folded his arms, smirking. “Just admit it, I’m right.”

“You’re not right,” Wanda snapped, her voice raising slightly. “You’re just making things up because you don’t want me to win!”

Charles suppressed a laugh as he watched the exchange. He was well-acquainted with the twins’ bickering by now, and though it could occasionally escalate, he knew it was their way of communicating. He also knew better than to intervene—at least, not yet.

“Children,” he said lightly, “might I remind you that this is a friendly game?”

Both twins turned to him in unison, identical expressions of exasperation on their faces.

“Tell him to stop being impossible,” Wanda demanded.

“Tell her she’s a sore loser,” Pietro retorted.

Charles sighed theatrically, shaking his head. “I’ll tell both of you that I can’t possibly referee every disagreement. Why don’t you try working together for once?”

Pietro rolled his eyes but didn’t press further. Wanda, however, huffed and returned to organizing her cards with sharp, deliberate movements.

After a few more minutes of play, Wanda stood abruptly, fiddling with the red ribbon in her hair. It had come loose, and she tugged it free with a frustrated sigh, the silken length dangling from her fingers.

“Daddy?” she asked softly, walking over to where Charles sat.

Charles blinked, pleasantly startled at the use of the word. He hadn’t gotten used to it yet, but every time it fell from her lips, it filled his heart with a warmth he couldn’t quite describe.

“Yes, darling?” he replied, setting down his tea.

“Can you tie my ribbon?” Wanda held it out to him, her eyes wide and expectant.

Charles hesitated, glancing at her hair. “Are you sure? You’re quite capable of doing it yourself, aren’t you?”

Wanda shrugged, an innocent smile tugging at her lips. “I like it better when you do it.”

Charles’s heart melted on the spot. “Well then, how could I refuse?”

She turned her back to him, and he gently gathered her dark hair, smoothing it with careful hands. He took his time tying the ribbon into a neat bow, relishing the simple, quiet moment.

“There,” he said softly, brushing his fingers over the bow to ensure it was secure. “Perfect.”

Wanda turned back to him, beaming. “Thank you, Daddy.”

Charles smiled, his chest tightening with affection. “You’re very welcome, my dear.”

Meanwhile, Pietro, who had been observing the scene from his spot on the rug, smirked. “You know she can do that herself, right?”

“I can hear you, Pietro,” Wanda said sharply, spinning to glare at him.

“I wasn’t trying to be quiet,” Pietro shot back, his grin widening.

“Do you ever stop talking?” Wanda groaned, placing her hands on her hips.

“Not when there’s so much to comment on,” Pietro quipped, leaning back with his arms behind his head.

Charles watched them fondly, their energy filling the room in a way that made the mansion feel more alive than it had in years.

“Pietro,” Charles interjected with a gentle smile, “perhaps you could try being a little less irritating—for just five minutes?”

“I’m not irritating,” Pietro protested, though his mischievous expression betrayed him. “I’m entertaining.”

Wanda groaned again, throwing her hands up. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re dramatic,” Pietro retorted, sticking out his tongue.

Before Wanda could respond, Charles chuckled. “All right, that’s enough, you two. Come here.”

Both twins hesitated, glancing at each other, before moving to sit on either side of Charles. Wanda leaned against his left arm, her head resting on his shoulder, while Pietro sprawled against his right, his legs dangling off the sofa.

For a moment, the room was quiet, save for the soft ticking of the clock on the mantle. Charles wrapped an arm around each of them, pulling them close.

“You’re both exhausting,” he said lightly, pressing a kiss to Wanda’s hair and ruffling Pietro’s.

“We know,” they said in unison, their voices sleepy and content.

Charles smiled, his heart swelling with love for the two children nestled against him. They might drive each other—and occasionally him—mad, but they were his. And he wouldn’t trade these moments for anything.

The late afternoon sun cast long, golden streams of light through the mansion's grand windows, creating a warm, inviting glow. The soft hum of the world outside was interrupted by the gleeful shrieks of Wanda and Pietro.

They had found a rare moment of mischief, their boundless energy surging as if nothing in the world could contain it. Wanda was the first to make a move, her eyes glinting with a playful challenge as she glanced at her brother.

"Bet you can't catch me!" she called out, the words barely escaping her lips before she was already sprinting down the hallway, her dark hair flying behind her in a wild cascade.

Pietro, ever the willing participant, shot a grin at her, a spark of playful competitiveness lighting up his eyes. "Is that a challenge?"

Without waiting for an answer, he darted after her, his feet moving with a blur of speed, blurring the world around him as he gave chase.

Charles, sitting on the couch with his book, had barely lifted his gaze before he saw the streak of movement down the hall. His heart skipped a beat, and in an instant, he sprang to his feet, fully aware of the trouble brewing.

"Wanda, Pietro—wait!" Charles called, but they were already lost in their whirlwind of fun.

His heart quickened as he watched them zooming around the grand hallway, their laughter echoing off the walls like music, both children caught in the chaos of play. For a brief moment, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of joy welling up within him, but it was quickly overshadowed by concern.

"Slow down!" he shouted, now fully on his feet and jogging to keep up.

Wanda, light as a feather and full of boundless energy, dashed ahead, twisting and turning through the hallways with the agility only a child could possess. Charles was determined to follow her, but he hadn’t anticipated how much energy she had. Her movements were fluid, like a little whirlwind, and for the first time in ages, Charles found himself struggling to catch up, his legs burning from the effort.

"Wait up!" Charles shouted again, but Wanda didn’t slow for a second.

In a flash, she was bounding up the staircase, taking each step two at a time, her laughter ringing in the air. The sight of her moving so recklessly made Charles’s heart race with both admiration and a rush of protective instinct.

"Wanda, be careful!" he cried out, quickening his pace, but as soon as the words left his mouth, disaster struck.

Wanda’s foot slipped from the stair’s edge, and in an instant, she tumbled backwards, falling down the steps with a horrifying thud.

"No!" Charles gasped, the word tearing from his throat as he rushed toward the stairs, every muscle in his body aching to stop the inevitable.

But before he could even reach her, Wanda was already pushing herself up, brushing the dust from her clothes with a nonchalant gesture.

“I’m fine, Daddy,” Wanda said casually, her voice carefree as she flashed him a bright grin.

Charles’s heart was still pounding in his chest, his breaths shallow as he stared at her in disbelief. She had just fallen down the stairs like it was nothing, and she was already up and about as if it were an everyday occurrence.

“Wanda,” he began, his voice shaking with a mixture of relief and disbelief. “You—you just fell down the stairs. That could have been serious!”

Wanda waved off his concerns, her eyes still sparkling with amusement. “It’s nothing, Daddy. I’m fine. Really, you’re being dramatic.”

Charles blinked, momentarily speechless. He was still processing the fact that she had just tumbled down the stairs, and now she was brushing it off like it was a minor inconvenience. His heart was still beating faster than usual. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this much panic—until he looked at Wanda’s carefree expression.

She was clearly unfazed by the fall, and seeing her so unaffected was almost funny to Charles. He let out a nervous laugh, shaking his head. “You’re lucky you’re not hurt,” he muttered, still hovering close to her, unwilling to let her out of his sight for even a second.

“Daddy, you’re such a worrywart,” Wanda teased, her grin only widening.

Before Charles could respond, Pietro, who had been watching from a distance, zipped over to them. He slid to a stop, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“You let her get away with that?” he said, crossing his arms. “You should see the look on your face.”

Charles frowned at Pietro’s casual tone, a little incredulous. “I’m the one who’s worried about my child falling down the stairs, and you—” He broke off, laughing despite himself.

“I’m fine too,” Pietro added with a playful shrug, his voice light. “In fact, I think I’ve had enough excitement for today.” He turned on his heel with a grin and started sprinting in the other direction, not bothering to wait for Charles’s reaction.

“Not so fast—!” Charles called after him, now fully aware that if he didn’t do something quickly, the whole house would descend into utter chaos.

In the blink of an eye, Pietro was gone, the blur of his movement barely visible even to Charles’s trained eyes. He couldn’t let this go on.

"Wait, Pietro!" Charles shouted, a little out of breath as he broke into a run after him. But it was no use.

Pietro was already speeding down the hallway, laughing with reckless abandon as he did.

“Oh, no,” Charles muttered to himself. “Not again.”

The chase was on again, and this time, Charles pushed himself harder, his legs working in overdrive as he darted around corners, trying to gain ground on the blur that was Pietro.

But then, the inevitable happened. Pietro misjudged a turn and slammed into the wall with a loud thud , his body crashing into it like a pinball.

Charles skidded to a halt, his heart leaping into his throat. “Pietro, are you okay?” he asked, a little breathless.

Pietro rubbed his side and gave Charles a smirk. “I’m fine. I’ve got enough padding to survive a crash like that.”

Charles let out a deep sigh of relief, but it didn’t last long. As soon as he felt like he could breathe again, Wanda took off running once more, her legs moving like lightning.

This time, Charles was ready. He scooped her up into his arms, pulling her close to his chest to stop her from dashing off again.

"Gotcha," Charles said, his voice a mix of exasperation and affection.

Wanda giggled, squirming in his arms. “Hey! Let me go, Daddy! I’m not done yet!”

“I’m stopping this madness now,” Charles said firmly, holding her tightly. His protective instinct had finally overridden any hope of letting them tire themselves out.

With Wanda still in his arms, Charles made another attempt at catching Pietro, who had come to a halt a few feet away, laughing.

Charles lunged, grabbing Pietro and lifting him off the ground with more force than he had expected, his arms straining. The twins squirmed in his grip, but Charles held them both firmly.

“ Impossible ,” he muttered, struggling to hold them both. “You two are never going to wear me out, are you?”

“You’re welcome!” Pietro said, giving Charles a playful wink.

Wanda snuggled into Charles’s chest, her laughter softening into a quiet giggle. “That was fun, Daddy,” she said, her eyes full of joy.

Charles, still panting from the chase, looked down at them, his heart swelling with love. For all the chaos they caused, he couldn’t help but love the joy they brought to his life.

For a moment, everything felt perfect. They were his children—his little whirlwind of chaos—and they were safe. He couldn’t ask for anything more.

As Charles held the twins, his heart softened further. The chaos of the day had taken a lot out of him, but the quiet moments like this were what made everything worth it. He looked down at them—Wanda nestled against his chest, eyes half-lidded from the excitement, and Pietro, still squirming in his arms but with a grin that didn’t fade.

“You two are exhausting,” Charles muttered with a fond smile, his voice low as he gently rocked them both. “And you’re lucky you’re so adorable, or I’d be in serious need of a vacation.”

Wanda looked up at him, her eyes soft with affection as she yawned. “We’re worth it, right, Daddy?” she asked sleepily, her voice small and innocent.

Charles’s heart melted, and he couldn’t help but laugh quietly at her question. “Always worth it,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

Pietro, however, wasn’t ready to let the moment go without a bit of mischief. “I bet you’d be tired too if you had to chase after us all the time,” he teased, looking up at Charles with that cheeky grin. “I can’t help it if I have super speed .”

Charles’s smile widened, a small chuckle escaping him. “I think it’s less about your speed and more about the fact that neither of you ever stops moving. Ever.”

Pietro just grinned back. “Well, we’ve got to keep you on your toes, old man.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, pretending to be affronted. “Old man, huh? I’ll remember that when I’m not chasing after you two at the speed of sound.” He gave a playful sigh, shifting the twins in his arms. “Though I’d have to admit, sometimes it’s nice having to run. Keeps me feeling young.”

Wanda stretched and yawned again, her face growing more serious, though a trace of her playful energy lingered. “Daddy,” she said, her voice suddenly quiet and thoughtful, “can we stay like this forever? I like being with you like this. I don’t want to go anywhere.”

Charles’s chest tightened at her words, his heart full of both love and a quiet, painful awareness. He gently ran his hand through her hair, smoothing it down as he looked down at her. He could feel the weight of what they had all gone through, the loneliness they had faced, and the fact that, despite everything, they had found each other.

“We’ll always be together, Wanda,” he promised, his voice thick with emotion. “No matter what, we’ll always be here for each other.”

Pietro, as if sensing the tender shift in the air, looked up at Charles more seriously now, his playful grin fading. “I know,” he said softly. “But it’s... it’s nice, you know? You’re different from... well, from before. You’re here. And you really care about us. You’ve always cared.”

Charles’s heart swelled at the rawness in Pietro’s words. His boy—his son—was beginning to understand what it meant to be loved in a way he hadn’t been able to before.

“I do care, Pietro,” Charles replied quietly, his voice steady despite the emotion that threatened to overtake him. “More than you could ever know.”

The twins remained quiet for a moment, both of them nestled against Charles, each wrapped up in their own thoughts. It wasn’t often they had moments like this—calm, settled, where they could simply be. But when they did, it felt like everything was right.

Charles smiled down at them, his chest still tight with emotion, and he couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for these two children who had come into his life.

Despite everything they had been through—despite the pain and the loss—there was love here. Love that felt stronger than any fear, any doubt. He had his family now.

And it was everything.

“I’m proud of you both,” Charles said softly, his voice full of warmth. “You’ve come so far, and I know you’ll keep growing stronger every day. I’ll be here for you—through it all.”

Wanda smiled up at him, her eyes sleepy but full of trust. “Thanks, Daddy.”

Pietro shot him a look, a glimmer of a grin forming. “Just don’t expect us to slow down anytime soon.”

Charles chuckled, shaking his head in mock exasperation. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, though he secretly hoped he could keep up.

With a small sigh of contentment, Charles adjusted his hold on them, still feeling the lingering weight of their words and the love that enveloped him. For the first time in a long while, he felt at peace.

But peace, as he had learned, didn’t last long with the twins around. As if on cue, Wanda wiggled in his arms, squirming to get down.

“I wanna go play more,” she said with a bright grin, her energy seemingly unending.

“Are you sure you’re ready to get back to running through the halls like a hurricane?” Charles asked, his voice full of affection as he looked at her.

Wanda nodded vigorously, already bouncing on her feet. “Yep! Let’s go!”

Before Charles could react, she was off again, darting down the hallway with Pietro close behind, laughing all the way.

Charles and Hank exchanged a knowing look.

“I’m never going to win with them, am I?” Charles asked with a defeated sigh, though his smile betrayed the joy he felt in those moments.

Hank just grinned. “Not a chance.”

Charles shook his head and chuckled, then stood and began the chase again, ready to follow wherever they led him—his arms always open, his heart wide with love.

Charles stood in the hallway, hands on his hips, watching as Wanda and Pietro zoomed around like twin whirlwinds of chaos. Wanda was shrieking with laughter, her bare feet slapping against the floorboards as she dodged an imaginary obstacle, while Pietro zipped past her, only to double back with a mischievous grin.

At one point, Pietro darted past Charles so quickly that the rush of air blew the papers off the small table near the staircase. Wanda followed, giggling uncontrollably as she waved the red ribbon she’d just yanked from her hair like a victory flag.

“Hank,” Charles called over his shoulder, his voice full of resignation, “I think I’m admitting defeat.”

Hank appeared in the doorway, arms crossed and an amused smirk on his face. “Giving up already? You’ve lasted longer than I thought you would.”

Charles sighed, running a hand through his hair as he watched Wanda crash onto the couch in a heap, only for Pietro to jump over the back of it and land beside her. “There’s no point in trying to keep up with them anymore. Let them... run themselves into the ground. Maybe they’ll tire out before the mansion falls apart.”

Hank chuckled. “That’s a bold strategy. Let me know how it works out for you.”

Sure enough, the twins’ boundless energy did eventually wane. Wanda was the first to falter, sprawling dramatically across the couch like she’d fought a battle and lost. Pietro dropped into the armchair nearby, his head lolling to the side as he tried—and failed—to keep his eyes open.

Charles approached cautiously, as though any sudden movement might reignite the storm. He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching them with a mix of amusement and exhaustion. “Are they... napping?” he asked, incredulous.

“Looks like it,” Hank said, stepping beside him. “It’s like watching hyperactive puppies finally wear themselves out.”

Charles tilted his head, his brow furrowing in thought. “Aren’t they too old for naps?”

Hank snorted, patting Charles on the shoulder. “Don’t question it. Just be thankful.”

Charles nodded slowly, his expression softening as he watched Wanda’s chest rise and fall with each deep breath. Pietro twitched slightly in his sleep, his arm draped over the armrest as though even in slumber he couldn’t completely be still.

“Good luck getting them to sleep later, though,” Hank added with a grin, stepping back toward the study.

Charles groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh, God. I hadn’t thought about that.”

Hank’s laughter echoed down the hallway as Charles sank onto the couch beside Wanda, who instinctively shifted closer to him, nestling her head against his side. He looked down at her, his heart swelling as her hand gripped the fabric of his shirt.

Even as he dreaded the chaos that bedtime was sure to bring, he couldn’t help but smile. He placed a gentle hand on Wanda’s head, stroking her hair softly.

“Well,” he murmured to himself, “at least for now, the storm is calm.”

He leaned back, letting himself rest for a moment, his head tipping back against the couch. The quiet hum of the mansion settled around him, and for just a moment, he could pretend that everything in the world was as it should be.

The peace lasted all of an hour. Charles had almost allowed himself to drift off, his head tilted back and his body relaxed into the cushions. Wanda’s soft breaths against his side were soothing, and Pietro’s quiet stillness across the room was a rarity Charles wasn’t about to disturb.

But then, inevitably, Wanda began to stir.

Her hand, which had been clutching his shirt, flexed and released, tiny fingers curling slightly before her lashes fluttered open. She blinked up at him, her expression dazed and disoriented in that post-nap haze.

“Hi, Daddy,” she murmured sleepily, her voice small and sweet.

Charles’s heart skipped a beat, a warm smile spreading across his face. “Hello, my darling. Did you sleep well?”

Wanda nodded, her head resting against his side as though she wasn’t quite ready to move yet. “Mmhm.”

Across the room, Pietro groaned, stretching his arms above his head and letting out a sound that was somewhere between a yawn and a protest. “Why is it so quiet?” he grumbled, rubbing at his eyes.

“Because for the first time in hours, neither of you were moving at the speed of light,” Charles teased gently.

Pietro gave him a sleepy glare, swinging his legs over the side of the chair. “I’m awake now. Quiet’s boring.”

Charles chuckled softly, his hand still resting on Wanda’s hair. “I had a feeling you’d say that.”

Wanda shifted, sitting up slightly but staying close to Charles. She stretched her arms out, her ribbon still clutched loosely in one hand. “Daddy,” she said, holding it up, “can you fix this? It came undone again.”

Charles blinked, caught off guard by the request, but he nodded immediately. “Of course, sweetheart. Come here.”

She turned her back to him, and he carefully gathered her hair, smoothing it out before tying the ribbon into a neat bow. His hands moved slowly, his focus entirely on the task, as though tying the ribbon was the most important thing in the world.

“There we are,” he said softly, brushing her hair over her shoulder. “Perfect.”

Wanda turned back around, her fingers brushing against the ribbon as she smiled up at him. “Thank you, Daddy.”

Charles’s chest ached with affection, his smile widening. “You’re very welcome, my dear.”

Pietro, now fully awake and visibly reenergized, groaned dramatically. “Ugh, this is too sweet. I can’t take it.”

Wanda shot him a look, sticking her tongue out at him. “You’re just jealous,” she said, scooting closer to Charles.

“Jealous? Of you?” Pietro scoffed, though there was a teasing edge to his voice. “Please.”

Before Charles could respond, Pietro bolted to his feet and darted around the room, his energy levels restored. Wanda, not to be outdone, hopped off the couch and followed him, her laughter echoing through the space.

Charles groaned, rubbing his temple. “And the chaos returns.”

