Work Text:
Erik’s life was anything but black-and-white, and his son was no exception. It had been difficult enough for him to come to terms with the fact that he had a son. Getting to know him would be a whole other ordeal entirely.
Peter didn’t need a parent the way Nina had. He was nearly twenty years older, and he had spent all that time without a father around. Although Raven continually insisted that Peter wanted Erik to be in his life, to be his father, it was still a difficult notion for Erik to process.
Add that to the fact that Erik was still grieving the loss of his wife and daughter. When he confessed his difficulty to Charles, his oldest friend told him that Peter once mentioned his fear that Erik would assume Peter was trying to replace them. Erik understood. He didn’t know much about his son, but he did know that the young man was surprisingly compassionate. Must be a trait he inherited from his mother. He knew that replacement wasn’t Peter’s intention. Not in the slightest.
That didn’t mean that every smile Peter warily offered him, every joke made at his expense, every midnight conversation didn’t pain him like a knife twisting in his gut.
One evening, when the younger X-Men had gone out and Raven had disappeared somewhere with Hank, Erik was heading to the library when something caught his attention. A soft guitar melody floated through the hallway, and it grew in volume as a sort of flute-sounding instrument joined it. The sound was coming from the hall where the X-Men stayed, and Erik found himself moving slowly towards it. As he approached the doorway where the sound was loudest, two voices joined the melody.
“There’s a lady who’s sure,” they rang out in unison, “All that glitters is gold. And she’s buying a stairway to heaven.”
He didn’t recognize the lyrics, or the artist. But there was only one person in the house who listened to rock-and-roll so religiously, and that was Peter.
“When she gets there, she knows, if the stores are all closed, with a word she can get what she came for.”
Erik was taken aback. He had no idea Peter could sing. Granted, he knew little about Peter as it was. But his son’s talent surprised him.
“There’s a sign on the wall, but she wants to be sure. ‘Cause you know sometimes words have two meanings. In a tree by the brook, there’s a songbird who sings, ‘Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven.’”
There was something in Erik, some kind of tug just below his stomach, that urged him to open the door. What he would do after that act, he had no idea. Get to know his son? Erik couldn’t even really get to know Charles all that well. Or Raven. It was hard enough for him to make allies, let alone create some sort of bond with a son he hadn’t known for twenty-six years. So instead of opening the door, he leaned ever so slightly on the wall next to it, and listened to the music pouring out of Peter’s room.
“There’s a feeling I get when I look to the West, and my spirit is crying for leaving.”
Erik understood that sentiment. He had promised Peter that he would stay, and that wasn’t something he intended to go back on. But that didn’t make it any less difficult. Erik felt like he was craving to go out into the world, forge his own path. He felt like a young man, consumed by some sort of wanderlust, itching with the need to survive of his own means, live by his own rules. But Peter and Charles and Raven were here, and right now, some craving to be with them was overpowering his need to run.
His need to run. He almost laughed. At least there was one thing he and his son had in common.
“In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees, and the voices of those who stand looking.”
The rhythm of the music started to pick up ever so slightly, and Peter’s voice shifted into what almost sounded like a wail, rather than a song. “Oooooooooohh,” he sang out, “It makes me wonder.”
Erik wasn’t remotely the fan of music that his son was, but there was something in the song, whether in the melody or the lyrics, he couldn’t tell, that he could feel down in his stomach. And he’d never admit it to Peter, but he didn’t entirely dislike it.
“And it’s whispered that soon, if we all call the tune, then the piper will lead us to reason. And a new day will dawn for those who stand long, and the forests will echo with laughter.”
The sound of the drums joined in inbetween verses, and Erik could hear gentle thudding coming from inside the room, as if Peter was hitting his furniture in time with the beat. “If there’s a bustle in your hedgerow, don’t be alarmed now. It’s just a spring clean for the May queen. Yes, there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run, there’s still time to change the road you’re on.”
That sounded like something that Charles would say. If there were a contest held for most unbreakable optimism, Charles Xavier would win in a landslide. Always insisting upon the good he saw in people, even in Erik. If you asked him, Erik was fairly certain there was nothing in him anymore besides grief, cynicism, and the remnants of rage. Although, with Charles’ words echoing inside his head and his son’s music pouring into his ears, there was one cell of him that could argue otherwise.
“Your head is humming and it won’t go, in case you don’t know. The piper’s calling you to join him. Dear lady, can you hear the wind blow? And did you know? Your stairway lies on the whispering wind.”
The words drifted away and left room only for the guitar, which picked up speed. The drums kept time, and soon Peter’s voice joined in, deep and slightly nasal all at once, singing the guitar solo in a series of nonsensical sounds. His voice fell and climbed in a series of repeating riffs, until the ever-increasing pace of the drums cut him off with a few incessant thuds.
It was then that Erik decided to enter. He opened the door to be greeted with Peter, standing on top of his bed, pretending to play a guitar, clothes scattered about the floor, and a piece of pizza hanging out of his mouth.
He turned to face Erik, and his expression dropped into one of shock. “Hey, Erik,” he mumbled, the pizza muffling his words.