“Good luck,” Hank called from the hallway, his amused voice carrying into the room.

Charles pushed himself up from the couch, already preparing himself for the inevitable whirlwind. “Hank, if you’re so amused, perhaps you’d like to take over for a bit?”

“Not a chance,” Hank replied, peeking into the room with a smirk.

Charles sighed, his expression one of exasperated fondness as he followed the sounds of the twins’ laughter, his heart full despite the chaos.

He watched as the twins darted in and out of the living room. Pillows were scattered across the floor, a forgotten throw blanket lay crumpled on the sofa, and several books from the shelves had toppled during their earlier chase. The once tidy space now resembled a hurricane’s aftermath.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before stepping fully into the room. “Wanda, Pietro,” he called, his tone firm but not harsh.

The twins froze mid-laughter, their heads snapping toward him. Wanda was clutching one of the couch cushions like a shield, her ribbon bouncing with each breath, and Pietro had just skidded to a halt, one sock-clad foot leaving a faint scuff mark on the floor.

“Yes, Daddy?” Wanda said innocently, tilting her head in a way that might have been sweet if she weren’t standing amidst utter destruction.

Pietro crossed his arms, his face already wearing a look of protest. “We didn’t do that much,” he argued, gesturing vaguely to the mess around them.

Charles arched an eyebrow. “Didn’t do much?” He swept his arm toward the mess with exaggerated flair. “This room looks like the aftermath of a war zone.”

Wanda giggled, hiding her smile behind the cushion, while Pietro muttered something under his breath that Charles wisely chose to ignore.

“Well,” Charles continued, clasping his hands together, “since the two of you are responsible for this chaos, it seems only fair that you should be the ones to clean it up.”

Both twins groaned in unison, their faces falling.

“Come on, Daddy,” Wanda pleaded, her big eyes wide and imploring.

“Yeah, Charles,” Pietro chimed in, leaning on the arm of the sofa. “Can’t you just... you know, do it for us ?”

Charles gave them a pointed look. “Absolutely not.”

Wanda pouted, dragging the cushion along as she shuffled closer to him. “But—”

“No buts,” Charles interrupted gently but firmly, crossing his arms. “This is a lesson in responsibility. You make the mess, you clean it up.”

Hank appeared in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame with a smirk. “You’ve got this under control, I see.”

“Help is always appreciated,” Charles replied, throwing a glance over his shoulder.

Hank raised his hands in mock surrender. “No way. This is a parental teaching moment.”

Charles huffed, turning back to the twins. “Right. Let’s get to it. Wanda, you start with the cushions. Pietro, the books go back on the shelves.”

The twins exchanged a look, a silent agreement passing between them, and for a moment, Charles feared they were plotting rebellion. But Wanda sighed dramatically and began picking up the cushions, muttering under her breath about “unfair chores,” while Pietro started gathering books, stacking them haphazardly.

“Pietro,” Charles said, his tone carrying a hint of warning, “neatly, please.”

“Neatly,” Pietro repeated mockingly, though he did adjust the books into proper stacks before placing them on the shelves.

Wanda, meanwhile, approached Charles with a cushion in each hand, holding them out like an offering. “Do these go here?” she asked sweetly, pointing to the sofa.

“Yes, darling,” Charles said with a nod, his lips twitching into a smile despite himself.

As Wanda placed the cushions carefully, Pietro zipped past her, grabbing the blanket from the floor and tossing it over the back of the couch. The result was far from tidy, and Wanda immediately went over to fix it.

“You’re doing it wrong,” she told him, her small hands smoothing the blanket out.

“It’s fine,” Pietro retorted, but he didn’t stop her.

Charles stood back, watching them bicker and collaborate in equal measure. Despite the groans and complaints, they were working together, and the room was gradually returning to order.

When the last book was shelved and the final cushion adjusted, Wanda flopped onto the sofa with a satisfied huff. “There,” she said, her ribbon slipping slightly loose again.

Charles walked over, sitting on the edge of the coffee table to face her. “Well done, both of you,” he said warmly. “Doesn’t this look much better now?”

Pietro shrugged, though a small smile tugged at his lips. “I guess.”

Wanda tilted her head back to look up at him, her eyes sparkling. “Do we get a reward?”

Charles laughed, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Your reward is the satisfaction of a job well done.”

“Lame,” Pietro muttered, though his tone was playful.

Wanda giggled, leaning against Charles’s side. “I think Daddy’s the best reward,” she said, her voice soft and sincere.

Charles’s chest swelled with affection, his hand coming to rest lightly on her shoulder. “And you, my darling, are worth every moment of it.”

Pietro groaned loudly, flopping onto the couch beside them. “Okay, okay, enough with the mushy stuff.”

Charles chuckled, wrapping an arm around each twin and pulling them closer. “You’ll have to get used to it, I’m afraid.”

For a moment, the three of them simply sat there, the twins snug against Charles’s sides, the room calm and warm with the afterglow of shared effort and familial bonding. It was one of those rare, perfect moments Charles knew he’d treasure forever.

The evening was settling into a cosy rhythm as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the mansion. Charles, Hank, Wanda, and Pietro gathered around the living room, a casual dinner spread before them on the coffee table. The usual formality of dining at a table was forgotten in favour of a more relaxed atmosphere, and the air was filled with the quiet hum of contentment.

Charles had set up a small, comfortable space on the floor, a collection of blankets and pillows scattered around the table, making it feel like an impromptu picnic in the middle of their usually grand, quiet living room. It was a gesture of warmth, inviting closeness and familiarity.

Hank sat on the sofa, holding a plate of food in his lap as he shot occasional playful glances at Charles, who sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by the twins. Wanda was leaning against Charles’s side, a bit of spaghetti sauce on the corner of her mouth, while Pietro bounced between sitting on the floor and hopping up to grab more food. His energy seemed boundless, despite their earlier chaos.

Charles reached for his plate, trying to keep his movements deliberate and calm, though his heart swelled with a quiet joy. It was hard to believe that not so long ago, the house had felt so lonely—now, the noise of the twins’ chatter and laughter filled the space, each sound a reminder of how far they had come together.

“So,” Hank began, breaking the comfortable silence, “I think we’ve successfully avoided any disasters tonight.”

“Touch wood,” Charles said quickly, glancing nervously at the twins, who were both in the process of attempting to eat their pasta with an alarming amount of enthusiasm.

Wanda smiled up at him, her fork clutched tightly in her small hand, the red ribbon she’d been wearing earlier now hanging loosely from her hair. She looked so much like a child should, innocent and delighted in small things. “I’m not going to drop it, Daddy,” she reassured him, her eyes gleaming.

Charles chuckled softly, reaching over to wipe a bit of sauce off her cheek before she could make a mess of it. “I never doubted you for a second, my darling,” he said, unable to hide the fondness in his voice.

Pietro, meanwhile, was trying to eat his spaghetti as quickly as possible, twirling the noodles around his fork in a manner that seemed destined to make a mess. He glanced at Charles mischievously. “I bet I can eat this faster than you, Charles,” he said, an impish glint in his eyes.

Charles raised an eyebrow, suddenly more alert. “Is that a challenge?”

Pietro grinned. “You’re on.”

Before Charles could react, Pietro began to eat even faster, his face a blur of concentration as he slurped up the spaghetti with impressive speed.

“Slow down,” Wanda warned him, frowning slightly. “You’re going to make yourself sick.”

But Pietro paid no heed, his competitive streak taking over as he glanced at Charles again. “You’re not going to let me beat you, are you?”

Charles’s eyes sparkled with a sudden playfulness. “Not a chance,” he said, mimicking the speed with which Pietro was devouring his meal, much to Wanda’s delight.

They raced in a good-natured frenzy, each trying to outdo the other in this unexpected dinner game. The table became a battlefield of noodles, a tangle of laughter and playful remarks filling the room as the twins cheered and encouraged their “father.”

Hank chuckled from his seat on the sofa, watching them with amusement. “This is certainly a far cry from the more... dignified dinners I’m used to.”

“Oh, stop it,” Charles replied with a grin, trying to keep up with Pietro’s antics. “I think we’re finally getting the hang of being a family.”

Wanda leaned against Charles again, a bit of pasta clinging to her lip as she snuck in a bite when no one was looking. “I like it like this,” she said softly, almost to herself.

Charles’s heart warmed at her words. He glanced at Hank, who gave him a knowing smile, and then at the twins, who were now engaged in a playful back-and-forth about which one had won the spaghetti challenge. Despite the mess and the chaos, it was perfect.

The meal carried on, with the energy in the room light and fun. As the plates started to empty and the laughter began to quiet, Wanda snuggled even closer to Charles, her head resting against his shoulder, her eyes beginning to flutter.

“I think someone’s getting sleepy,” Charles murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.

Wanda yawned dramatically, rubbing her eyes. “I’m not tired,” she protested, though her body seemed to disagree.

Pietro, too, was slowing down, leaning back against the couch, his energy beginning to wane. “I’m not tired either,” he grumbled, though his voice was starting to soften.

Hank stretched his arms behind his head, his eyes twinkling as he watched the twins fight their sleep. “You can only keep that up for so long.”

Charles smiled fondly at the two of them, feeling a sudden wave of contentment wash over him. “Well, when they’re ready, they’ll go to bed.”

“And when that happens,” Hank said with a grin, “I think you’ll get to enjoy some quiet time... just you and me.”

Charles laughed softly. “As much as I cherish these moments of chaos, I won’t deny I look forward to a bit of peace and quiet.”

But as he looked down at the twins, still trying to stave off sleep with every bit of energy they had left, he felt a warmth inside that went beyond exhaustion. This was family—messy, chaotic, and entirely his. It was a feeling he would never trade for anything.

The evening was winding down, the echoes of laughter and the clatter of utensils slowly fading as the twins finally started to succumb to the exhaustion they had been fighting off for so long. Charles sat back on the floor, his legs stretched out, his heart full of the quiet joy that came from moments like this. The twins were beginning to settle, still buzzing with a small bit of energy but no longer quite so chaotic.

Wanda, curled up next to him, was fighting sleep with every fibre of her being. She leaned against his shoulder, her eyelids drooping as her body tried to protest. “I’m not tired, Daddy,” she murmured, her voice soft and drowsy.

Charles smiled down at her, gently brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “Sure you’re not, sweetheart. Just a few more minutes, and then we can get you tucked into bed.”

Wanda gave him a sleepy, half-hearted pout but didn’t protest further. Her small, warm hand rested on his lap, the simple act of her presence filling him with a love that felt so deep, so natural, it left him almost breathless.

Pietro, on the other hand, was sprawled across the sofa, his eyes still open, but with a faraway look. His mischievous energy had started to drain away, and now he was simply too tired to keep up his usual antics. He looked up at Charles, then at Wanda, and without a word, shuffled over to where his sister was resting, curling up beside her.

Charles's heart swelled at the sight, seeing both of them together, peaceful for the first time in hours. He didn’t need them to speak—it was clear from the way they nestled together that they were starting to understand the comfort of being close to him, of being part of a family that would always have their backs.

After a few moments, he gently moved to pull the blanket closer around them both. Wanda shifted slightly but didn’t wake, and Pietro let out a soft sigh as he relaxed. The room was quiet now, the only sound being the occasional soft rustle of their blankets.

Hank had been watching the whole scene with an affectionate grin. “Well, I think we might just survive the night,” he said with mock seriousness, his eyes softening as he looked at the twins.

Charles chuckled quietly, his heart full. “You know, Hank... I never expected this—these two, our family... but now, I can't imagine life without them.”

Hank nodded, his tone softer now. “I can see that. It’s been a wild ride, but you’ve done something incredible here, Charles. They’ve come a long way.”

Charles gazed at the twins, who were now both settled against him, asleep. He could feel his chest tightening, an overwhelming sense of love and protectiveness that had taken root in him. “I didn’t expect to love them this much,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I do. I’m... I’m really glad they’re here.”

Hank leaned back against the couch, his smile widening as he let the moment linger. “Well, you’re doing something right. They trust you, Charles. That says it all.”

Charles smiled faintly, not wanting to tear his gaze away from the twins. They had their flaws, their quirks, their moments of madness—but they were his now. He had stepped into the role of protector, of guide, and every day he saw them growing more and more into the people they were meant to be. And he couldn’t be prouder.

But even in the midst of the warmth that flooded the room, Charles's mind still wandered back to the unspoken realities of their past. Erik. The mansion. Their future. But he brushed those thoughts away for now, focusing on the moment at hand.

He leaned back against the couch, still holding Wanda gently in his arms, with Pietro curled at her side. The house felt different now—full, alive, brimming with potential. He had the twins. They had him. And for the first time in years, Charles felt whole.

As Hank stood and began gathering the dishes, he paused to look back at Charles. “You good?”

Charles looked up, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips. “Yeah. I’m good.”

With that, Hank quietly began cleaning up the remnants of dinner, leaving Charles to savour the peace in the room. The twins, nestled together, finally asleep, a sense of calm settling over the house. For now, there was nothing else to do but hold them, to protect them, to love them in a way that was real, even in the midst of all the chaos.

Charles closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the steady, soft breathing of Wanda against his chest. He thought of Erik and the family they once might have been. But more than that, he thought of the family they were now—his and Hank’s and the twins’. A family forged not by blood, but by love, trust, and care.

It was the start of something new.

And for the first time, Charles was ready.

Chapter Text

It had taken a week—seven full days—for Pietro to finally let the word slip from his lips. Dad.

It came out casually, almost offhandedly, like it was just another word in his vocabulary, like any other greeting or phrase he had used in his eight years of life. Pietro barely noticed the weight of it when it left his mouth, and Charles, for a fleeting moment, thought perhaps he hadn’t heard it right. But there it was again, Pietro calling him “dad,” and it was almost like it didn’t carry the same depth as the reverence Wanda poured into her own use of the word. For Wanda, saying “daddy” felt like an honour, a bond woven with deep affection and warmth. She always said it with wide eyes, her voice soft, almost like it was something precious, something sacred. But Pietro... Pietro said it as easily as if he were asking for something off the kitchen shelf, casual and matter-of-fact.

Charles couldn’t help but smile at the difference. It was a reflection of who they were—Wanda, the one who wore her heart on her sleeve, who clung to her newfound connection with him, calling him “daddy” as if she had found the safest place in the world. And then there was Pietro. His casual “dad” wasn’t dismissive, but it was different. It was the result of a boy who had always been running, always moving too fast for sentiment. Pietro was a whirlwind, ever-changing, never sitting still. Maybe that’s why his words, his actions, were always so effortless.

Charles found the contrast fascinating—and honestly, a little heart-wrenching. It wasn’t that Pietro didn’t care, not in the least. But where Wanda had needed the reassurance, the connection, the title of "daddy" seemed to offer her something she could cling to. Pietro, on the other hand, didn’t need the title to feel connected; for him, it was more about action, about living in the moment. It wasn’t the word that made him feel at home; it was what Charles did for him, what he had done for both of them. The security Charles provided wasn’t tied to a single word or gesture—it was in the way he made sure they ate, that they laughed, and that they were safe and cared for.

Charles leaned back in his chair as Pietro bounced around the room, the usual energy in his every step. Wanda, perched beside him, looked up at Charles, a soft, contented smile playing on her lips. She seemed to sense the subtle change in her brother—his use of “dad” wasn’t something he would acknowledge, but Wanda noticed. Of course, she did. She always noticed.

"You're not mad at me, are you?" Pietro asked, his eyes glinting with mischief as he hovered over the couch, holding a pillow hostage. He had that look in his eyes, the one that said he was either about to break something or pull an impromptu prank.

Charles chuckled the familiar warmth of their companionship filling the air around him. "Of course not, Pietro. It's just a word."

But Pietro’s eyes darted to Charles for a moment longer, like he was still gauging whether it was safe to say it again, or maybe testing how much of the word “dad” actually fit into the world he’d built with Charles.

"Yeah, well..." Pietro dropped the pillow with a shrug, "It's not like I don’t get it. You’re… you’re cool, dad."

Charles didn’t let the faint hint of hesitation in Pietro’s voice affect him. There was no reason for Pietro to feel ashamed or even hesitant about the word. He was still figuring it out, still working through the process of what “dad” really meant. He had his own pace, his own timing—and Charles was learning that that was okay. For now, just hearing the word once —and casually, at that—felt like progress.

Wanda’s voice broke through the moment, almost like a contrast to Pietro’s casualness. “Daddy,” she said softly, glancing up at Charles with eyes full of that unspoken affection. “Can you help me with my puzzle?”

It wasn’t just a request. It was a reaffirmation of the place he held in her life, in her heart. Charles’s chest tightened with a mixture of love and tenderness. It wasn’t just her words; it was the way she looked at him when she said it, how much she trusted him without hesitation.

He smiled at Wanda, completely softening in a way that only she could make him. “Of course, sweetheart.”

As he leaned forward to join her in the puzzle, he glanced over at Pietro, who was already back to bouncing around, moving at a hundred miles an hour, his attention wandering with the same impatience that had always defined him. Charles knew that Pietro was still working through everything, still figuring out what all this meant. But seeing him use “dad” so effortlessly, no matter how casual it sounded, meant more than Pietro could ever know.

And in the silence that followed, Charles realized that whether it came out casually or with reverence, whether it was “dad” or “daddy,” it was a word they were giving him. It was their way of telling him that they needed him. In his own time, Pietro would learn to carry the weight of the word, just as Wanda had. They both would.

But for now, Charles was content with their journey, with their little steps toward him. Every word, every moment was a gift, no matter how casual or deliberate.

He would take it all—no matter the pace—because he was their dad. And that meant everything.

Over the week, Hank began to notice something that made him stop and think. It wasn’t just the twins’ newfound attachment to Charles—though that was obvious enough. No, it was something subtler, something that started slipping through in the way they spoke, the way they moved. It was as if the twins were subconsciously absorbing Charles’s mannerisms, little by little, like pieces of a puzzle falling into place.

At first, it was small things. Wanda would run into the room, all excited about some new discovery, and say, “Good heavens, look at this!” Her eyes were wide, her voice high-pitched with excitement. And Pietro? He’d say something like, “Oh, that’s splendid , isn’t it?” A phrase that seemed completely out of place coming from an eight-year-old, yet somehow, it was like it had always been in their vocabulary.

Hank chuckled to himself the first time he heard it. He wasn’t sure if Charles had even noticed, but the twins had begun picking up his British accent, of all things. It wasn’t as if it had been deliberately taught to them—it was more like they’d just absorbed it, like sponges soaking up water. It wasn’t just the words. It was the cadence, the rhythm. The way Wanda would stretch out a word, all “ splendid ” and “ marvellous ,” with that quiet, innocent attempt at refinement.

As the days passed, Hank observed more. Pietro had started picking up on Charles’s gestures too. The way Charles would dramatically raise his eyebrows when he was surprised or intrigued, or the little way he would tilt his head when he was considering something. Pietro would mimic these movements, sometimes without even realising it, his sharp brown eyes flashing with mischief as he mirrored Charles’s thoughtful expression. It was like the twins were becoming tiny versions of Charles without even trying.

By the end of the week, it was more than just an occasional slip-up. They were full-on mimicking him. It had become clear that Charles’s influence was more deeply embedded in their everyday lives than Hank had initially thought. The way Wanda would hold her teacup—just like Charles, her pinky subtly raised. The way Pietro would stretch and casually drop a phrase like “What marvellous weather we’re having today!” followed by a little shrug as if he thought that was the most normal thing in the world.

At first, Hank thought it was just an endearing coincidence. But as he watched the twins interact with Charles one evening, his suspicion grew into something more concrete. They were practically sounding like Charles now, moving like him. Their speech, even their body language—it was a copycat version of their dad, in the most subtle, innocent way possible.