“What are you doing?” Erik asked, knitting his eyebrows together.
Peter shifted his weight awkwardly around. “Um.”
Glancing around the room, Erik noticed the pizza box on Peter’s nightstand, empty except for one lonely slice. “Did you eat that entire thing?”
“Maybe,” Peter replied, glancing down, still eating the piece that was in his mouth.
“After you already had dinner?”
“Look, man, I have to eat, like, 8 thousand calories a day. Fast metabolism. Hank’s food is good, but it ain’t exactly filling.”
“I see.” Erik stood, uncomfortably, in Peter’s doorway, as the young man climbed down off his bed and tossed his discarded clothes into the hamper. The last strains of the song still echoed out of Peter’s record player, and Erik nodded towards the machine. “Who is this?”
“Oh, that’s Led Zeppelin. They’re like the biggest band of the 70’s. And also one of the most incredible rock bands of all time. Pink Floyd’s up there too. Oh, and the Stones. And Rush. And Queen, even though they’re a little bit more pop than the others. But still great. Pop’s not bad though, I mean, Eurythmics is pretty good, and they’re considered pop, I guess, even though their music definitely has a lot of rock elements-”
“Peter?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re rambling.”
“Shit, sorry.”
Erik smiled at his son. “You’re fine. Unfortunately, I know little about music, so I’m afraid I can’t be of much interest when talking about it.”
“Yeah,” Peter scoffed. “You’re from a different time. Who do you listen to, Sinatra?”
"You say that as if he's old."
"He kind of is, man."
“Frank Sinatra isn’t old, Peter. He’s still making music.”
“That’s exactly what an old person would say, Erik,” Peter quipped back, his grin spreading.
“Is this going to be a recurring point of contention?”
“Is what gonna be a recurring point of contention?”
“The fact that I’m not old.”
“Hey. Erik. You have a grown-up kid. You’re pretty old.”
“You’re not remotely grown up.”
“And you’re not remotely young.”
“I am not old.”
“Then prove it.”
“How?”
“Name one rock band that I didn’t mention like two minutes ago.”
“Easy, The Beatles.”
Peter rolled his dark eyes, but that shit-eating grin was still plastered across his face. “No, I mean real rock. Hard rock. Not screaming-teenage-girl rock like The Beatles.”
Erik racked his brains, trying not to be distracted by the obnoxiously cocky expression of his son, who couldn’t stop smiling at him with his arms folded across his chest. After maybe fifteen seconds, Peter glanced at his wrist, pretending like there was a watch there, and let out a noise like a buzzer. “Time’s up, old man. I would have accepted The Who, Aerosmith, AC/DC, The Ramones, Black Sabbath, Van Halen, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Dead Kennedys, and many more which I do not have the time to name.”
“What exactly are you busy with that you wouldn’t have the time to name more of these rock bands which you are so clearly enamored with?”
“I don’t have to tell you,” Peter taunted, and Erik noticed for the first time that, when he grinned as wide as he was doing now, his son had dimples.
“No, really, I’m fascinated.”
Peter shook his head and laughed. “Piss off, Dad.”
The word was out of his mouth before he could stop it, and both men turned to each other with shock in their eyes.
“I…” Peter glanced around, looking everywhere but at Erik, scrambling for any words to ease the tension. “I’m sorry, I didn’t… Um…”
Erik nodded slightly and turned back towards the door. “Good night, Peter. It was good talking with you.”
“Yeah, you too,” his son replied, still not looking him in the eyes. “Night, Erik.”
The second Erik closed the door, he placed his hands on the wall for balance. He felt like his knees could go out at any second. Something in him felt like it was being strangled. He managed to choke out a couple breaths, but the knot in his chest wouldn’t go away.
Erik? Charles’ voice came ringing through his head. I don’t mean to intrude, but you’re projecting distress rather loudly. Is there anything you’d like to discuss?
Peter.
Peter what?
He called me Dad, Charles. As if I’m some sort of a father figure.
You’re not a father figure, Erik, you’re his father. I think it’s good. It means Peter feels closer to you.
He looked like he wanted to die the moment after he said it.
I’m sure he was just embarrassed.
I can’t do this, Charles.
Erik, he needs you. And you need him.
Charles, you don’t know what it feels like every time he looks at me.
I’m not saying this will be easy. But I do believe it will be best for both of you.
And you know the future?
Charles chuckled inside his mind. If only. I don’t know the future, Erik, but I do know you. And I know more about Peter than you would expect.
I don’t think I can.
Please, Erik. If not for you, and if not for Peter, then for me. Just give it a chance.
---------------------------------------------
In the weeks after Peter told Erik about their relationship, the news had spread through the school like wildfire. So far, none of the students had approached Erik about his son, but he was well aware of the fact that he wasn’t the most approachable person. Peter, on the other hand, oozed charm as easily as sweat, and Erik had seen many an interaction where some of the younger students would chat with Peter while throwing not-so-subtle glances in Erik’s direction.