“Charles,” Hank finally said, his voice filled with amusement as he leaned against the doorframe of the study one evening, watching the twins sit on the floor, listening to Charles read a book aloud. “Have you noticed something… peculiar?”

Charles looked up from the book, blinking, his brow furrowing in that familiar way. “Peculiar? What do you mean?”

Hank gestured to the twins, who were both sprawled out on the floor in front of Charles, rapt with attention. “Listen to them. Specifically, the way they’re speaking.”

Charles tilted his head, pausing for a moment as his gaze shifted from Wanda to Pietro, then back to Hank. He hadn’t noticed. He was too caught up in their excitement, in the way they’d been talking to him. They were so innocent, so full of life that Charles had never really thought about how their language had evolved.

“I don’t follow,” Charles said, his confusion evident.

Hank crossed his arms, chuckling softly. “You’re not hearing it? They sound like little miniature versions of you, Charles. The words, the accent—it’s like they’ve absorbed it all.” He made a face. “Honestly, if they weren’t so adorable, it would be slightly unsettling.”

Charles glanced down at the twins, who were hanging on every word he spoke. Wanda leaned forward, her eyes wide as she asked, “Do you think it’s marvellous if we go on an adventure tomorrow, Daddy?”

Charles froze mid-sentence. There it was again—the word “marvellous.” Her British accent, with that sweet, wide-eyed innocence, imitated his tone almost perfectly. He looked to Pietro, who chimed in casually, “I suppose it’s a splendid idea.”

Charles blinked, and then—finally—he saw it. He looked at Hank, his lips curling into a grin. “I hadn’t realized... they’ve been picking it up, haven’t they?”

Hank laughed, clearly delighted. “You’ve got two little versions of you in the house now. If this keeps up, I’m afraid you might have to start giving them lessons in proper British etiquette.” He winked. “Just think of it—‘Splendid!’ ‘Marvellous!’ and the occasional ‘Good heavens, Charles, what an interesting idea!’” Hank chuckled again, shaking his head in disbelief.

Charles raised an eyebrow, a tad smug. “Well, if they must take after anyone, I suppose I’m happy it’s me rather than Erik,” he said, grinning at the thought. “After all, they can’t have his tendencies , can they?”

Hank smirked, clearly enjoying the playful jab. “Oh, no. Definitely better they take after you, Charles. At least they won’t get into too much trouble.”

Charles chuckled softly, his chest swelling with pride and affection. It was ridiculous, really—these tiny echoes of himself, running around, speaking his words, mimicking his movements. But at the same time, it was... perfect .

They were his babies, in every way that mattered.

As he watched the twins giggle with excitement and call him “daddy” in that endearing way, Charles felt his heart swell. Sure, they were still finding their way. They were still figuring out what it meant to be here, with him. But in these moments, with their words, their laughter, and their unintentional mimicry, Charles knew that they were beginning to settle in.

And that was enough for him.

It was more than enough.

As the days passed, the twins continued to surprise Charles, and he found himself growing more and more fond of their little quirks and idiosyncrasies. It was impossible not to notice the way they were starting to resemble him, in both physical and emotional ways. The way Wanda would walk through the halls, her small hands clasped behind her back as she hummed under her breath, reminded him of how he used to wander around the mansion, lost in thought, years ago. And Pietro, always moving at a mile a minute, would pause every now and then to deliver an offhanded comment or question, the kind of thing Charles himself might have said at their age if he was ever in such a hurry to be everywhere at once.

One afternoon, as Charles was sitting in the library, reading through some notes, he heard the pitter-patter of little feet across the hallway. He smiled before looking up, knowing exactly who it was before they even appeared at the door. Wanda, with her hair still slightly messy from their earlier chaos, poked her head in, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Daddy?” she asked, the word rolling off her tongue as naturally as ever. “Can you help me with something?”

Charles’s heart fluttered, the simple word sending a rush of warmth through him. “Of course, sweetheart,” he said, setting his papers down and turning toward her. “What’s the matter?”

Wanda grinned, holding up a small stack of books. “I need your help with these! I’m going to organise them, but I need you to tell me where they should go.”

Charles raised an eyebrow at the large pile she was holding. “All of them?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding enthusiastically. “I want them all to have a special spot.” She began sorting through the pile, occasionally making a face as if she was trying to figure out which one went where. “But I don’t know where they all go. Do you think we can make a special shelf for my books, Daddy?”

He chuckled softly, reaching over to help her. “I think we can certainly manage that. Let’s start with the smaller ones and see how much room we have left.”

As they sorted the books, Charles couldn’t help but marvel at how natural this felt—how right it was to have her by his side, helping him with the simplest of tasks. It was almost like they were a little family, even in these quiet moments.

Just as they were finishing up the last of the books, Pietro came darting into the room. “I think we need a bigger shelf, don’t you, Dad?” he said with a grin, leaning against the doorway and crossing his arms.

Charles raised an eyebrow at the sudden appearance. “Well, it does seem like we’re running out of space, doesn’t it?” he said, keeping his tone playful. “Maybe we should get Hank to build us another one.”

Pietro rolled his eyes. “Hank’s good at building , but he’s not fast at it.” He shifted his weight, tapping his foot impatiently. “You should just tell him to build it in an hour .”

“An hour?” Charles chuckled. “I don’t think Hank is that fast, but we’ll see.”

Wanda giggled at her brother’s antics, and Charles couldn’t help but feel a soft chuckle bubble up inside him. They were both so full of life, so full of energy—and yet, in this moment, it felt like nothing could ever go wrong. They were safe here, with him. They were home .

Later that evening, after dinner, Charles found himself in the drawing room with the twins. The sun had just begun to set, casting a soft glow through the windows, and the air was thick with the smell of evening rain. Charles had settled into his chair, the twins perched nearby as they fidgeted, unable to sit still for long.

“Daddy, tell us a story,” Wanda said, her voice full of anticipation.

Pietro nodded in agreement. “Yeah, tell us a really good one!”

Charles smiled, glancing between them. “Alright,” he said, “but you’re going to have to use your imagination for this one.”

As he spoke, he began weaving a tale—nothing too complicated, just a simple adventure of a brave knight and his loyal steed, who went on a quest to find a hidden treasure. The story was lighthearted and playful, filled with the kind of excitement that only children could fully appreciate.

As he spoke, he couldn’t help but notice the way Wanda and Pietro’s faces lit up, hanging on to every word he said. They leaned in closer, eyes wide with wonder, and for a moment, it felt like the world outside didn’t matter. In this room, it was just them—Charles, Wanda, and Pietro—together, as a family.

By the end of the story, the twins were practically beaming, the excitement still radiating off of them. Wanda gave a little clap, her hands pressing together with childlike enthusiasm. “That was marvellous , Daddy!” she said, her voice full of admiration.

Charles smiled warmly, his heart swelling. “I’m glad you enjoyed it, sweetheart.”

Pietro, still bouncing in his seat, added, “ Splendid ! Now we need more adventures, don’t we?”

Charles chuckled, ruffling Pietro’s hair as he leaned back in his chair. “More adventures, you say? Well, I suppose we can always find more stories.”

He looked at the twins then, his gaze softening as he took in the sight of them—these two little bundles of energy who had come into his life, who had changed it in ways he never imagined possible. They were both so different, yet so alike, and they had completely wrapped themselves around his heart.

“I’m glad you’re both here,” Charles said quietly, his voice filled with a sincerity that made the twins pause and look up at him. “You’ve made this place feel more like home than I ever thought it could.”

Wanda gave him a soft, almost shy smile, her cheeks pink as she leaned into his side. “We’re glad, too, Daddy.”

Pietro, grinning mischievously, leaned forward and gave him a half-hearted nudge. “Yeah, yeah. Splendid home, Dad.”

Charles chuckled softly, giving them both a loving squeeze. “It’s a splendid home indeed,” he said, using one of their own favourite words. “And I think it’s only going to get more wonderful.”

The twins giggled, and in that moment, everything felt perfect. There would be challenges ahead, no doubt, but Charles had something he had never truly expected to have— family . His heart swelled with love and gratitude, as he realised that this, right here, was exactly what he had always needed. What they all needed.

And as the evening settled into a quiet lull, with the twins snuggled up next to him, Charles couldn’t help but think that maybe—just maybe—this was where he truly belonged.

As the evening wore on, the twins grew quieter, their energy having been thoroughly exhausted by their earlier antics. They sprawled out on the plush couch next to Charles, their heads resting on his lap as the soft glow from the fireplace cast gentle shadows across the room. The night had settled in, and the warmth of the fire mingled with the calm stillness of the mansion, making it feel like the world outside no longer mattered.

Charles absentmindedly ran his fingers through Wanda’s hair, a small gesture that had become second nature to him. The act was soothing for both of them, and he couldn’t help but feel content, watching her eyes slowly flutter shut as she relaxed under his touch. Her little hand rested against his leg, almost as if she were seeking comfort in the way she always had, but now, there was something more in it—a sense of trust and belonging.

Pietro, on the other hand, wasn’t quite ready to settle. He kept shifting on the couch, still restless, as his mind seemed to jump from one thought to the next. After a few moments, he let out a long sigh and turned to Charles.

“Dad,” he began, his voice soft but slightly hesitant, “how do you know if something’s really... important? Like, how do you know if you’re doing something for the right reasons?”

Charles blinked in surprise, having expected something lighter, like a question about dinner or the latest adventure in the garden. He paused for a moment, unsure of how to respond, but then, he remembered how he’d felt when he was their age—how the world seemed so full of possibilities, but also full of uncertainty.

He turned his gaze down to Pietro, giving him a thoughtful look. “Well,” Charles began carefully, “I think when something is important, it feels... right. You feel it in your heart. But that doesn’t always mean it’s easy. Sometimes you have to make hard choices. And sometimes, you don’t know if you’re doing the right thing until later.”

Pietro nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “So, it’s okay to not always be sure?”

Charles smiled, his heart warming at how the twins were processing everything. “It’s more than okay. It’s part of growing up. We all have our doubts, Pietro. But we don’t let them stop us from trying. We make mistakes, and we learn.”

Wanda stirred slightly in his lap, lifting her head and looking up at her brother with a sleepy smile. “I think that’s why we have you ,” she said quietly, her voice still drowsy from the earlier exhaustion. “You help us figure out what’s important.”

Charles’s chest tightened at her words, and he felt a rush of emotion flood over him. He had never thought of himself as a perfect father, but in that moment, hearing her say that, he felt like he was doing something right.

“You’re both my most important people,” Charles said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re the ones who make everything else feel... worthwhile.”

Pietro’s mischievous grin appeared again, his earlier thoughts seeming to dissipate in the face of Charles’s sincere words. “I guess we’re stuck with you now, huh, Dad?”

Charles chuckled, his heart swelling. “Seems so,” he said, his hand gently brushing through Wanda’s hair again. “And I couldn’t be happier.”

The twins both settled more comfortably on the couch and Charles, despite the ache in his back from sitting in one position for so long, couldn’t bring himself to move. He felt at peace, in a way that he hadn’t in years. He had his family now—two little souls who had somehow become his whole world in the span of only a few weeks.

As the fire crackled softly in the background, Charles’s thoughts began to drift. He thought about the future, about all the things they would experience together, the challenges they would face, and the laughter they would share. He thought about how, no matter what happened, he had two incredible children now—children who trusted him, who looked to him for guidance, and who loved him in ways he had never expected.

It was at that moment, with the twins curled up beside him, that he knew for sure that, no matter what, he would never be alone again. They were his, and he was theirs. And that was more than enough.

The silence stretched on for a while longer, as they all drifted into a comfortable stillness, the kind of peace that only comes when you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

“Daddy?” Wanda whispered suddenly, her eyes barely open.

“Yes, sweetheart?” Charles asked, his voice quiet and warm.

Wanda smiled sleepily, her words barely audible. “I’m glad you’re our dad.”

Charles felt his heart flutter once more, a smile spreading across his face as he looked down at his daughter. “I’m glad you’re mine.”

And with that, the three of them sat in the quiet, the world outside seeming so distant, so unimportant. At that moment, they had everything they needed—each other.

It was one of those nights where the stars seemed just a little brighter than usual, the night air crisp with the promise of winter, and the stillness of the world felt like an invitation. Charles, always one to indulge in moments of wonder, suddenly felt a wave of whimsy and decided that it was the perfect evening to take the twins stargazing—despite the fact that they were practically asleep on the couch.

He stood up, stretching and smiling at the sight of the two little ones who were clearly fighting off the pull of sleep, their small bodies curled up like two sleeping kittens beside him. A thought crossed his mind, and before he even considered the consequences, he spoke.

“How about we go outside?” Charles said cheerfully, his eyes twinkling with excitement. “Let’s stargaze for a bit.”

The twins both groaned in protest, but it was the kind of tired protest that came with the comfort of knowing they were being spoiled with attention.

“Daddy, it’s so late,” Wanda mumbled, her eyes barely open as she clung to Charles’s arm.

“I’m tired,” Pietro added, yawning exaggeratedly. “We’re going to freeze out there.”

Charles merely chuckled, a soft, amused sound, and before they could protest further, he was already pulling them both up with surprising strength.

“Oh, come now. It’ll be fun, I promise. You can rest while we look at the stars,” he insisted, the excitement in his voice belying the fact that it was well past their bedtime. “But we need to make sure you’re bundled up properly so you don’t catch a cold. Come on, let’s get you dressed.”

Wanda gave him a sleepy look. “But, Daddy, it’s just a few stars...”

“No buts,” Charles interrupted with a soft smile, already heading to the coat closet. “I’m not having you two catch a cold.”

The twins’ protests were half-hearted at best as they followed Charles reluctantly to the door. However, when he started pulling out an absurdly large number of scarves, hats, gloves, and thick coats, the complaints started to grow louder.

“Dad, we don’t need this many layers,” Pietro grumbled as Charles tried to stuff him into a heavy coat that looked more suited for an expedition to the North Pole than a quick stargazing trip.

Charles just smiled fondly at his son’s grumbling. “Oh, yes you do. We’re not taking any chances with the cold, Pietro.”

Wanda, meanwhile, was already squirming as Charles bundled her up in layers, the heavy scarf wrapped snugly around her neck, a large coat enveloping her tiny frame. “Daddy, this is too much!” she complained, sounding just like a miniature version of her father.

Charles, unphased, finished tying her scarf with meticulous care. “Just a few more, my darling. You’re going to look adorable.”

Both twins shot him an exasperated look as he continued to layer them up. They both attempted to secretly wiggle out of some of the layers once he wasn’t looking, but Charles, ever vigilant, caught them in the act.

“Ah, ah, ah!” he said, pointing a finger with a grin. “No sneaking out of your warm layers. I’m not going to let my babies get cold. You’ll just have to suffer through the extra warmth.”

Wanda gave a dramatic sigh, her cheeks puffing out as she crossed her arms in mock indignation. “I’m not a baby, Daddy.”

“Of course, you’re not,” Charles said softly, “but you’ll always be my little girl. And I’ll always protect you.”

At this, Wanda softened, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. Pietro, still frowning, tried to pull his hat down lower over his eyes, clearly annoyed by the entire ordeal.

“Can’t we just go out there and look for a few minutes?” he asked, clearly hoping to escape the layers Charles had insisted on. But Charles, already in full protective parent mode, wasn’t having it.

“Nope. You’re both getting as bundled up as I see fit,” Charles insisted. “No arguments.”

Wanda and Pietro exchanged a resigned glance. Eventually, despite their best efforts to wriggle out of the layers, they relented, accepting their fate as the little marshmallow-like figures their father had turned them into.

Once both twins were fully suited up—looking more like stuffed animals than children—Charles grinned, feeling oddly pleased with himself.

“Now you both look absolutely splendid,” he said, and his British accent made the words sound almost ridiculously formal in the context of the situation.

Pietro shot him a glare. “We look ridiculous.”

Charles’s grin only widened, and he crouched down to their level. “You may look ridiculous, but you’ll thank me later when you’re not shivering.”

Wanda gave him an exaggerated pout, but it was clear she was secretly enjoying the attention, even if she would never admit it.

“Fine,” she said with a small sigh, “but we’re only going out there for a few minutes. Just to look at the stars.”

Pietro nodded, though he didn’t seem particularly enthused about the whole ordeal. “Yeah, yeah. But only for a few minutes. Then we go back inside.”

“Agreed,” Charles replied with a wink, glad to have them both so thoroughly bundled up.

Outside, the cold air was crisp, and Charles felt a momentary thrill as he led the twins into the night. The stars above them were brilliant, twinkling in the vast, dark sky, and for a moment, all the weight of the world seemed to fade away.

“Look, Daddy,” Wanda whispered, her voice filled with awe. “The stars... they’re so pretty.”

Charles stood beside her, his hand resting gently on her shoulder, and looked up at the night sky. “Yes, they are,” he murmured, his gaze shifting to Pietro, who had his hands shoved into his oversized coat pockets, but was still staring at the stars in curiosity.

Despite the grumbling, despite the layers of clothing that made them look comically over-prepared, both twins were enraptured by the beauty of the night. And Charles, watching them in their childish wonder, felt a warmth in his chest that made him feel like the luckiest man in the world.

“I think they’re splendid too,” Charles said quietly, the words slipping naturally from his mouth, his heart swelling with pride as he looked at the two little souls who were so clearly his, in both their quirks and in their growing bond with him.

Wanda smiled at him sleepily, leaning against him, while Pietro was slowly coming around to the idea of the stargazing trip, though he still muttered under his breath, “I don’t get how you always find the right things to say, Dad.”

Charles’s grin grew wider. “Just a little magic, I suppose.”

As the night stretched on, they stayed outside for just a bit longer, enjoying the tranquillity that only the night sky could bring, Charles with his arms around both of them, protecting them from the chill of the air, all while cherishing the fact that they had finally settled into the family they had all been meant to find.

As Charles ushered the twins inside, the warmth of the house enveloped them in contrast to the chilly night air still clinging to their clothes. Wanda and Pietro immediately began to shed their layers with dramatic flair, clearly relieved to be free of the excessive clothing. Their grumbles and exaggerated movements brought a smile to Charles's face.

Wanda pulled off her hat first, shaking her hair free with a dramatic twist of her head, then yanked off her scarf as though she were peeling off a particularly bothersome costume. "I think I’m suffocating in here!" she huffed, tossing the scarf aside, her little cheeks pink from the cold and the effort. She glanced up at Charles, shooting him a mock glare, but there was laughter in her eyes. "You could've just let us freeze, you know," she added, her tone teasing despite her complaints.

Pietro was right behind her, his fingers working swiftly to untangle himself from his own layers. His jacket came off with a flourish, flinging it onto the couch with a dramatic toss. "Next time, just let us wear normal clothes!" he declared, looking up at Charles with a raised eyebrow as if expecting a response.

Charles couldn't help but laugh. "You two are incorrigible," he said, his voice warm with affection. "And yet, you both look absolutely splendid."

"Splendid?" Wanda echoed, her eyes wide with mock disbelief as she slid her boots off. "We look like marshmallows!"

"And splendid marshmallows at that," Charles teased, completely enraptured by the small figures in front of him. His heart swelled with warmth as he watched them go about their antics. He couldn't help but marvel at how natural it felt to have these two little beings in his life. The way they moved, their little quirks, the way they looked at him with such innocence—it was all so utterly charming.

Pietro collapsed dramatically onto the couch, kicking off his shoes as though the weight of his boots was too much for him to bear. "I bet you could turn us into snowmen with all that padding," he grumbled, stretching out on the couch in a way that made it clear he was both exhausted and satisfied by their outdoor adventure.

Wanda dropped next to him, mimicking his relaxed posture with a dramatic sigh. "I can’t believe you made us wear all this stuff," she muttered, but her voice lacked any real heat. She was already losing the battle to exhaustion. "It’s like you were trying to make us look ridiculous."

Charles chuckled, his gaze never leaving them. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from how they’d grown so accustomed to him, how they were beginning to shape into little reflections of the love he poured into them. "Ridiculous, perhaps. But you do look utterly adorable. I believe ‘splendid’ was the word I used."

Wanda rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a giggle as she flopped back against Pietro. "You’re impossible, Daddy," she said, the word slipping out with an easy affection that made Charles’s heart skip a beat. It was so natural, so trusting.

Pietro yawned and threw his arm over his twin’s shoulders, still a little less enthusiastic about the affection. "Yeah, well, next time we’re just staying inside where it's warm," he grumbled.

Charles smiled indulgently, sitting back in his chair and watching the twins settle. Their energy was fading quickly, and the house seemed to breathe in time with them, the quiet only broken by the soft rustling of clothes being discarded. As the twins melted into the couch, finally beginning to settle, Charles allowed himself a moment of pure contentment.

There was a sense of peace now, wrapped around them all. These small moments of connection—of laughter, of playful teasing, of the simple joy of being together—were the things he cherished most. They might not understand it yet, but these little kids, with their big personalities and their boundless energy, had become the centre of his universe. And he, in turn, was the axis upon which they spun.

"Alright, you two," Charles said softly, though his voice was filled with the same warmth that had permeated the entire night. "Get some rest. Tomorrow we’ll have another splendid adventure, no doubt."

Wanda yawned, her eyes fluttering closed, her head resting against her twin. "Good night, Daddy," she mumbled, too tired to fully register her words, but the affection was there, in the way she clung to the comfort of Charles’s presence.

Pietro didn’t respond, but his eyes were already half-lidded as he rested beside her, his little hand still grasping for some semblance of their earlier energy.

Charles couldn’t stop the smile that curled on his lips, even as he gazed down at the two of them. The twins had a way of bringing a sense of purpose and joy that he hadn’t known he’d been missing—no matter how much they protested or how many layers they insisted on shedding. In this moment, they were his, and he was theirs.

As the house grew quieter and their breathing became soft and steady, Charles allowed himself to rest, knowing that in the morning, they would wake up ready to create more memories together.

And no matter how much the world changed, how much life tried to pull them in different directions, he would always have these moments to hold onto.

Chapter Text

Morning came quietly, the soft light filtering through the mansion’s tall windows casting a gentle glow over the house's stillness. Charles as always, was the first to rise, as oring the peace before the day began in earnest. He carefully brewed his tea, the steam curling upwards as he settled into his chair by the window, a book in hand. The twins were still sound asleep on the couch where they’d collapsed the night before, and he didn’t have the heart to wake them just yet.

It wasn’t until later, when Wanda and Pietro finally dragged themselves into the kitchen with bleary eyes and sluggish movements, that Charles began to sense something was off. Usually chatty in the mornings, Wanda merely mumbled a soft greeting before slumping into a chair, her hair tousled and her cheeks unusually pale. Pietro, for his part, was oddly subdued, his usual boundless energy replaced with a slow shuffle and a faint sniffle.

“Good morning, you two,” Charles said warmly, setting down his book. “Did you sleep well?”

Wanda nodded half-heartedly, rubbing at her nose with the sleeve of her oversized sweater. “Mm-hm,” she murmured, though her voice was hoarse, a rasp that Charles couldn’t help but notice.

Pietro merely shrugged, dropping into the chair across from his sister and resting his chin in his hand. His usual appetite seemed absent as he poked at the breakfast Charles had set out for them, a far cry from his typical voracious eating habits.

“Are you feeling alright?” Charles asked, a note of concern creeping into his voice as he watched them.

“Yeah, fine,” Pietro said, though his sniffle betrayed him. Wanda echoed her twin’s sentiment with a weak nod, though she winced slightly as she swallowed a sip of orange juice.

Charles frowned, his brow furrowing as he observed the two of them. They weren’t acting like their usual lively selves, but he chalked it up to the late night and the chilly air they’d been exposed to during their stargazing. Still, he made a mental note to keep an eye on them, just in case.

The morning passed in a haze of quiet moments and small activities. The twins were content to lounge in the living room with a stack of books and a half-hearted game of checkers. Meanwhile, Charles busied himself with his correspondence, glancing up occasionally to check on them.

It wasn’t until lunch that the signs began to pile up. Wanda barely touched her soup, and Pietro, who normally ate as though he hadn’t seen food in days, only managed a few bites of his sandwich before pushing his plate away. Both twins looked paler than before, their movements sluggish and their voices tinged with fatigue.

Still, it wasn’t until mid-afternoon, when Wanda tugged at his sleeve with wide, watery eyes and a plaintive, “Daddy, my throat hurts,” that the realization struck him like a bolt of lightning.

Charles froze, his heart skipping a beat as he knelt to her level, his hands instinctively reaching out to cup her face. Her skin was warm to the touch, her little nose red, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. Pietro stood nearby, looking equally miserable as he leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Oh, my darling,” Charles murmured, his voice thick with worry. He turned to Pietro, his sharp gaze taking in the boy’s flushed cheeks and the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. “You too?”

Pietro gave a weak nod, sniffling quietly.

Before either of them could say another word, Charles was on his feet, his mind racing. “Hank!” he called, his voice echoing through the mansion.

Hank appeared moments later, his expression calm as ever despite Charles’s obvious panic. “What’s the matter?”

“They’re sick,” Charles said, his tone clipped with urgency as he gestured to the twins. “They’re burning up. I knew I shouldn’t have taken them outside last night—”

Hank held up a hand, his voice steady. “Charles, it’s just a cold. Kids get sick sometimes, no matter how careful you are.”

But Charles wasn’t convinced. “What if it’s more than that? What if it’s affecting their mutations?”

As if on cue, Wanda’s hand twitched, and the glass of water on the table wobbled precariously before tipping over, spilling its contents across the wood. Pietro startled, moved to catch it, but in his haste, he blurred slightly, his form flickering like a faulty film reel before snapping back into place.

Hank sighed, his gaze shifting between the twins. “Alright, it seems their mutations are reacting, but that’s not uncommon. Stress and illness can amplify their powers, especially at this age.”

Charles wasn’t entirely reassured, his worry etched deeply into his features. “What do we do?”

“We keep them comfortable,” Hank replied simply, his calm demeanour a stark contrast to Charles’s mounting anxiety. “Plenty of fluids, rest, and some mild fever reducers. They’ll be fine in a few days.”

Charles nodded, though the tightness in his chest didn’t fully ease. Turning back to the twins, he crouched down, his hands gentle as he brushed Wanda’s hair back from her face and placed a hand on Pietro’s shoulder.

“You’re both going to rest,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “No running around, no using your powers. Just rest.”

“But—” Pietro began, only to be cut off by a stern look from Charles.

“No buts,” Charles said, his voice soft but resolute. “I’m taking care of you, and that’s final.”

Wanda leaned into him, her small frame trembling slightly. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Charles’s heart clenched, and he kissed the top of her head. “You have nothing to be sorry for, my love. I just want you to get better.”

With that, he guided them both to the couch, bundling them in blankets and fussing over every detail, from their tea's temperature to their pillows' fluffiness. Hank’s reassurances lingered in the back of his mind, but for now, all Charles could focus on was his overwhelming need to protect his little ones.

Charles paced the living room as the twins lay bundled on the couch, their pale faces flushed with fever. Wanda’s breathing was uneven, a soft wheeze accompanying each breath, while Pietro fidgeted restlessly, his usual energy subdued to anxious tics. Every few minutes, Charles would pause, his hands trembling slightly, and adjust their blankets or offer sips of water, but it never felt like enough.

His helplessness gnawed at him, a bitter edge to every action. Once, his mutation would have allowed him to delve into their minds, to soothe their distress with a mere thought or offer comfort on a level words couldn’t reach. But now? Now, the serum left him with nothing but his voice and his hands, and neither seemed enough.

“Daddy…” Wanda whimpered softly, her eyes glassy as she reached for him. Her fingers trembled, and the small lamp on the side table flickered ominously. “It hurts…”

Charles knelt by her side in an instant, his heart aching at the tears spilling from her eyes. “I know, darling. I know. I wish I could take it all away,” he murmured, his voice breaking slightly. He tucked the blanket closer around her, brushing damp strands of hair from her forehead. “You’re safe. Just try to rest.”

But her powers had other ideas. The lamp’s flickering turned into a sudden, sharp crack as the bulb shattered, scattering glass across the table. Charles flinched, his hands instinctively pulling Wanda closer to shield her, though her fever-dazed mind barely registered the commotion.

“Sorry… I’m sorry…” Wanda mumbled, her voice thin and cracking with guilt.

“You don’t need to apologize, my love,” Charles said softly, though his chest felt tight with worry. He looked over at Hank, who had been carefully sweeping the fragments into a dustpan.

Hank glanced up, his calm gaze meeting Charles’s fraught one. “This is normal, Charles. When children with mutations fall ill, their powers tend to spiral. It’s like their bodies are trying to expel the sickness but don’t know how.”

Charles nodded, though the explanation did little to soothe his turmoil. His hands flexed at his sides as he returned to his pacing. Every instinct in him screamed to do something —to reach into their minds, stabilize their mutations, and ease their suffering. But the serum had stripped him of that gift, leaving him with a hollowness he couldn’t fill.

Across the room, Pietro groaned, a faint blur tracing his restless movements beneath the blanket. The sound of his teeth chattering was nearly drowned out by the faint hum of vibrating air around him. “I can’t stop shivering,” he muttered, his voice edged with frustration.

Charles was by his side in an instant, pressing a reassuring hand to his shoulder. “It’s alright, Pietro. Your body’s just trying to fight off the fever.”

But Pietro shook his head, his jaw clenched. “It’s not just that—it’s this. ” He raised his hand, which flickered out of place for a fraction of a second before snapping back. “I keep phasing. I can’t control it, and it—” He cut himself off with a sharp intake of breath, his eyes squeezing shut as a wave of dizziness overtook him.

“It’s your mutation responding to the stress,” Hank said gently, stepping in with his usual calm. “Your body’s fighting two battles—one against the cold and one to stabilize your abilities. It’s exhausting, but it’ll pass.”

“But what if it doesn’t?” Pietro’s voice was edged with fear, a vulnerability he rarely let surface. He looked to Charles, his pale brown eyes wide and pleading. “What if I hurt someone because I can’t control it?”

Charles’s throat tightened. He knelt beside Pietro, his hand steady on the boy’s arm despite the unease swirling inside him. “You won’t,” he said firmly, his voice filled with a confidence he didn’t entirely feel. “You’re stronger than this fever, Pietro. It’s just making everything harder for now, but it will get better.”

Pietro didn’t look convinced, but he nodded weakly, leaning back against the couch with a heavy sigh.

The hours stretched on, and Charles’s helplessness deepened with every passing moment. Wanda’s fever spiked again in the late afternoon, leaving her trembling and murmuring incoherently as Charles sponged her forehead with a damp cloth. Her powers flared in fits and starts—books sliding off shelves, the curtains billowing despite the closed windows.

“Daddy?” she rasped at one point, her small hand clutching his sleeve.

“Yes, darling, I’m here,” Charles said, his voice soft and steady even as his heart clenched.

“Don’t leave,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re not alone,” he promised, pressing a kiss to her fevered brow. “I’ll be here as long as you need me.”

But even as he said it, the weight of his limitations pressed down on him. He wasn’t the man he used to be—the man who could have entered their minds and guided them through this storm with ease. Now, all he could do was sit by their side, offering words and touches that felt woefully inadequate.

By the evening, the twins were no better, their mutations still reacting unpredictably to their illness. Pietro’s speed flickered in bursts that left scorch marks on the rug, while Wanda’s telekinesis sent objects drifting through the air before dropping abruptly. Hank remained unflappable, tending to them with the steady precision of a seasoned caregiver, but Charles couldn’t shake the gnawing guilt that he wasn’t doing enough.

As he sat by Wanda’s bedside that night, watching her restless sleep, he found himself whispering a quiet prayer to no one in particular. “Please… let them be alright.”

And though there was no answer, he vowed to stay by their side through every moment of their recovery, no matter how helpless he felt.

The night seemed to stretch on endlessly. Charles sat by Wanda’s side, his fingers lightly tracing the cool skin of her hand. She had finally fallen into a fitful sleep, but the quiet tremors that passed through her body, even in rest, told him how deeply her fever gripped her. He glanced at Pietro, whose restless shifting had eased only slightly, though his flickering phasing still occurred in spurts.

Charles’s mind churned his thoughts into a whirlwind of helplessness. He watched the twins struggle, their powers at war with their sick bodies, and all he could do was provide comfort in the form of touches, words, and the occasional murmured reassurances. He wasn’t used to this—being so powerless to help. I should be able to do more, he thought, his heart aching with the burden of that thought.

I’m their father, he told himself. I should be able to make it better.

But the reality was far from that simple. Despite his best efforts, despite his assurances, he knew he couldn’t make their suffering go away. His powers—the very essence of what had made him the leader of the X-Men, the one to guide others—had been stripped from him. He couldn’t even read their minds to offer them the kind of comfort they needed. He wasn’t even sure what they were truly feeling, what they were truly experiencing, beneath the surface.

“Charles?” Hank’s voice broke through his spiralling thoughts.

Charles turned, his breath shaky as he wiped his eyes. He hadn't realized how long he'd been lost in his turmoil.

“Are you alright?” Hank asked, the concern in his eyes plain, though he continued to methodically prepare a warm compress for Pietro’s fevered forehead.

Charles gave a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m fine, Hank. Just... trying to keep it together.”

Hank didn’t reply immediately, but his steady gaze spoke volumes. He knew how hard this must be for Charles. They both did. Hank, with his scientific mind and his ability to calculate and measure every aspect of the twins’ condition, was taking practical steps. Charles, on the other hand, felt every moment of their suffering deep in his soul, unable to fix it, unable to control it.

“I feel... useless,” Charles whispered finally, his voice thick with frustration. He ran a hand through his hair, his breath shaky as he looked at Hank. “I’m not even capable of using my powers anymore. I can’t help them the way I could have before.”

Hank gave him a sympathetic look but remained silent for a moment as if weighing his response. Then, he gently placed a hand on Charles’s shoulder. “It’s not about what you can do, Charles. It’s about being there . You’re already helping them just by staying by their side. They know you’re here. They know they’re not alone. That’s what they need more than anything.”

Charles swallowed his throat tight. He wanted to believe that—he desperately wanted to—but the ache inside him wouldn’t subside. He wasn’t sure if he was just being selfish, or if he truly couldn’t help in the ways that mattered most.

The next morning brought little relief. The twins remained feverish, their bodies reacting unpredictably. Wanda’s powers flared again, this time causing an entire bookshelf to topple, sending books scattering across the room in a chaotic storm. Charles leapt to his feet, moving to shield her, but the objects fell harmlessly to the floor. Still, the sudden burst of power rattled him. He had been so focused on their physical ailments, on their fevers and fatigue, that he hadn’t thought much about the toll their powers were taking on them as they tried to fight the illness.

Hank was there before Charles could speak, setting the room back in order with a few quick, calm gestures. “It’s the sickness, Charles. They’re not in control of it right now. But the sooner their bodies settle, the sooner their powers will return to balance. We just need to help them through it.”

Charles nodded, though the knot in his stomach remained. He could hear the tremble in Wanda’s voice when she asked, “Will I always hurt like this when I get sick?”

“I hope not, darling,” he whispered, brushing a strand of her hair away from her face. “This is just temporary. You’re going to feel better soon.”

But despite his words, he knew it wasn’t so simple.

Hours later, as evening fell, the twins’ condition still hadn’t improved much. Their powers remained erratic, and their fever hadn’t broken. Pietro remained restless, unable to stay still, his nerves fraying. Wanda, on the other hand, had grown quieter, retreating into herself as her strength waned.

Charles sat by her again, holding her hand tightly. It had been too long—he knew it, and Hank knew it too. The moment Hank had mentioned, with some reluctance, the possibility of calling in outside help Charles had immediately shut the idea down. He could not bear the thought of bringing in anyone else. They were his children. He was supposed to be the one to take care of them.

“I’m sorry,” Wanda said weakly, barely above a whisper. “I’m just so tired.”

Charles’s heart broke. Tired. She was exhausted, but the fever clung to her. She looked so small, so fragile. He squeezed her hand tighter, his voice soft as he leaned in close. “You don’t have to apologize, sweet one. I know you’re tired. You’ve been so strong through all of this. Rest now. I’m right here.”

For a brief moment, Wanda looked up at him, her eyes half-lidded, and smiled faintly. “I know you’re here, Daddy. I just… I don’t want to hurt anymore.”

Charles's throat tightened at her words, a lump of helpless emotion rising. His mind ached to do more, but all he could do was stay by her side and be present, to hold her hand and give what comfort he could.

As the hours passed, Hank administered some more medicine, checking the twins’ temperature again and again, but Charles found himself watching them with a constant, gnawing worry. Every small twitch of their bodies, every sigh or groan, set his nerves on edge.

In those moments, when it felt like the world outside had fallen away and nothing existed but their suffering, Charles realized something deeply painful: he was helpless. He was simply a man—a father who had no mutant powers to help his children in their time of need.

But there was something else he realized, too. Despite this, he would do whatever it took to make sure they knew they weren’t alone. No matter how frustrating, no matter how draining it was, he would be here with them through it all. For all his limitations, he would continue to stay at their side, offering the only thing he could: his unwavering love.

As the second night crept in, a subtle shift in the atmosphere signalled a fragile turning point. Pietro’s phasing episodes grew less frequent, and his restless tossing settled into something closer to genuine sleep. Wanda, though still pale and fevered, began to murmur faintly in her sleep—a sign, Hank explained, that her body was responding to rest and hydration.

Charles had hardly moved from their bedside. The ache in his back and the stiffness in his legs went unnoticed as he focused solely on his children. Every small improvement felt monumental: the way Wanda’s breathing deepened into a steadier rhythm, the occasional flicker of awareness on Pietro’s face when he opened his eyes.

By morning, Hank offered the first real reassurance. “Their fevers are breaking,” he said quietly, holding up the thermometer as if to validate his words.

Charles let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Relief flooded through him, but it was tempered by exhaustion. “Thank heavens,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

Pietro woke first, his eyes fluttering open to find Charles still perched at his bedside. “You look awful,” he croaked, his voice rough but carrying a shadow of his usual humour.

Charles chuckled softly, brushing a hand through Pietro’s silver hair. “And you, my boy, look a sight better than you did yesterday. I’ll take that as a win.”

Pietro’s lips twitched into a faint smile before he closed his eyes again, his energy still too depleted to sustain a proper conversation.

Wanda stirred next, her soft groan drawing Charles’s immediate attention. He leaned closer, his hand gently cupping her cheek. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he said, his voice as warm as sunlight breaking through a storm.

Wanda’s eyes opened, hazy and tired but brighter than they had been in days. “Daddy,” she whispered, her voice weak but filled with relief. “You’re still here.”

“Of course I am,” Charles replied, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll always be here, Wanda. Always.”

As the twins slowly began their recovery, Charles found himself retreating to his study for brief moments of solitude. He had spent so much time putting on a brave face, being the steady presence his children needed, that he hadn’t given himself space to process his feelings.

He sat in his armchair, staring at the glass of brandy he had poured but not yet touched. The weight of the past days pressed down on him, threatening to spill over. His hands shook slightly as he pressed his palms together, resting his chin against his knuckles.