For the most part, Peter had seemed relatively nonchalant about the whole ordeal. Although that might have just been his personality. One of the most notable differences (and there were many) between Erik and his son lay in their ability to let things go. Erik was notorious for holding grudges. He was viciously loyal, though oftentimes more so to his ideals than his allies. Peter rarely held on to anything. He moved too fast to let anything bother him for long, and he was shockingly forgiving. Nonchalant may as well have been his middle name.
So when kids came up to him and asked if the rumors about him and Magneto (those who called Erik by his real name and not his mutant name were few and far between) were true, Peter smiled at them and told them, yes, it is true, and Peter for one thought it was pretty cool.
Still. Erik didn’t expect his son to defend him. It couldn’t have been easy for Peter to grow up without a father. And it must have been even harder to see that father on the news, threatening lives, and only then find out the truth. Erik hadn’t expected any sort of forgiveness or acceptance or kindness from Peter, and the more he got to know his son, the more Peter surprised him by offering just that.
It was late on a Saturday night, and Erik was restless. He headed towards one of the many kitchens, this particular one in the section of the house where all the adults and X-Men stayed, looking for Hank’s hidden stash of sleeping pills. When he heard chatting coming from inside the room, he hovered next to the door and listened for a bit.
He heard Peter’s voice from inside, along with Kurt and Ororo’s heavy accents, Scott’s slightly pompous tone, Jean’s soothing voice, and Jubilee’s excited chatter. One thing was wrong, however. Every one of them was slurring their words together. And Erik was perceptive enough to know what that meant.
The young X-Men, all underage except for Peter, were drunk.
“Yeah,” Scott announced. “My parents are pretty cool. I mean, they never even really got mad at Alex when he went to Juvie all those times. And they never thought our mutations were too crazy or anything.”
“My parents left me in an orphanage when I was a baby,” Ororo added. “I grew up basically on my own.”
“My parents were killed,” Jubilee mumbled.
Everyone dropped silent. “Holy shit,” Peter breathed, and the rest chimed in with silent and awkward apologies.
“It’s okay now. I’ve found a family here. And I really love the school. It still sucks sometimes, though.”
“What about you, Jean?” Scott questioned.
“Well my family was always great. But my powers developed when I was pretty young, so the Professor took me in early. I’ve been here longer than I was with my parents.”
“I never knew my parents,” Kurt confessed.
That earned a chuckle from Peter. “Well, we got one thing in common, big guy.”
“What are you talking about, Peter?” Jubilee interrupted. “You know both your parents. And you grew up with your mom.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t grow up with a dad. So Kurt and I have something in common.”
“Whatever.”
Kurt cleared his throat and addressed Peter. “Why wasn’t your father there when you were young? He is close to you know, yes?”
“I don’t know if ‘close’ is the right word. We interact from time to time. But he was a busy guy when I was growing up.”
“Busy with what?”
“He, uh, had a 9 am meeting with revenge-plotting and a 1 pm lunch date with Nazi hunting,” Peter joked, and Erik could hear the smile in his son’s words.
“Yeah,” Scott laughed, “And a midnight rendezvous with world destruction.”
“Scott,” Jean rebuked, and the air changed from casual to tense.
“What? I’m just making a joke.”
“It wasn’t funny, Scott,” Ororo warned.
“What’s the big deal? I mean, he’s kind of a bad guy, right?”
All the smile was gone from Peter’s voice. It was quiet, and dangerous. Erik was almost impressed. “How about you shut your fucking mouth, Summers.”
“Jesus, man, chill out!”
“Don’t insult my dad, Summers, and I’ll be chill.”
“I didn’t insult him, man, it’s the truth. Magneto’s killed a lot of people.”
“Don’t you fucking call him Magneto, Scott, that’s not his name. And you don’t know shit about him, so you don’t get to talk.”
“What, and you do know shit about him?”
“Of course I do, he’s my dad.”
“He’s not your fucking dad, Peter. If he was, he woulda stuck around.”
There was a clatter of glass against the stone countertops, and a thud, as Erik could only assume Peter slammed Scott into the wall.
“You shut your fucking mouth, Scott, before I rip it off your face. He saved the fucking world back in Cairo, and you fucking know it.”
“Oh, whoop-de-doo! Peter’s dad helped save the world! Well my brother helped save the world in Cuba, and you don’t see me bragging about it!”
“I’m not bragging about it, you dick! If you didn’t talk shit about my dad, I wouldn’t even bring it up! Why the hell do you have to be such an ass about my dad, huh? I don’t rip on your brother, do I?”
“No.”
“So why-”
Scott’s voice turned cold. “But you did let him die.”
The kitchen was dead silent. Not even the sound of breathing could be heard above the deafening quiet.
“Guess that’s one thing you get from your dad, huh?”
“Scott!” Jean shouted, as her boyfriend stormed out of the kitchen, not even noticing Erik standing by the doorway.
Silence hung in the air for a moment longer, until Peter rushed out of the kitchen as well.
“Peter-” Erik tried to say, holding out his hand. But his son just glanced at him, with guilt and regret and fury in those almost-black eyes, and shoved his hand away.
“Piss off, Erik.”