The truth of his helplessness gnawed at him. Without his powers, he had been stripped of the abilities that had defined him for so long. He couldn’t peer into their minds to soothe their fears or guide them through their erratic powers. He couldn’t even sense when their pain had peaked or waned.

“I should have been able to do more,” he muttered aloud, the words heavy with frustration and guilt.

A soft knock at the door broke through his thoughts. Before he could respond, Hank entered, a look of understanding on his face. “I thought I might find you here,” he said, closing the door behind him.

Charles gestured vaguely toward the chair opposite him. “If you’re here to offer more reassurances, Hank, I appreciate it, but I’m not sure I’ll be much of an audience.”

Hank sat anyway, his calm demeanour unshaken. “I’m not here to lecture you, Charles. I know how hard this has been for you.”

Charles let out a weary sigh, rubbing his temples. “They’ve been through so much already. To see them suffer like that, and to be unable to do anything... It’s unbearable.”

Hank nodded thoughtfully. “I won’t pretend to fully understand what you’re feeling, but I will say this: you underestimate the impact of simply being there. Powers or no powers, your presence is what matters most to them. You’ve seen it yourself—Wanda and Pietro both look to you for comfort and reassurance. That’s not something your mutation could have given them.”

Charles fell silent, Hank’s words settling over him like a balm. He thought of Wanda’s soft “Daddy” and the way Pietro had smiled, even in his weakened state. They hadn’t needed him to read their minds or manipulate their pain—they had needed him .

“I suppose you’re right,” Charles admitted finally, his voice quieter. “It’s just... difficult to accept that love is enough.”

Hank gave him a small, knowing smile. “Sometimes, it’s the only thing that is.”

By the end of the week, the twins were well on their way to recovery. Wanda’s colour had returned, her fever long gone, and she was once again weaving small sparks of magic through her fingers as she lounged on the couch. Pietro had regained enough strength to zip around the mansion, though Hank made him promise not to overexert himself.

Charles watched them both with a quiet sense of pride and relief. The shadows of the past few days hadn’t entirely lifted, but they had grown lighter.

As they sat together one evening, Wanda curled up with a blanket and Pietro sprawled out with a book he pretended to be reading, Charles broke the comfortable silence.

“I owe you both an apology,” he said softly.

Wanda and Pietro looked at him, puzzled.

“For what?” Pietro asked, setting his book aside.

“For doubting myself,” Charles admitted. “I was so caught up in what I couldn’t do that I forgot to trust in what I could. I should have had more faith in myself—and in you.”

Wanda smiled, her gaze warm. “We never doubted you, Daddy,” she said simply.

Pietro nodded, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “Yeah. You were there when we needed you. That’s what mattered.”

Charles felt his chest tighten, his love for them overwhelming in its intensity. “Thank you,” he said, his voice thick.

And at that moment, as the twins leaned against him, their trust and affection evident in every gesture, Charles realized that perhaps Hank had been right all along sometimes, love was enough.

It was bound to happen, though Hank had warned him against overexertion. Charles, ever the stubborn father, had dismissed the concern, claiming he couldn’t possibly rest while his children were unwell. Now, as he sat in his armchair with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, his flushed cheeks and stuffy nose betrayed the inevitable: he had caught the twins’ cold.

“Daddy, you don’t look so good,” Wanda said, her brow furrowed with concern as she peeked around the doorframe of his study.

“Thanks for the reminder,” Charles replied, his voice hoarse but warm. He gestured for her to come closer. “I suppose I’m not at my best.”

“You should be in bed,” Pietro chimed in, zipping into the room with an oversized mug of tea that sloshed precariously with every step.

Charles smiled faintly at their earnestness. “You’re both recovering; you don’t need to worry about me.”

But the twins would not be deterred. Wanda grabbed his hand, her small fingers curling tightly around his. “We’re going to take care of you, Daddy. Just like you took care of us.”

It didn’t take long for the twins to transform Charles’s room into their makeshift sick bay. Wanda had stacked pillows around him with precision, ensuring he was “as cozy as possible,” while Pietro proudly displayed his attempts at making soup—though it was mostly broth with too much salt.

Wanda, however, had decided her role was to entertain him. At some point during her exploration of the study, she had found a thick, leather-bound book tucked away on a high shelf. She hadn’t realized it was Charles’s doctoral thesis, let alone understood what a thesis was, but it seemed important, and she was determined to read it to him.

“Okay,” she announced, climbing onto the bed and clearing her throat dramatically. “This will make you feel better!”

Charles raised a brow, watching as she flipped open the heavy book, her small hands struggling to hold it steady. “Wanda, what on earth—”

“Shh,” she said, waving him off. She squinted at the first page, her nose scrunching in concentration. “To homo... knee-and-er-tall-ness... his mutant cousin, homo sa... sapiens...” She paused, glancing up at Charles. “What’s this word?”

“Sapiens,” he corrected gently, suppressing a smile.

She nodded seriously and pressed on. “Was an abber—uh, abber-ration. Peaceful... cohabi—cohabitash... co—”

“Cohabitation,” Charles offered, his voice tinged with amusement.

“Cohabitation!” Wanda repeated triumphantly, though she still had no idea what it meant. She continued, stumbling over the words, her faint British accent slipping through as she mimicked Charles’s pronunciation.

It took a moment for Charles to realize what she was reading, but when it clicked, a low chuckle escaped him. “Wanda, darling, where did you find that?”

She paused, looking up with wide eyes. “Your study. What is it? It’s so boring!”

Charles couldn’t help but laugh, his chest heaving despite the congestion. “It’s my thesis. I wrote it when I was much younger.”

Wanda blinked. “What’s a thesis?”

“It’s... a very long essay. For school.”

“Oh.” Wanda frowned at the book as if betrayed. “Why would you do that to yourself?”

The question made Charles laugh harder, his amusement cutting through the fog of his illness. “I ask myself the same thing sometimes.”

While Wanda valiantly attempted to read her way through the thesis, Pietro decided to take a more active approach. He had raided the kitchen and returned with a platter of “snacks” that included crackers, mismatched fruit, and a questionable concoction of honey and peanut butter.

“Here,” he said, placing the tray on the bedside table. “This is all the stuff you said was good for us when we were sick.”

Charles glanced at the assortment, his lips twitching with gratitude and mild alarm. “Thank you, Pietro. This is... quite the spread.”

Pietro beamed, puffing out his chest. “Told you I’d be the best nurse.”

“You’re both wonderful nurses,” Charles said, reaching out to tousle Pietro’s hair.

Pietro grinned but quickly ducked away, muttering, “Yeah, yeah, don’t get mushy about it.”

As the day wore on, the twins’ energy began to wane, their recovery still incomplete. Wanda eventually closed the thesis, declaring it “too dumb to fix Daddy,” and Pietro curled up at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed, pretending not to be sleepy.

Charles, now reclined and surrounded by his two protectors, felt a deep warmth settle over him. Despite the sniffles and fatigue, there was nowhere he’d rather be.

“Daddy?” Wanda murmured, snuggling into his side.

“Yes, my darling?”

“You were really smart to write all those boring words.”

Charles chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Thank you, Wanda. That means a great deal to me.”

Pietro shifted closer, his head resting near Charles’s knee. “You’re still kinda boring, though.”

“Pietro,” Wanda scolded, though her giggle betrayed her.

Charles smiled softly, his arms wrapping around them both. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

As the twins drifted off to sleep, curled up against him, Charles allowed himself to relax. The illness, the exhaustion, the worries—all of it melted away in the face of their unconditional love.

And for the first time in days, Charles felt truly at peace.

The soft sound of their breathing filled the room, steady and rhythmic. Charles sat propped up against the pillows, his arms draped protectively around his children. Though the ache in his head persisted and his throat burned with every swallow, he couldn’t bring himself to focus on his discomfort.

Wanda’s hair tickled his chin as she shifted in her sleep, her small body pressing closer to his side. Pietro sprawled more haphazardly across the bed, had one leg draped over Charles’s, his usual restless energy subdued by the lingering remnants of his cold.

Charles smiled faintly, stroking Wanda’s hair with absentminded tenderness. The twins had managed to turn what could have been a miserable day into something endearing. Their clumsy but heartfelt attempts to care for him had warmed his heart more effectively than any amount of tea or soup.

His mind drifted as he watched them sleep, reflecting on the journey that had brought them here. These two remarkable children, with their boundless determination and quirks, had filled a void in his life he hadn’t even realized was so vast.

The quiet creak of the door drew Charles’s attention. Hank poked his head into the room, his expression softening when he saw the scene before him.

“I thought you might be resting,” Hank said softly, stepping inside with a tray balanced in his hands. It held a fresh pot of tea, a bowl of soup, and a few biscuits.

“I was,” Charles replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “But apparently, my children had other plans.”

Hank’s lips twitched into a smile as he set the tray down. “I see that. They’re good kids, Charles.”

“They are,” Charles agreed, his gaze returning to the twins. “Better than I deserve, sometimes.”

Hank shook his head, pulling up a chair beside the bed. “Don’t start that. You’ve done more for them than you realize. Let them return the favor, even if it’s in their... unique way.”

Charles chuckled, careful not to disturb the twins. “Wanda tried to read me my doctoral thesis.”

Hank raised a brow. “The one about human evolution and mutant coexistence? That’s quite a bedtime story.”

“She was very committed,” Charles said, the corners of his mouth quirking up. “Though I’m not sure she understood a word of it.”

“Give her time,” Hank said with a grin. “If she’s anything like you, she’ll be quoting it back to you in no time.”

As the evening wore on, the twins began to stir. Pietro woke first, blinking groggily before realizing he was still curled up on the bed. He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes and glancing at Charles.

“Still sick?” Pietro asked his voice husky with sleep.

“A bit,” Charles admitted. “But feeling much better, thanks to you and your sister.”

Pietro’s face lit up with a proud grin. “Told you I’d be the best nurse.”

Wanda stirred next, her eyes fluttering open. She looked up at Charles, her expression sleepy but concerned. “Are you feeling better, Daddy?”

“I am,” Charles assured her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Though I think I’d feel even better if the two of you got some proper rest.”

“But we’re fine now,” Wanda protested, sitting up and crossing her arms. “We have to keep looking after you.”

Charles chuckled. “You’ve done more than enough, my darling. Truly.”

Despite their protests, it wasn’t long before the twins found themselves once again curled up beside Charles. Wanda clutched a soft blanket she had insisted on bringing from the twin's room, while Pietro wriggled into a comfortable spot against Charles’s other side.

The room was quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the fire in the hearth. Charles rested his head against the pillows, his eyes growing heavy as the day’s fatigue caught up with him.

As he drifted off, he thought of how far they’d all come, and how much further they had to go. But in this moment, surrounded by warmth and love, he allowed himself to believe that they would face it all together.

And for the first time in years, the mansion felt like home.

Chapter Text

The days had taken on a fragile rhythm. Wanda and Pietro flourished under Charles's care, their smiles brighter, their laughter echoing through the mansion. They were thriving, discovering their powers and personalities with an exuberance that made Charles’s heart ache with pride. Yet, beneath the surface, cracks were forming—cracks Charles refused to acknowledge.

As he stood in his study, his hands trembling slightly, Charles pressed the needle into his arm. The familiar warmth of the serum coursed through him, dulling the sharp edges of his pain. His mutation remained silenced, his body fortified, but it was more than that now. The serum had become a lifeline, a necessity. Without it, he couldn’t keep up—not with the twins, not with his responsibilities, and certainly not with the weight of his past.

He withdrew the needle, tucking it into a drawer he thought no one would check. The faint sound of Pietro laughing down the hall drew him from his thoughts. For a moment, the guilt flared, hot and heavy in his chest. But as he stepped into the corridor and saw the boy racing Wanda to the end of the hall, their expressions alight with joy, the guilt melted away.

They couldn’t know. They wouldn’t understand. He couldn’t let them down.

Charles’s life revolved around the twins. Every morning, he rose before them, ensuring breakfast was ready, setting up the books Wanda loved and the puzzles Pietro had taken to conquering. He sat with them through lessons, their unorthodox classroom sessions full of mischief and curiosity. In the afternoons, he joined them outside, watching as Wanda practised with her magic while Pietro tested the limits of his speed.

Every smile they gave him, every moment they leaned on him for support, every “Daddy” spoken with trust and affection—it all cemented his resolve.

But his steps had grown heavier. His patience wore thin more often than he liked. The serum numbed his pain, but it couldn’t erase the toll. He buried the strain under practised smiles, brushing aside Hank’s increasingly concerned glances.

“Another dose, Charles?” Hank’s voice was quiet, almost resigned, as he entered the study one evening, catching Charles mid-injection.

Charles didn’t look up. “It’s necessary.”

“For them, or for you?”

The question hung in the air like a storm cloud. Charles capped the syringe, placing it into the drawer with deliberate care before turning to face his old friend.

“They need me,” he said, his voice steady but edged with defensiveness. “I can’t afford to falter.”

“And what happens when you do?” Hank stepped closer, his eyes scanning Charles with a mix of pity and frustration. “Because this path you’re on, Charles, it only leads one way.”

Charles’s jaw tightened. “I won’t let them down. Not like...” He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

Hank’s expression softened, but his disapproval didn’t waver. “They already love you, Charles. You don’t need the serum for that.”

But Charles turned away, unwilling to hear it. “They need me strong,” he said quietly. “And I’ll stay strong. For them.”

Wanda and Pietro noticed nothing of Charles’s struggle. To them, he was invincible—a steady presence who gave them warmth and safety in a world that had shown them neither before.

“Daddy, look!” Wanda called one evening, her magic swirling in her hands in the shape of a delicate bird. Pietro stood beside her, his grin wide as he zipped forward, disrupting the bird’s flight with a gust of air.

“Pietro!” Wanda huffed, chasing after him, her magic sparking in frustration.

Charles chuckled from his seat, forcing the weariness from his voice. “Both of you, be careful. No broken furniture, please.”

They raced past him, their laughter filling the room. For a moment, it was enough to silence the doubts gnawing at him.

That night, Hank cornered Charles again. “They love you, Charles. They’re happy. But you’re not doing this for them anymore—you’re doing it because you’re afraid.”

Charles glared at him, the accusation cutting deeper than he expected. “Of course I’m afraid,” he snapped. “I see how much love they have for their father—a man they’ve never met. What happens when they realize I’m not enough? What happens when they stop looking at me with that trust?”

Hank sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You’re enough, Charles. You’ve always been enough. But you’re not going to convince yourself of that by drowning in this... this crutch.”

In the quiet of the night, long after the twins had fallen asleep, Charles sat alone in his study. A photograph rested in his lap—a snapshot of himself, Erik, and Raven in their younger days.

He traced Erik’s face with his thumb, the memories flooding back. Erik’s unwavering determination, his passion, his ability to inspire... Charles had tried to embody that for the twins, but the effort left him hollow.

“They deserve better,” he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he felt the sharp pang of resolve. He would give them better, even if it meant losing himself in the process.

Charles leaned back, closing his eyes, the weight of his choices pressing heavily on him. Outside, the twins slept soundly, blissfully unaware of the man who was crumbling under the burden of their happiness.

The days bled together, each one dragging Charles further into a state of quiet desperation. The serum no longer provided the same stability; its effects waned faster, its doses coming closer and closer together. But it didn’t matter.

The twins were everything.

Every morning, Charles forced himself to rise, often trembling as he dressed, exhaustion carved into his face. He smoothed it all away with practised care before heading to the breakfast table, where Wanda and Pietro greeted him with their usual boisterous affection.

“Dad, can we go outside after breakfast?” Pietro asked one morning, practically vibrating in his seat with excitement.

Wanda, sitting cross-legged on her chair, waved a hand, sending a piece of toast floating lazily toward her. “No, let’s stay in. I want to work on my magic.”

Charles smiled faintly, his voice steady despite the effort it took. “We can do both. Perhaps we’ll explore the gardens first, then set up a practice area for you, Wanda.”

The suggestion lit up their faces, and the rush of their gratitude—“Thanks, Daddy!”—was like a balm to his soul.

Charles bent over backwards to keep them happy. Wanda’s magic often left scorch marks on the walls, but Charles simply waved away Hank’s protests, saying, “They’re just learning.” Pietro’s antics—zooming through the mansion, knocking over furniture—earned a similar defence.

“They need to be free, Hank,” Charles would say, brushing off his friend’s concerned glances. “They’ve been through enough.”

But the reality was simpler and more painful: Charles couldn’t bear to say no to them. Every laugh, every hug, every spark of joy they gave him was a lifeline, tethering him to the world. If indulging them kept those moments coming, then he would do it without question.

It wasn’t long before the cracks in his façade became harder to hide. His hands trembled more frequently, his steps slower. One afternoon, as he helped Wanda with her magic, he nearly collapsed, catching himself against the wall.

“Daddy?” Wanda’s voice was soft, her brow furrowed in concern.

Charles forced a smile, straightening immediately. “I’m fine, darling. Just tired.”

She didn’t seem convinced, but when Pietro zipped into the room with a loud, “Wanda, come see what I found!” her attention was quickly diverted.

Charles sagged against the wall as they ran off, his breath shallow.

Hank confronted him that evening, his voice low but firm. “Charles, this has to stop. You’re killing yourself.”

Charles didn’t look up from the book in his lap. “They’re happy, Hank. That’s all that matters.”

“They won’t be happy if they lose you,” Hank shot back. “You think you’re protecting them, but all you’re doing is building a house of cards. When it falls—”

Charles’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing with a rare spark of anger. “Don’t you dare suggest I would let them fall. I will do whatever it takes to keep them safe, to keep them happy. They’re all I have left.”

Hank stared at him, the frustration giving way to a deep sadness. “And you’re all they have, Charles. But you’re slipping away, and they don’t even know it.”

Charles’s world shrank further, narrowing to just the twins and the serum. Every moment without them felt hollow, unbearable. When they were asleep, he would sit outside their rooms, his hands clasped tightly as if their presence could anchor him.

He began giving in to their whims even more readily. Wanda wanted to try a new spell that required nearly every candle in the mansion. Done. Pietro wanted to race through the library, even if it meant risking the shelves. Of course.

Hank’s disapproval grew, but Charles waved it off. He had long since stopped caring what anyone thought, so long as Wanda and Pietro kept smiling.

But the strain was showing. One evening, as Charles sat with the twins in the living room, reading aloud from one of Wanda’s favourite storybooks, his voice faltered. Wanda looked up from where she was curled against his side, her brow furrowing.

“Daddy, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, darling,” he murmured, though his voice was hoarse. He pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to her hair.

Pietro sprawled on the floor, glanced up. “You don’t look fine.”

“I said I’m fine,” Charles repeated, sharper than he intended. Both twins stiffened, and Charles immediately softened, guilt washing over him. “I’m sorry, my loves. I’m just... tired.”

Wanda nestled closer, her small hand clutching his sleeve. “You should rest, Daddy.”

Charles smiled faintly, brushing her hair back. “I will. But not yet.”

He couldn’t rest. Not while the house of cards still stood, precarious but intact.

That night, Hank found him in the study, the needle in his hand.

“Charles,” he said quietly, his voice breaking. “Please. Stop this.”

Charles didn’t answer immediately. He stared at the serum, the faint tremor in his hands growing stronger.

“I can’t,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “If I stop... I’ll lose them.”

Hank stepped forward, his expression pained. “You’re losing yourself.”

Charles turned to him, his eyes hollow. “It doesn’t matter.”

The twins remained oblivious, their days filled with laughter and discovery. But the weight on Charles’s shoulders grew heavier, his resolve thinning.

As he sat in the quiet of his study, the photograph of Erik and Raven in his hands, Charles felt the cracks widen. He couldn’t let the twins see him falter. He couldn’t let them lose the father they had found in him.

But as the days passed, the line between strength and desperation blurred further, the house of cards trembling under its weight.

The twins were beginning to notice things. Little changes, subtle shifts that were hard for them to fully comprehend but impossible to ignore. It wasn’t just the way their daddy seemed a little slower in the mornings or how he sometimes forgot things. It wasn’t just the occasional tremor in his hands or the strange heaviness in his voice when he asked them how their day was.

It was the way he seemed a little more needy than before. The way his arms lingered around them a bit longer when he hugged them, the way he held their hands a little tighter like he was afraid they might slip through his fingers at any moment.

Pietro noticed it first. He wasn’t a fool—he could read people, and there was something different about Dad lately. He would catch Charles staring at them sometimes, his expression unreadable, like he was trying to memorize them, imprint them in his memory, as if he feared that, in an instant, they could be gone. The thought terrified Pietro. He never said anything, but he knew.

Wanda noticed it too, but she wasn’t quite as perceptive. Her world still revolved around her magic, her growing powers, and trying to control them. She liked to see Daddy smile, to hear him laugh. It made her happy. And she noticed that lately, he seemed happier when she was near him. So, she started creeping into his bed at night, curling up beside him, needing that closeness as much as he did.

It became a routine. She would slip into his room after midnight, as quietly as she could, and Charles, though his exhaustion was obvious, would always smile and pull her close. And then, not long after, Pietro would follow, his quick feet pattering softly on the floorboards. He’d climb into the bed on the opposite side of Charles, making sure they were both tucked close to their father, their little forms providing him the comfort and stability he so desperately craved. They were always there, and that was all that mattered.

Hank noticed it too. He noticed the way Charles clung to the twins, how his interactions with them were becoming increasingly intense —almost desperate. It worried him, and though he tried not to show it, the concern was always in his eyes. He had seen this before, not in Charles specifically, but in others—the slow spiral into something darker, something dangerous.

But Hank couldn’t force Charles to see it. Every time he tried to talk to him, Charles would brush him off, claiming he was fine, that it was just exhaustion or stress .

The serum. Hank knew it was playing a role in all of this, but there was nothing he could do. Charles had made up his mind, and the more Hank pushed, the more Charles pulled away, especially from him. It wasn’t Hank the twins were clinging to now. It was Charles.

And that hurt.

Hank tried to fill the gap where Charles was failing, stepping in to be the steady figure the twins needed. He’d take them on trips around the grounds of the mansion, offering the same warmth and stability that Charles used to provide. Wanda would smile, but it wasn’t the same smile she gave Charles. And Pietro? He was quieter, and more withdrawn when Hank was around. He missed the way Charles would make everything feel safe and right.

It was becoming increasingly clear to Hank that, in Charles’s mind, there was only one thing that mattered: keeping the twins happy. He had failed before, and he wasn’t going to fail them again. But Hank knew this kind of obsession, this kind of dependency, wasn’t healthy. He watched as Charles, in his attempt to be the perfect father, lost more and more of himself.

Every moment Charles spent with the twins felt like a lifeline. His world had narrowed down to their laughter, their smiles, their joy. Everything outside of them felt like a blur, a fog he couldn’t quite reach. Erik’s absence, the constant ache of what could have been , gnawed at him, but now something darker had started to surface.

The bitterness. The anger.

He had been a fool, thinking Erik would always be there, that they could rebuild the future they’d talked about. But Erik had left him. And now Erik had left the twins too. His children— their children—were left with nothing but the fractured remnants of a broken promise. That anger—raw and powerful—began to consume him, pushing aside the sadness that had once dominated his thoughts.

Why had Erik left? Why had he abandoned them, abandoned him ? The twins deserved better. They deserved everything . And Erik had taken that away.

Charles’s affection for the twins started to border on overwhelmingly. Every moment was an effort to hold on tighter, to love them more fiercely, as though this was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. His hands would be all over them—stroking their hair, brushing against their faces, holding them so close it was as if he was afraid they would vanish in a puff of smoke. His voice, once steady and calm, grew more urgent as he constantly reassured them, “I’m here. I’m never going to leave you.” He repeated it like a mantra, as though saying it aloud would make it true.

At first, the twins didn’t mind. They enjoyed the extra attention. Wanda would laugh and give him little kisses on the cheek, while Pietro would bounce around, never complaining when Charles pulled him into a tight hug. They didn’t understand why he was acting this way. They just liked the affection, the closeness.

But as the days went on, even they began to feel the weight of it. There was something... too much about it. Something that didn’t feel right.

Wanda, sleeping beside Charles at night, noticed the way he would sometimes shudder in his sleep. It wasn’t like him, and she didn’t understand it, but she would hold onto him tighter anyway. She liked feeling him close, but there were moments, fleeting moments when she felt as if her daddy was no longer just her daddy—he was something else.

And Pietro? He had started to become more distant. Not from his sister or from Charles, but from the world around him. He’d still speed around the mansion, still make jokes, still race through their games, but there was an odd, unspoken tension that had settled between him and Charles. Pietro didn’t have the words for it, but he felt it—something was changing in their dad, and it frightened him.

One night, when Charles was sitting in his study, staring at the photo of Erik that had never been far from his desk, he felt the weight of it all press down on him. He had been taking more serum lately, more than he would admit to anyone, but it wasn’t enough. Not anymore. He was slipping. And he knew it.

But if he could just hold onto the twins, if he could keep them close, if he could be the father they needed, then maybe—just maybe—he could hold himself together.

But as the days stretched on, Charles began to feel something else creeping in: a terrifying sense of failure. He wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough for them, not like Erik would have been. He could never be enough .

His gaze shifted back to the twins’ rooms, his heart aching with something darker now. The love they held for him was pure and unwavering, but the thought of losing it—losing them—was too much to bear. It would be his failure, and he couldn’t face that.

So he clung to them even harder, his grip tightening. But inside, the cracks were widening.

The night had settled in, quiet and still, as the mansion's halls were bathed in the soft glow of dimmed lights. Charles sat on his bed, his thoughts swirling like a tempest. Despite the weight of everything—the serum, the growing distance he felt between himself and the world—there was still a flicker of warmth when he thought about the twins. They had been his anchor, his reason for holding on.

He could hear the light padding of small feet against the wooden floor, the sound too familiar by now. Wanda, as she always did, slipped into his room, her tiny form making her way across the floor with an almost imperceptible grace. Her face was soft with sleep, but her eyes were wide and earnest as she climbed into bed beside him, crawling under the covers and snuggling up against his side.

"I just love you so much, Daddy," she murmured, her voice thick with affection and sleepiness. Her small arms wound around his waist as she clung to him, as though she, too, feared the world slipping away. Her little face pressed against his chest, the warmth of her body a balm to the growing cold inside of him. She fit perfectly against him like a piece of a puzzle he hadn’t even known was missing.

Charles sighed deeply, the weight of her words—so pure, so innocent—making his heartache in ways he couldn't explain. He ran a hand through her hair gently, his touch trembling, but the smile on his face was full of something indescribable.

"You mean the world to me, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He held her tighter, as though afraid that if he let go, she might vanish into the night, just like the pieces of his own life he could never seem to hold onto.

Not long after, Pietro followed, appearing in the doorway with his usual quickness, but a soft, almost bashful expression on his face. He didn’t say anything at first—he just stood there, watching for a moment, his eyes flickering between Charles and Wanda. It didn’t take long before he scampered over to the bed, his small form slipping under the covers on the opposite side of Charles, wedging himself in between his sister and their father.

Pietro’s presence was a quiet one, but it was no less demanding. He, too, needed this closeness, this warmth. He had never been one to show it too openly, but Charles had learned over the past months that the boy had inherited more of his father’s need for connection than he might have realized.

Charles let out a shaky breath as both of them nestled into him, their little bodies so close, his arms automatically wrapping around them both. His heart hammered in his chest—louder now—his mind clouded with emotions he couldn’t articulate. There they were, his children, clinging to him as he clung to them, both of them wrapped in his arms like the last thread of something he could not afford to lose.

The soft murmur of Pietro’s breathing soon joined the rhythmic sound of Wanda’s, both of them slowly succumbing to sleep. The house outside was quiet, the only noise coming from the occasional creak of old wood or the distant whirr of machines.

But in Charles's bed, there was warmth. There was comfort. And yet, beneath that warmth, the ache remained—an ache for something he could not have.

As the twins settled, snuggled into him and finally asleep, Charles’s thoughts turned inward. He looked down at the two of them, their faces soft with sleep, the rise and fall of their chests in time with his own. They were everything.

I never deserved this, he thought, feeling a sting in his chest. I never deserved them. But I can’t let them go. I can’t fail them.

A tear, almost imperceptible, slipped down his cheek as he looked at his children, his heart tightening. He felt something stirring within him—a deep, unshakable fear. He had lost so much already. Could he lose them too? What if he couldn’t be the father they needed? What if the serum didn’t work anymore, and everything he was doing, everything he was clinging to, crumbled?

But then, as he held them close, those thoughts slowly began to fade. They were here. They were his . And for tonight, that was enough. For tonight, he had them both, and he would hold on to that as fiercely as he could.

With one last deep breath, he kissed Wanda’s forehead softly, then did the same for Pietro, his lips trembling slightly as they met the cool skin of their brows.

“I love you,” he whispered into the night, his voice thick with emotion. The words, even though they came easily, carried a weight. I will never leave you. I will always be here.

He closed his eyes, allowing himself to drift into sleep, his body heavy with the comfort of his children’s presence. The world outside might be slipping through his fingers, but here, in this bed, with the twins snuggled tightly beside him, he was safe. He was loved. And that was all that mattered for now.

As sleep finally overtook him, he allowed himself a brief moment of peace. The ache in his chest settled, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he could get through this.

But in the back of his mind, there was still that flicker of fear. Still that haunting thought of Erik, the man who had left him, the man whose absence was now felt in the quiet spaces between each passing day. Would it always be this way? Would he always be left grasping at shadows? Or was this all he could hold on to?

The twins shifted in their sleep, their little arms finding their way back to him as if instinctively reaching for his love. And as he drifted into slumber, their presence was the only thing that truly kept the dark thoughts at bay.

For now, they were enough.

The room was dark, save for the faint glow of the moon filtering through the curtains. Charles lay still, his arms wrapped around the twins, their soft breaths filling the quiet night. But for Wanda, sleep was not peaceful. As she drifted into a deep slumber, the world around her began to twist, dark shadows seeping into the edges of her mind.

The dream started small like all dreams do—a soft hum of a distant memory, a feeling of unease. She was standing in the middle of an empty street, her eyes wide as she looked around, the silence deafening. It felt wrong, this place. The air was thick with something heavy, and Wanda instinctively knew she wasn’t alone.

She turned her head, eyes darting nervously. The wind was howling now, sending dust and debris swirling around her. The shadows felt alive, creeping toward her from every corner. And then, in the distance, she saw it—looming high above, the towering silhouette of the White House.

But something was wrong. There was something in the air— something dangerous . A rumble reverberated through the ground, sending a shiver down her spine. The sky darkened as the ground began to quake beneath her feet. Wanda’s heart started to race, her breathing quickening as she took hesitant steps backwards, her eyes frantically searching the horizon.

The sound of steel scraping against metal sliced through the air, and Wanda froze. She could hear something massive, something moving— something that shouldn’t be possible —but the sound was getting closer, growing louder. She tried to move, to escape, but the ground was sticky, pulling at her legs like it wanted to swallow her whole.

And then, she saw it.

A massive shape, something so large and overwhelming it seemed to blot out the sky itself. It was a stadium—huge and monstrous, rising from the earth like some sort of great beast. It was floating, suspended in the air, held together by an unseen force, and it was moving, slowly but surely, toward the White House.

Wanda’s breath caught in her throat as the stadium grew closer, her mind scrambling to make sense of what was happening. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t run. The stadium’s shadow loomed over her, its presence suffocating. The wind howled louder now, a furious scream as the stadium began to descend, its sheer size casting an oppressive darkness over everything.

She felt the air shift as it came closer, the weight of it bearing down on her like a heavy hand. The ground cracked beneath her feet, sending small shards of rock and dirt flying into the air. She tried to scream, but her voice was lost in the wind, her throat closing up as the stadium hovered directly above her.

Wanda’s eyes widened, panic rising in her chest as she realized what was happening. It was coming down. The stadium was coming for her.

Her breath was shallow, her heartbeat pounding in her ears as she tried to move, trying to escape the crushing weight of it all. But there was nowhere to go. The stadium lowered, and Wanda could feel it—feel the weight of it, the inevitable crushing force as it loomed over her, blocking out the sky, the world, everything.

There was no one. No Daddy. No Pietro. She was alone.

I’m going to die here.

Wanda’s legs gave way beneath her as the ground beneath her began to crack and crumble, the weight of the stadium pushing down, threatening to swallow her whole. She couldn’t breathe. The pressure was too much. The shadows pressed in, the walls of the stadium closing in on her.

And then, just as the stadium seemed poised to crush her, everything went dark.

Wanda woke with a jolt, gasping for air, her chest heaving as she bolted upright. Her heart raced wildly in her chest, each breath coming in sharp, frantic bursts. She felt disoriented, the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to her like cobwebs.

She was in Charles’s room, in his bed, the warmth of his arms around her the only thing that grounded her. But the dream still lingered, a cold shiver crawling down her spine as she pressed her face into his chest, trying to push away the remnants of the nightmare.

"Daddy," she whimpered, her voice small and fragile, her hands trembling as she clung to him. "Daddy, I—I’m scared."

Charles, already half awake from her sudden movement, immediately wrapped his arms tighter around her, pulling her closer. His mind, still foggy from sleep, processed her distress, and he gently stroked her hair to calm her.

"Wanda, sweetheart, it's okay," he murmured softly, his voice soothing as he held her. He felt her trembling against him, her small body shaking with fear. "It was just a bad dream. You're safe now. You’re with me."

But Wanda’s breath was still uneven, the memory of the nightmare gripping her tightly. "I—I was alone, Daddy," she whispered, her voice barely above a whisper, "There was no one... and it... it felt real. The stadium... it was going to crush me."

Charles paused, his heart twisting painfully at the words. A cold chill ran down his spine as he processed her words. A stadium. A crushing weight. And no one was there to save her.

He wanted to reassure her, to tell her it was nothing more than a figment of her imagination, but something in the back of his mind nagged at him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the dream meant more than she realized, something far darker—something he couldn’t protect her from. Not this time.

He pulled her closer, his arms tightening around her, though the sense of helplessness gnawed at him. "I’m here, Wanda. I’ll always be here."

Wanda pressed her face into his chest, breathing in the comfort of his scent, the warmth of his embrace. But the fear didn’t dissipate, not completely. Something about the dream still haunted her, like an echo she couldn’t escape.

After a long, tense moment, Wanda felt Pietro stir beside them, the soft rustle of the blankets signalling his arrival. He must have sensed her distress, too. Without a word, he crawled over and snuggled up against her, his small body fitting perfectly next to hers. The twins, together again, as always.

Wanda’s breath slowly began to steady, but the fear remained, lurking in the corners of her mind. It was just a dream. It had to be. But still... the image of the stadium, the crushing weight, it wouldn’t leave her.

And in the silence of the night, Charles couldn’t help but feel a creeping dread, a sense of inevitability in the air. Whatever the future held, it was coming, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Not for them. Not for anyone .

He held Wanda and Pietro tighter as if that might keep them safe from whatever horrors the future would bring.

"You're safe, my loves," he whispered into the night, but even he wasn't sure if that was true anymore.

Chapter Text

The afternoon was quiet, the stillness that had settled over the mansion in recent years. The twins sat cross-legged on the living room floor, engrossed in a puzzle they’d begged Hank to dig out of storage. Hank leaned against the doorframe, sipping a mug of coffee, watching the twins with a fond smile.

Charles was elsewhere in the mansion, lost in his thoughts—or, more likely, in the bottle of serum that Hank had pretended not to notice vanishing quicker than ever. Hank sighed, shaking off the thought. The kids didn’t need to see his frustration, and he wouldn’t risk souring this rare moment of peace.

The moment shattered with a shrill chime echoing through the house.

The twins jumped, their heads snapping up in unison.

“Was that… a doorbell?” Wanda asked, looking at Hank, her brow furrowed in confusion.

Hank blinked, just as startled. “We have a doorbell?”

“No one’s rung it before,” Pietro quipped, already on his feet, darting to Wanda’s side. They exchanged curious looks and then stared expectantly at Hank.

Hank hesitated, setting his coffee down on a side table. The mansion rarely saw visitors—no one but Charles, the twins, and himself had been there in years. Slowly, he moved toward the door, motioning for the twins to stay put.

“Hank?” Wanda whispered, trailing after him with Pietro close behind.

“Stay back,” Hank said firmly but gently, his eyes narrowing as he reached the door. He cracked it open just enough to see who was on the other side.

A man stood there—rough-looking, with dark hair, a leather jacket, and an air of weary confidence that immediately put Hank on edge.

“Can I help you?” Hank asked warily, pulling the door open just a little wider.

The man’s piercing eyes scanned him up and down.

“Yeah,” the stranger said, his voice gruff. “What happened to the school?”

Hank’s grip on the door tightened. “The school’s been shut for years,” he replied cautiously. “Were you a parent?”

The man chuckled dryly, shaking his head. “No.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Who are you?”

Hank hesitated for a beat. “I’m Hank. Hank McCoy. I look after the house now.”

The man tilted his head, his gaze sharpening. “You’re… Beast? Guess you’re a late bloomer.”

Hank tensed, his jaw tightening at the name. It was a title he hadn’t heard in years, a part of himself he’d buried deep along with his past. His gaze darted to the twins, who were now peeking from behind him with wide, curious eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hank said stiffly. “But I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

He started to close the door, but the man’s hand shot out, stopping it. Hank’s muscles tensed as he strained to hold the door, the stranger was strong—stronger than he looked.

“Pretty strong for a scrawny little kid,” the man said, his tone edged with amusement. “You sure there’s not a little Beast in there...?”

Hank’s breathing grew heavier as something flickered behind his eyes. His grip on the doorframe tightened, his fingers twitching as though they were fighting to stay human.

“Please,” Hank gritted out through clenched teeth, “just… go...”

But the man didn’t budge. His gaze flicked briefly to the twins, who were watching the exchange with wide-eyed fascination.

“Not till I see the Professor,” the man said evenly.

“There’s no… Professor… here,” Hank snapped, his voice growing sharper.

“We’ll see about that,” the man replied, pushing harder against the door.

Hank knew what was coming. He turned his head slightly, his voice low but firm. “Wanda, Pietro—go find Charles. Now.”

“But—” Wanda started to protest.

“Now,” Hank said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The twins hesitated for only a moment before Pietro grabbed Wanda’s hand, and they took off down the hall, their footsteps fading into the distance.

The stranger used the momentary distraction to shove the door fully open, stepping inside the mansion.

Hank spun to face him, his chest heaving. “I told you to leave!”

The man barely made it a few steps into the front hall before Hank’s hand clamped down on his shoulder—not a hand, but a paw .

The man turned, his eyes widening slightly. “There he is.”

Hank’s face twisted into a snarl as his body began to shift. Fur rippled across his skin, his features elongating, his muscles bulging as he transformed into the blue-furred Beast he’d tried so hard to keep buried.

“Last chance to leave,” Hank growled, his voice low and guttural, his sharp teeth bared.

The man smirked, unphased. “Not until I see the Professor.”

Hank lunged, and the mansion erupted into chaos.

Wanda and Pietro sprinted through the halls of the mansion, their small hands clasped tightly together as their footsteps echoed off the walls. Wanda’s heart pounded in her chest, not just from running but from the panic twisting in her gut.

“He’s hurting Hank!” she shouted as they skidded to a stop in front of Charles’s study door. Without hesitation, Wanda flung the door open, Pietro right behind her.

“Daddy!” Wanda cried, her voice shrill with urgency. “He’s hurting Hank! He’s blue, Daddy!”

Charles, who had been seated at his desk, was startled at their abrupt entrance, dropping the pen he’d been holding. His bloodshot eyes darted between the twins, trying to process their frantic words.

“You have to help him, Dad!” Pietro added, tugging on Charles’s sleeve. “Tell him to go away!”

Before Charles could ask for clarification, Wanda grabbed one of his hands, and Pietro took the other, both of them dragging him toward the foyer.

“Come on, Daddy, hurry!”

Audible crashes grew louder as they neared the source of the commotion. Charles’s frown deepened his expression a mix of worry and exhaustion.

The scene was chaotic. Hank, now fully transformed into the blue, hulking Beast, had cornered Logan by the staircase, the two locked in a tense standoff. The chandelier above swayed ominously, the aftermath of some violent clash.

“Hank?” Charles called, his voice cutting through the noise. “What’s going on here?”

Both men froze, turning toward Charles as he was dragged into the room by the twins.

“Professor?” Logan said, his voice tinged with surprise.

Charles raised a hand, the title hitting a nerve. “Please don’t call me that,” he said sharply, his tone brittle.

Hank growled, his claws still extended. “Why? Do you know this guy?”

Charles squinted at Logan, tilting his head as if trying to place him. “He looks… slightly familiar.” His gaze shifted to Hank, now precariously perched on the swaying chandelier. “Get off the bloody chandelier, Hank.”

The twins gasped in unison, their eyes wide with awe.

“He’s so blue ,” Wanda whispered, clinging to Charles’s side.

“Awesome,” Pietro breathed, his admiration clear.

Hank dropped from the chandelier with a heavy thud, straightening to his full, imposing height. His sharp eyes stayed fixed on Logan, whose smirk didn’t falter.

Logan’s gaze drifted back to Charles, his brow furrowing. “You can walk.”

The twins exchanged baffled looks, clearly not understanding why this was significant.

“Of course he can walk,” Pietro muttered under his breath, crossing his arms.

Charles rolled his eyes. “You’re a perceptive one,” he said dryly, stepping closer to Logan.

“I thought Erik…” Logan started, but his words trailed off as his gaze landed on the twins, his expression softening in recognition of who they might be.

Charles stiffened at the name, but his voice remained even. “Which makes it slightly perplexing that you missed our sign on the way in. This is private property, my friend. I’m going to have to ask him”—he motioned toward Hank—“to ask you to leave.”

Logan sighed heavily, shaking his head. “Well…” He shrugged. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Charles’s eyebrows lifted. “And why not?”

Logan’s gaze grew serious. “Because, uh, I was sent here for you.”

Charles folded his arms, his expression hardening. “Tell whoever it was that sent you that I’m busy.”

Logan hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “That’s gonna be a little tricky... because the person who sent me…” He locked eyes with Charles. “...was you.”

For a long moment, silence hung in the air. The twins glanced at each other, their confusion mirrored in their expressions.

“Daddy,” Wanda whispered, tugging on Charles’s sleeve again. “What does he mean?”

Charles didn’t answer right away, his mind racing as he studied the man in front of him. Something about Logan tugged at the edges of his memory, but it was hazy, fragmented.

Charles blinked, unsure if he’d misheard. “What?”

Logan exhaled slowly, his gaze steady. “About 50 years from now.”

Charles gave a startled laugh, clutching the twins closer to him as though their presence might ground him in reality. “Fifty years…? Like in the future?”

Logan nodded. “Yeah.”

Charles’s laugh grew louder, incredulous. “I sent you from the future?”

“Yeah.”

Charles’s smile faltered, a touch of disbelief creeping into his voice. “Piss off.”

The twins gasped in unison, their wide-eyed expressions a mix of shock and amusement.

“Daddy!” Wanda whispered, tugging on his sleeve. Pietro snickered behind his hand, looking up at Charles with an expression that screamed busted .

Charles blinked down at them, his cheeks flushing slightly as guilt flickered across his face. He’d forgotten they were there for a moment.

Logan, undeterred, folded his arms and tilted his head. “If you had your powers, you’d know I was telling the truth.”

Charles’s smile was thin, forced. “How do you know I don’t have my p…” He stopped himself, his brow furrowing as suspicion took root. “Who are you?”

“I told you,” Logan said evenly.

“Are you CIA?” Charles asked, pulling the twins closer into the protective circle of his arms.

“No.”

Charles’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been watching me?”

Logan shook his head, his tone softening. “I know you, Charles. We’ve been friends for years.”

Pietro scoffed under his breath. “That can’t be true. Dad doesn’t have any friends.”

Charles shot him a sharp look, but Logan grinned faintly.

“I know your powers came when you were nine,” Logan continued, ignoring the twins. “I know you thought you were going crazy when it started—all the voices in your head. And it wasn’t until you were twelve that you realized all the voices were in everyone else’s head.”

Charles froze. His grip on the twins tightened, though his expression betrayed his rising disbelief. “I never told anyone that.”

“Not yet,” Logan said. “But you will.”

The room was silent for a moment, save for the faint creaks of the old mansion settling around them. Charles’s expression shifted—suspicion giving way to reluctant intrigue.

“All right,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “You’ve piqued my interest. What do you want?”

Logan straightened, his gaze steady. “I need your help. And I need it now.”

Charles stiffened at Logan’s words, his gaze darting to the twins instinctively. Wanda and Pietro had been quietly processing the situation, their eyes fixed on Logan with growing concern.

Logan’s voice was steady, unyielding. “We have to stop Raven.”

Wanda and Pietro’s heads swivelled toward Charles, their expressions betraying a mix of confusion and worry. Charles could feel their gazes on him, checking, silently asking if he was okay.

Logan pressed on, unrelenting. “I need your help. We need your help.”

Charles exhaled sharply, his voice tinged with disbelief. “I think I’d like to wake up now.”

Logan didn’t so much as flinch, his intensity unwavering, pressing on with his explanations, Charles getting paler by the second. 

Charles hesitated, his hand absently brushing over Pietro’s hair as if grounding himself. “So you’re saying… they took Raven’s power, and what? They weaponized it?”

Logan nodded grimly. “Yep.”

“She is unique,” Hank interjected softly.

Charles’s voice was laced with something wistful, almost protective. “Yeah, she is, Hank.”

Logan’s face hardened. “In the beginning, the Sentinels were just targeting mutants. Then they began to identify the genetics in non-mutants who would eventually have mutant children and grandchildren.”

Wanda’s hand found Charles’s sleeve, clutching it tightly. Pietro looked pale, his bravado stripped away as he leaned closer to his sister.

Logan continued his tone grave. “Many of the humans tried to help us, but it was a slaughter. Leaving only the worst of humanity in charge.”

He paused, his expression distant, haunted. “I’ve been in a lot of wars. I’d never seen anything like this. And it all starts with her.”

As Logan spoke, Charles’s focus shifted entirely to the twins. Wanda’s face was a mix of horror and confusion, while Pietro’s wide eyes darted between Charles and Logan, desperate for reassurance. Charles tugged them closer to him, wrapping an arm around each of them as though his touch alone could shield them from the horrors Logan described.

Charles’s voice broke the silence, soft but resolute. “Let’s just say, for the sake of…” He trailed off, his grip on the twins tightening. “The sake, that I choose to believe you. That I choose to help you. Raven won’t listen to me.”

His voice dropped further, the weight of the past heavy in his words. “Her heart and soul belong to someone else now.”

Logan’s gaze didn’t falter. “I know. That’s why we’re gonna need Magneto, too.”

At the mention of Erik, the twins became the undeniable centre of attention.

“Our papa,” Pietro scoffed, his tone half sarcastic but laced with an edge of bitterness.

Wanda, on the other hand, leaned forward slightly, her wide, enraptured eyes locked on Logan. “You knew our papa?”

Charles stiffened, his jaw tightening as the focus shifted to Erik. Wanda’s innocent curiosity felt like a jab to the raw wound Logan had just reopened, but he forced himself to stay calm.

Logan hesitated, his gaze flicking to Charles before answering. “Yeah, kid. I did.”

Wanda beamed, her small hands clutching Charles’s arm tighter. Pietro rolled his eyes but said nothing, his expression carefully neutral.

Charles sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “This is going to get complicated, isn’t it?”

Logan smirked faintly. “You have no idea.”

Hank’s laugh cut through the tension in the room, the sound bitter and disbelieving. “Erik?” He shot Logan a look, his confusion mirroring the twins’ growing concern. “You do know where he is?”

Logan’s response was grim. “Yeah.”

Charles’s laugh followed a hollow sound that didn’t reach his eyes. “Could you give me that one more time, please?”

Logan didn’t flinch. “You heard me.”

Charles leaned back slightly, his lips curling into a smirk, but there was no humour in it. “He's where he belongs.”

The twins exchanged uneasy glances, their confusion deepening as they processed the raw edge in Charles’s voice, especially Wanda, who had never seen him so distant, so cold. She glanced up at him, a question hanging in the air, but Charles remained focused on Logan, his gaze unwavering.

Logan raised an eyebrow. “You're just gonna walk out?”

Charles’s voice was calm but laced with something dark. “Ooh, top marks. Like I said, you are perceptive.”

The atmosphere in the room shifted, a thick, palpable tension clouding the air. Wanda’s grip on Charles’s arm tightened, her small fingers digging into his sleeve. Pietro, sensing his sister’s unease, stood a little closer, his eyes flicking from Charles to Logan. They were lost, caught in the undertow of the conversation they didn’t fully understand.

Logan’s face hardened as he took a step forward. “The Professor I know would never turn his back… on someone who’d lost their path. Especially someone he loved.”

The words hit Charles like a blow. He blinked slowly, the tension in his jaw softening only slightly. “You know…” His voice trailed off, a brief flicker of something — was it recognition? — passing across his features. “I think I do remember you now.” He paused, his tone light but strained. “Yeah. Tall, angry fellow with the contentious hair.” He shook his head slightly, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “We came to you a long time ago… seeking your help.”

Charles inhaled deeply, his voice low and deliberate. He glanced down at Wanda and Pietro, whose wide eyes were fixed on the exchange, trying to piece everything together. He gently covered their ears with his hands, holding them closer against his chest as if shielding them from something far worse than the conversation itself. His tone dropped even further. “And I’m gonna say to you what you said to us then.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed, but before he could respond, Charles’s voice cut through the air like a knife. “Fuck off.”

Logan didn’t flinch. His grip on Charles’s arm tightened, pulling him roughly toward him. The twins gasped, Wanda flinching in surprise as her father was tugged forward. The energy shift was electric, tension sparking between them as Logan’s voice dropped to a low growl. “Listen to me, you little shit,” he snapped, the words harsh. “I’ve come a long way, and I’ve watched a lot of people die. Good people. Friends.” He held Charles’s gaze, his chest heaving with frustration. “If you’re gonna wallow in self-pity… and do nothing, then you’re gonna watch the same thing... you understand?”

Charles stood still, his lips pressed into a thin line, his breath shallow. For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath, the weight of Logan’s words hanging in the air like smoke.

“We all have to die sometime,” Charles finally replied, his voice eerily calm.

Logan’s eyes flared with anger. “Well, they’re one of the first,” he said, pointing a finger toward Wanda and Pietro, his eyes flicking between them.

The twins froze, eyes wide with shock. Pietro’s lips parted, but no words came out. Wanda’s grip on Charles’s arm tightened even more, her breath quickening as she sensed the danger in the room escalating.

Charles’s hand was still pressed over their ears, but now it felt more like a barrier than a gesture of comfort. He could feel the weight of their gaze on him, the fear that clung to their tiny bodies. But he didn’t know how to reassure them — how to fix this.

Charles turned his head slightly, his gaze flicking to the twins. His voice softened just enough for them to hear, a quiet promise beneath the storm of his words. “No one’s going anywhere.”

But even as he said it, a small part of him feared it was already too late.

Charles retreated from the room, his breathing shallow and uneven. His movements were fast, jerky — as though his body was betraying him. The weight of the conversation, of Logan’s words, was sinking in deeper than he could bear. The twins watched helplessly for a moment, their confusion and fear rising. They moved to follow, but Hank stepped in front of them, a quiet authority in his voice.

“Told you there was no professor here,” Hank said softly, his eyes flicking to the door Charles had just exited.

Logan looked from Hank to the twins, his expression a mix of concern and frustration. “What the hell happened to him?”

Hank sighed deeply, his eyes distant as though he were lost in painful memories. “He lost everything.”

“Erik, Raven… his legs.”

The words hit like a blow, but Hank continued, unburdening the story he’d carried in silence for so long. “We built the school, the labs, this whole place… then, just after the first semester… the war in Vietnam got worse. Many of the teachers… and older students were drafted.”

He paused, taking a deep breath, as if trying to gather the strength to say what came next. “It broke him. He retreated into himself.”

Hank’s gaze was fixed on the floor as he spoke, his voice thick with regret. “I wanted to help, do something… so I designed a serum to treat his spine… derived from the same formula that helps me control my mutation.” He glanced at the twins before continuing, his words measured, painful. “I take just enough to keep myself balanced… but he takes too much. I tried easing him back… but he just couldn’t bear the pain, the voices. The treatment gives him his legs… but it’s not enough. He’s…” Hank’s voice trailed off, filled with helplessness. “He’s just lost too much.”

The room fell silent for a long beat. The twins stood still, absorbing Hank’s words. For the first time, everything seemed to make sense: the erratic behaviour, the tension in Charles, the guardedness he held around Erik. It was a lot for them to process, and yet, in that moment, it all clicked into place. Charles wasn’t just their father — he was someone who had been torn apart by loss, by the weight of war, by the sacrifices he’d made. The twins exchanged glances, their hearts heavy with newfound understanding.

Then, Charles reentered the room, his breath still laboured but more controlled. His face was still drawn, his eyes hard, but when he saw the twins, he softened. He immediately went to them, scooping them into his arms without a second thought, as if they were the only things keeping him grounded.

“I’ll help you get her,” he said quietly, gripping them tighter. His voice trembled with emotion, though he fought to keep it steady. “Not for any of your future shite, but for her. For them.” His eyes flickered with something darker, something that wasn’t just about the fight ahead — it was about protecting the twins, about keeping them from the scars that had marked his own life.

Logan nodded, his expression softening slightly. “Fair enough.”

Charles’s gaze hardened, though his grip on the twins remained tender. “But I’ll tell you this.” He leaned in close, as though to ensure only Logan could hear. “You don’t know Erik.” He looked down at Wanda and Pietro, his hand moving to cover their ears. Despite the anger that simmered inside him whenever Erik’s name was mentioned, he couldn’t bring himself to let them hear the bitterness in his voice. It wouldn’t be fair to them. “That man is a monster. A murderer.”

He paused, his breath steadying as he tried to regain composure, then turned back to Logan. “You think you can convince Raven to change? To come home?” He shook his head as if the idea was almost laughable.

The twins’ ears were uncovered, their curiosity piqued by Charles’s words. Wanda’s brow furrowed as she watched the exchange, sensing the gravity in her father’s tone, while Pietro’s attention was rapt, waiting for something, anything, to make sense of the situation.

“That’s splendid,” Charles continued a dark edge to his words. “But what makes you think you can change him?”

Logan’s eyes narrowed, his resolve as steady as ever. “Because you and Erik sent me back here together.”

At those words, the twins perked up, their faces lighting with a mix of surprise and wonder. Wanda wiggled in Charles’s arms, her eyes wide with excitement. The mention of Erik, of their father’s involvement, had struck a chord in her, pulling her curiosity to the surface.

Charles tightened his grip around her, instinctively holding her closer, as if afraid she might slip away. “No,” he murmured, his tone more protective than ever. But despite his words, there was something in his gaze, something between him and the twins, that spoke of a silent agreement — perhaps, just maybe, there was still hope, even in the midst of everything that had been lost.

And as the tension continued to hang in the air, Charles wondered, with a mixture of dread and reluctant acceptance, if this was the beginning of something more than just a fight.

The room buzzed with a tense energy as the adults gathered around the table, their expressions grim as they studied blueprints and security details. Wanda and Pietro, oblivious to the weight of the situation, flitted about the room. Pietro zipped back and forth, occasionally poking at objects on the table, while Wanda twirled idly nearby, flicking her fingers and watching sparks of scarlet light dance in the air. Their presence was both distracting and oddly comforting, a reminder of innocence in the middle of a very adult problem.

Hank leaned over the table, pointing at a section of the blueprint. “The room they’re holding him in was built during the Second World War… when there was a shortage of steel. The foundation is pure concrete and sand. No metal.”

Charles frowned, his fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the table. “He’s being held… a hundred floors beneath the most heavily guarded building on the planet.”

Logan folded his arms, leaning back in his chair. “Why’s he in there?”

Charles gave a dry, humourless chuckle. “What, he forgot to mention?”

Hank shifted uncomfortably but answered anyway, “Uh, JFK.”

Logan’s eyebrows shot up. “He killed—?”

A wry smile crept across Charles’s face. “What else explains a bullet miraculously curving through the air? Erik’s always had a way with guns.”

The twins, who had been darting and spinning without much care for the conversation, froze mid-motion. Wanda blinked, wide-eyed, her hand hovering mid-gesture, while Pietro skidded to a stop, his face scrunched in confusion. “Wait, what? ” they said in unison, staring at the adults with equal parts curiosity and disbelief.

Charles shot them a look. “Don’t dwell on it,” he said curtly, waving them off. It was easier that way.

“Are you sure you want to carry on with this?” Logan asked, his tone cautious, his gaze flicking between Charles and the twins.

Charles’s expression darkened, his shoulders tensing. “This is your plan, not mine.”

“We don’t have any resources to get us in,” Hank interjected, clearly uneasy. “Or out. It’s just me and Charles.”

Logan turned his attention back to the twins, who had quickly lost interest in the conversation about Erik’s questionable past and were now poking at the maps strewn across the table. Pietro zipped between points of interest, muttering about weak spots in the layout, while Wanda trailed her fingers across the surface, her magic accidentally sparking the edges of the paper.

Logan’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as realization dawned on him. “We have Wanda and Pietro.”

Wanda froze mid-motion, her eyes wide. “Wait—how do you know our names?” she asked, her voice high-pitched with a mixture of shock and suspicion.

Pietro rolled his eyes, folding his arms. “He’s from the future, remember?”

“Oh,” Wanda said, her shoulders relaxing as she tilted her head. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

Charles stiffened, his jaw tightening as he pulled the twins closer to him, one arm encircling each child protectively. “They’re eight,” he snapped, his tone sharp and disapproving. His gaze cut to Logan, low-key glaring as though the older man had suggested throwing the twins into a lion’s den.

Logan didn’t flinch under the intensity of Charles’s glare. “They’re the only other option,” he said simply, his voice calm but firm.

“No.” Charles’s voice was icy, his grip on the twins tightening as if they might be snatched away at any moment. “You’re asking me to take them on a mission to break out the man who abandoned them. A man they’ve never met. ”

“We don’t have time for this,” Logan countered, his tone hardening. “You know what’s coming.”

Wanda tugged at Charles’s sleeve, her face determined. “Please, Daddy,” she said softly, her green eyes wide and pleading. She tilted her head slightly, her expression the picture of innocence as she added, “We can help. You know we can.”

Charles’s heart ached at the sound of her voice, her words cutting through his defences like a knife. Pietro chimed in, standing a little taller beside Wanda. “Yeah, we’re not kids. I mean—we are kids, but you know, we’re not just kids.”

The twins’ earnestness sent a pang of dread through Charles. He looked between them, their young faces filled with such hope and determination. His mind flickered to Logan’s warnings, the shadow of their future deaths looming large in his thoughts. The idea of sending them into danger felt unthinkable—but the idea of losing them, of doing nothing and watching them slip away, was unbearable.

Charles sighed heavily, running a hand over his face. “If we do this, you follow every instruction. No running off, no taking risks, no—”

“Anything fun?” Pietro quipped with a small grin.

“Exactly,” Charles replied, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Wanda’s expression brightened, and she wrapped her arms around Charles’s middle, burying her face in his chest. “We won’t let you down, Daddy.”

Charles exhaled shakily, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I hope not,” he whispered, more to himself than to her.

Logan watched the scene quietly, a flicker of understanding crossing his face. This wasn’t just about the mission anymore—it was about family, about protecting what was left of it, no matter the cost.

Charles pushed open the door to the twins' bedroom, his steps lighter than they had been in weeks. The twins were sprawled out on the floor, Wanda flipping through her picture book while Pietro fiddled with a small toy. Both looked up as Charles entered, their expressions curious.

“Come on, you two,” Charles said briskly, clapping his hands together softly. “We need to pack. We’ll be staying at a hotel tonight before—” He paused, his lips twitching as he avoided finishing the sentence about the Pentagon. “—before tomorrow’s adventure.”

Wanda tilted her head, her brow furrowing. “Daddy, you’re dressed properly?”

Pietro chimed in, sitting up and squinting at Charles as though inspecting him. “Yeah, where’s your dressing gown?”

Charles looked down at himself, adjusting the lapel of his freshly pressed suit and brushing an invisible speck of lint from his shoulder. His hair, still damp from a shower, was neatly combed, and he had a renewed sharpness to his appearance. He gave them a small, amused smile. “Well, if I’m seeing Erik for the first time in ten years, he better think I look good. Can’t turn up in my dressing gown, can I?”

The twins broke into giggles at the mental image of Charles sauntering into the Pentagon in his burgundy dressing gown and fuzzy slippers. “You’d look so silly!” Wanda exclaimed between giggles, and Pietro nodded enthusiastically.

Charles’s smirk deepened, his eyes glinting with something unspoken. “And that applies to you two as well.” He strode over to the wardrobe and opened it, pulling out a neatly folded red dress for Wanda and a sleek silver jacket for Pietro. “We’re going to look like the well-put-together, polite English family that we are.”

Wanda and Pietro lit up, delighted by his sudden enthusiasm. Wanda hugged the dress to her chest with a grin. “But we’re not English, Daddy,” she pointed out, her accent carrying a soft British lilt despite her protest.

Charles’s heart swelled with a mixture of pride and affection. That subtle accent had crept into their speech over the past few weeks, and it was yet another reminder that the twins were his—not Erik’s. He reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Wanda’s ear, his expression warm. “You may as well be.”

Pietro cocked his head, holding up the jacket. “What about manners, though? Polite families say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ all the time. Is that part of the mission too?”

Charles chuckled, ruffling Pietro’s hair. “Manners are always part of the mission, my boy. But first, let’s get you packed.”

The twins scurried around the room, collecting their belongings while Charles added their special outfits to the shared suitcase. His movements were efficient, but there was a lightness to them—a spark of the old Charles Xavier beginning to resurface.

As they worked, Wanda glanced over at him, her eyes bright. “You seem happy today, Daddy.”

Charles paused, glancing down at her with a soft smile. “Perhaps I am,” he said quietly. “Now, let’s hurry. We don’t want to be late.”

The twins exchanged a look, their excitement contagious as they zipped around to finish packing. Charles watched them, his chest tightening with a mix of love and dread. For now, he let himself savour this moment of normalcy, the sparkle in their eyes reflecting his own. Tomorrow would bring its challenges, but tonight, they were a family.

The hum of the engine echoed in the cramped car as Charles gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white with determination. Logan sat in the passenger seat, his face a mixture of bewilderment and mild terror.

“Do you even know how to drive, Charles?” Logan asked, his voice tinged with exasperation as the car lurched forward abruptly.

“Of course I do,” Charles replied crisply, his British accent cutting through the tension as he squinted at the road ahead. “I passed my driving test decades ago. It’s like riding a bicycle.”

“You’re driving like you’re still learning ,” Logan muttered under his breath as Charles narrowly missed a pothole, sending the car bouncing slightly.

In the back seat, Hank was wrestling with the twins, who were giggling uncontrollably as they were jostled around by Charles’s less-than-smooth driving. Wanda shrieked with laughter as she nearly toppled into Pietro, and Pietro was half-hanging off his seat, whooping as though they were on a roller coaster.

“Charles!” Hank barked, bracing himself with one hand on the ceiling and the other clamped down on Pietro’s shoulder to keep him in place. “Could you please slow down? I’m not built to be a human seatbelt!”

“Relax, Hank,” Charles replied, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’ve got it under control.”

“ Under control?! ” Hank shot back, gripping Wanda’s arm as she giggled and leaned into him. “I feel like I’m in the middle of an experiment gone wrong!”

“Daddy, this is fun!” Wanda chimed in, her laughter filling the car as she wriggled free of Hank’s grip.

“I want to go faster!” Pietro added, grinning ear to ear as he mimed steering an invisible wheel in his lap.

Hank groaned, pulling both twins back into their seats with a Herculean effort. “No one is going faster! We’re all going to sit very still and hope your father doesn’t kill us before we reach the hotel.”

Logan glanced over at Charles, his eyebrows raised. “You gonna let him talk to you like that?”

Charles shrugged nonchalantly, taking a sharp turn that had Logan clutching the door handle for dear life. “Hank’s always been dramatic. Isn’t that right, Hank?”

“ Dramatic? ” Hank sputtered, barely managing to keep the twins in place as the car swerved again. “I’ll show you dramatic when we all end up in a ditch!”

The twins dissolved into another round of giggles, their delight only fueling Charles’s confidence behind the wheel.

Logan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Remind me why you’re driving and not Hank or me?”

“Because,” Charles replied smoothly, casting Logan a sideways glance. “I am the Professor. And this is my car.”

“Your car’s barely holding together,” Logan muttered, eyeing the rattling dashboard as the car hit another bump.

“It’s holding together just fine,” Charles replied with an air of defiance as if daring the car to prove him wrong.

From the back seat, Pietro leaned forward between the front seats, his silver hair catching the light. “Can we stop for snacks? I’m starving!”

Wanda piped up, clutching Hank’s arm for balance. “Me too! Can we get ice cream, Daddy?”

Charles chuckled, glancing at them in the rearview mirror. “We’ll see. First, let’s make it to the hotel in one piece, shall we?”

Hank groaned again, muttering under his breath, “At this rate, I’ll be surprised if we make it at all.”

The car hit another bump, and the twins squealed with laughter as they bounced in their seats, their joy contagious despite the chaos. Logan sighed, muttering something about needing a drink, while Charles’s smirk grew wider.

“See?” Charles said, his voice light. “We’re all having a lovely time.”

The twins cheered, Hank grumbled, and Logan rolled his eyes as the car sped on toward the hotel, the chaos inside a strangely perfect reflection of the unconventional family they were becoming.

The ride continued in chaotic harmony, with the twins bouncing and laughing in the backseat, clearly thriving off the unpredictability of the moment. Charles, now fully in his element, appeared to relish every swerve and unexpected stop as if every jolt was just part of the fun. Logan, however, continued to grip the door, eyes narrowed in wary anticipation of what might come next.

“Is it always like this?” Logan asked, his voice tinged with disbelief as he tried to maintain his balance against the relentless motion of the car.

Charles, as casual as ever, simply shrugged. “Sometimes. Hank tends to get a bit... uptight.”

Hank shot him a look from the backseat, his fingers still tight on Wanda’s shoulder to keep her from sliding into the aisle. “ Uptight? I’m trying to save your children from death by whiplash, Charles!”

“Well,” Charles said, glancing in the rearview mirror at the twins, who were practically dancing in their seats, “I don’t see them complaining.”

The twins, giggling wildly, looked like they were in a world of their own. Pietro, eyes wide and bright with excitement, leaned forward. “Are we there yet?” he asked, his voice almost a sing-song as he peered out the window.

Wanda, clutching her seatbelt with both hands as though for dear life, leaned forward too. “Yeah! How much longer, Daddy?”

Charles glanced at Logan, his gaze a mix of exasperation and fondness. “We’re almost there. Just a little while longer."

Hank, whose patience was nearing its limit, cast a glance at the twins and then back at Charles, trying to hide his frustration. “Next time, we should take a plane. At least it doesn’t try to kill us every five minutes.”

Charles finally slowed the car a little, his attention briefly flickering between the road and his two children in the backseat. Seeing their faces light up with pure excitement and joy was a balm for whatever tension had been simmering in his chest. At that moment, as chaotic and unpredictable as the car ride was, it almost felt normal.

"Look, we’re almost there," Charles said, his voice softening. "Then you can both have all the ice cream you want, alright?"

Both of them immediately stopped moving, faces lighting up as they processed the promise. They settled into their seats, still fidgeting but now with the quiet energy of children who knew they were about to get what they wanted.

“You mean it?” Wanda asked, her wide eyes searching his face for confirmation.

Charles nodded, his expression gentle. “I promise.”

Pietro nudged his sister, unable to hide his grin. “You heard that, right? Ice cream!”

“I heard it,” Wanda whispered back, almost reverently, before turning her attention to Charles. “Thanks, Daddy.”

The car rolled into the hotel parking lot, the building looming ahead. As Charles pulled into a spot, Logan glanced out of the window and gave a nod. “We’re here.”

Hank exhaled a heavy sigh, finally letting go of the twins and settling back into his seat, his muscles stiff from the constant tension. “Thank God.”

The twins were already unbuckling their seatbelts, eager to escape the car and stretch their legs. Wanda quickly climbed over the seat, making her way toward the door, while Pietro was right on her heels, practically bouncing with anticipation.

Charles unbuckled his own seatbelt slowly, looking over at Logan and Hank, the weariness starting to settle into his bones, but his eyes softening as he turned back to the twins. He was their father now— their protector—and no matter what came next, he would fight to keep them safe.

"Alright," he said, taking a deep breath as he stepped out of the car. "Let’s get checked in, get some food, and get ready for tomorrow. We have a big day ahead."

The twins, still giddy from the drive, skipped ahead, completely unaware of the gravity of the situation. But Charles could feel it—the weight of the mission ahead, the danger they were all heading toward. But as he caught Wanda's bright smile and Pietro's infectious enthusiasm, he felt a flicker of something else too—hope.

Maybe they could still change the future.

As he followed them inside, he squeezed the small suitcase tighter in his hand, feeling the weight of it and the responsibility it represented.

The twins raced ahead into the hotel lobby, their laughter echoing off the polished floors as they marvelled at the grandeur of the place. The sparkling chandeliers overhead caught their attention immediately, and they couldn’t resist spinning in circles, eyes wide, taking it all in.

“Look, Wanda! It’s huge ! We’re never going to find the rooms in here,” Pietro said, grinning as he danced around her, pretending to be lost in the towering lobby.

Wanda giggled, her hands clasped tightly to the straps of her bag. “It’s like a castle, isn’t it? A giant one!” she said, her voice filled with wonder as she glanced up at the glittering ceiling.

Charles, catching up with them, watched the twins with a fond smile. Despite the chaos of their mission, moments like this—moments of innocence and joy—were something to hold onto. He felt the weight of his promise to them more than ever. He would do whatever it took to keep that sparkle in their eyes.

“Alright, you two,” Charles called out softly, trying to sound authoritative, but his voice was tinged with amusement. “You can’t just run off like that. Let’s get you settled first, alright?”

Pietro turned around, still grinning from ear to ear. “We’re just looking at the lobby !” he said, throwing up his hands in mock exasperation. “It’s so big, I don’t even know where to start!”

Hank, who had been following behind with Logan, finally caught up to Charles and the twins. He couldn’t help but chuckle at their energy. “It’s not every day you get to stay in a hotel like this,” he said, adjusting his glasses as he took in the lavish surroundings.

Logan, standing off to the side, was less impressed by the opulence but couldn’t hide a faint smile at the twins’ excitement. “It’s just a hotel, kids. Nothing special.”

But the twins weren’t listening—they were already darting toward the elevators, eager to see their room. Wanda tugged on Charles’s sleeve, her face lighting up. “Are we going up to the top floor, Daddy? Like a king and queen?”

Charles’s heart softened at the question. “We’re on the top floor, sweetheart,” he confirmed with a smile, offering her his hand. “We’re going to have the best view of the city.”

The twins squealed with excitement at the idea of being on the top floor, their eyes sparkling with anticipation. They were on their best behaviour as the elevator doors opened, waiting eagerly to step inside. Pietro hopped in first, then pulled Wanda along with him, already imagining the adventures that awaited.

Hank and Logan followed them in, and Charles stepped in last, giving one final look at the lobby before the doors closed. He tried to focus on the moment—the excitement of the twins, the feeling of normalcy amid everything else—but a sense of unease crept over him.

Still, he couldn’t let it show. Not now. Not when they were this happy.

As the elevator ascended, the twins chattered non-stop, imagining all the things they would do in the hotel room. Would there be a pool? Room service? A giant bed to jump on?

Charles found himself laughing along with them, the tension easing just a bit as he indulged in their excitement. The elevator dinged as they reached the top floor, and the doors slid open to reveal a long hallway lined with luxurious suites.

“This is amazing!” Pietro exclaimed, already darting out into the hallway.

Wanda, more reserved but just as thrilled, held onto Charles’s hand as they followed him. “It’s like we’re royalty,” she whispered, looking around in awe.

Charles’s chest tightened, but he smiled, squeezing her hand gently. “Well, we might as well be.”

He led the twins to their room, unlocking the door and ushering them inside. The room was spacious and beautifully furnished—everything they could have imagined, and then some. The large window provided a breathtaking view of the city below, and the bed was huge, perfect for the twins to collapse into after a long day.

“Wow…” Wanda whispered, her voice filled with awe as she took it all in.

Pietro jumped onto the bed without hesitation, bouncing excitedly. “This is perfect! We can have a race on the bed! You’ll never catch me!” he teased, kicking his legs in the air.

Wanda, laughing, joined him on the bed, and for a moment, everything felt normal—like a family in a hotel room, laughing and playing together.

Charles watched them for a few moments, his heart swelling with love for the twins. Despite everything else—the mission, the danger that loomed just ahead—this was what mattered. He would protect them, no matter what.

Logan entered the room, glancing around and raising an eyebrow. “This place could fit a hundred of you,” he commented, leaning against the doorframe.

“Yeah, well, it’s not mine,” Charles said with a chuckle. “Just a stopover.”

He stepped over to the window, looking out at the city below. The weight of the mission was starting to sink back in, but he pushed it aside for a moment. Tonight was for the twins. For them to experience a moment of peace before everything changed.

“Alright, kids,” Charles said, turning back to the twins, who were still jumping on the bed. “Time to get ready for dinner.”

Pietro flopped back onto the bed, throwing his hands up dramatically. “Can’t we just stay here forever?”

Wanda, more thoughtful, tilted her head and glanced at Charles. “Just for a little longer, Daddy? I don’t want to leave.”

Charles knelt beside the bed, brushing his hand over Wanda’s hair gently. “I know, sweetheart. I wish we could stay forever too. But we have a big job to do tomorrow.”

The twins quieted, understanding the gravity in his voice. But for now, they were content, and Charles would hold onto that. It was a fleeting moment, but it was theirs.

He took a deep breath, stepping away from the bed. “Let’s make the most of it, alright?”

The twins nodded eagerly, already distracted by the prospect of dinner. But Charles couldn’t shake the feeling that, no matter what happened tomorrow, he’d do anything to keep their world as bright and full of wonder as it was now.

As he turned to help them get ready, the weight of the mission pressed down once more—but for just a little longer, he could pretend that everything was okay.

Dinner at the hotel was an unexpected delight. The twins sat side by side at the table, their laughter and chatter filling the space, with Charles sitting across from them. It was one of those moments that, in the grand scheme of things, felt like a brief escape from the weight of the world pressing on them.

Wanda and Pietro were completely fascinated by the variety of food laid out before them—everything from delicate appetizers to the rich main courses. Wanda, ever the curious one, poked at the mashed potatoes with a fork before glancing up at Charles.

“Daddy, what’s this?” she asked, holding up a piece of roasted chicken, her face scrunched in confusion.

Charles smiled warmly, leaning over the table just a bit. “That’s chicken, sweetheart. It’s very tasty, I promise.”

She eyed it warily for a moment, but then her expression softened as she took a tentative bite. The moment her mouth closed around the chicken, her face lit up in delight. “This is amazing ! Why don’t we eat like this all the time?”

Pietro, watching her with exaggerated concentration, grabbed a piece of chicken of his own and gave Charles a serious look. “Yeah, Dad! Why don’t we get this at home? This is way better than the peanut butter sandwiches Hank always makes.”

Hank, who was sitting nearby, choked on his drink but quickly recovered, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation. “Hey, I make a mean peanut butter sandwich,” he muttered, though his lips were twitching with a barely contained grin.

Logan, sitting opposite Hank and across from the twins, leaned back in his chair, observing everything with a careful eye. His gaze flicked between the twins and Charles, noting the small gestures—the way Charles patiently helped Wanda with her knife and fork when she struggled, the way Pietro laughed a little too loudly at a joke, clearly trying to get his attention.

Logan couldn’t help but feel a small sense of warmth at the sight, even though he’d learned to keep such things buried. The Charles he knew— the Charles, the one who’d been burned by too much loss—would never have shown this much patience or tenderness. The future Charles, the one who had lost the twins... the one who had lived through the agony of seeing them torn away from him by the Sentinels, never would have looked at a child the way he was looking at Wanda and Pietro now.

Wanda, now focused on a slice of bread with butter, glanced up at Charles, her mouth full. “Can we come back to the hotel again sometime, Daddy?” she asked, her voice muffled.

Charles chuckled softly, wiping a bit of butter off her cheek. “Of course, sweetheart. As soon as we’re done with this mission, we can come back and stay as long as you want.”

Pietro, ever the dramatic one, flopped onto the table, his head resting in his arms. “What if we don’t get to come back?” he asked, a playful frown crossing his face. “What if we get locked in the Pentagon forever? Then we’ll never get to eat food like this again!”

“Stop exaggerating, Pietro,” Wanda said, rolling her eyes as she shoved him playfully. “We’ll be fine. Daddy will make sure we’re okay.”

Logan’s gaze darkened slightly as he listened to them bicker back and forth, his mind flashing back to the versions of them he’d known in the future. In the timeline that he came from, he had never seen the twins this young, this alive—never had the chance to share in these moments of laughter and sweetness.

The truth of their future was like a shadow in his mind. Wanda’s immense power, and her fearsome abilities, had made her a prime target for the Sentinels. They had taken her first—too dangerous to be left alive. Pietro had followed, trying desperately to save her, but he hadn’t been fast enough. It had been a tragedy that had left Charles shattered, broken in ways that Logan could barely comprehend.

But this—this was something Logan had never imagined. These two, are full of life, full of hope, full of potential. It made him sick to think that they wouldn’t always be this way.

A resolution formed quietly in Logan’s mind. He wasn’t just doing this for Charles—for the Charles who had lost so much—but for them . For Wanda and Pietro. They deserved a chance. They deserved to survive. And, damn it, he was going to make sure they did.