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"Did something happen at school?" His mother asks when he angrily slams his backpack onto the floor of the basement.
Yes, something did happen. As almost every day, he gave up on paying attention to the endless lecture and the teacher noticed. As he always did, he dragged him outside the class and gave him a "talking to". His cheek still burns with the memory.
That's not the worst thing. He got shoved and slapped around before, as a kid. He got teased and blamed and mocked for his name and his accent. He could stand that. He could fix that and try to fit in.
No, the worst was the teacher's hateful glare as he called him a filthy mutie. So much hate. And nobody would ever do a thing about it.
It wasn't his fault he was a mutant. He didn't ask for that and he didn't ask for his stupid defective brain to never manage to pay attention to the right thing. He never asked for the side effects that came with his mutation, the overwhelming urge to move, move, move. He never asked for any of that.
"Nothing out of the ordinary." He tells her. Otherwise she'd want to go to school and talk to the teachers and make everything even worse. Pietro didn't want that.
It's not a lie, he tells himself. It happens everyday after all, it's ordinary. Just two more years of that and he'll be able to get out of school and find a job. He puts in his headphones and starts playing music. He sits at the Pacman machine and plays it.
She nods and doesn't push and Pietro is grateful. He knows he's a drain on her and Django. But he knows that as much as he disappoints her, she still has his back and loves him.
"Are you really his kid?" Little Samuel Paré leans closer. He's new at the school, his mutation just manifested. If Pietro had been a little more of a dreamer, he'd wish the school was operational when he got his powers. It would have saved him a lot of trouble.
He flicks his forehead when he gets too close. "Why do you think so?"
Sammy rubs his forehead but it doesn't stop him. "I've heard professor Summers talk about it with Professor Grey."
"Hmm, eavesdropping, are we?" He tries to lead the conversation elsewhere.
"It's not eavesdropping." He folds his arms over his chest and puffs out. "They were talking loudly."
"I'll bet." Pietro hums. "Isn't it time you go to class?"
"You didn't answer the question."
"What was the question again?" Pietro asks with an innocent grin.
"Are you really Magneto's son?"
Pietro sighs. "Why do you care so much?"
"Because it's cool. Or weird. It's cool weird."
"That's not a thing."
"It is now."
Pietro sighs. "Well, what do you think? Do I look like his son?"
Sammy studies him for a moment. "Your hair is longer. I don't think you look like he does on TV." He decides. "But I don't look like my mom either."
"You should be a detective when you grow up." Pietro advises him.
"So you're not Magneto's son?"
Pietro sighs in exasperation. Is this how his mom felt? "Well, if I don't look like him, what do you think?"
"That you're....not?" Sammy draws out.
Pietro pats his blobby cheek. "Lets leave it at that."
It's not a lie. Pietro saw Magneto maybe ten times in his life, he doesn't know if he looks like him or not. And it's better if the kids think it's a rumour. He heard enough about his father.
"I cannot read your mind. You have to tell me what happened there."
Pietro stays stubbornly silent, staring out of his window. He doesn't want to explain himself to Charles. "You know what happened. I miscalculated and gripped too tightly. You act like I killed someone." He scoffs.
The bastard deserved much more than bruises. Pietro feels white hot anger when he thinks back to the little girl, stuck in a cage.
"Your actions reflect on all of us." Charles rolls closer to him. "Mistakes do happen. But you do not seem to regret that mistake."
Pietro touches his temple with two fingers. "Reading my mind, Professor?"
"I can see that you do not take it as seriously as you should." Xavier answers, patient as ever. "I don't need to be a telepath for that."
"It's a bruise." Pietro repeats. "Nobody died because of a bruise."
"It reflects on us." Charles reminds him. "They are looking for any imperfection they can judge us for. There's no need to give them more reasons to hate us."
Other reasons than being born, Pietro thinks but doesn't say. He doesn't want a lecture. "I'll be careful next time." He promises and waves his hand. "Is that all?"
"Is there anything you want to talk to me about, Peter?" Charles asks, his voice laced with concern.
Pietro doesn't believe it for a second. It's another way of getting inside his head, since he can't do it his way. "No." Pietro says quickly. "Nothing."
Charles sighs but doesn't push further. "My door is always open for you. Or Scott's. You can talk to us."
Pietro keeps looking out of the window. "I know, Professor."
He can't. Not about this. They're all blind to it. They're too content to pretend that the school is a sanctuary and the outside world doesn't involve them. They don't understand him.
Pietro stares into the map so he doesn't have to look at Erik. "I have some friends in Denver. We could ask around." He doubts that they'll find Mystique. She's likely dead.
"Denver then. What friends?" Lehnsherr asks and of course he does. He can't keep his mouth shut.
"Well, not friends. Acquaintances, more like. It's........Caliban, maybe some of the Morlocks..." It's not a lie. He wouldn't describe the Morlocks as his friends.
Friends are people you stay in touch with. He'd come and see them, cheer them up, but he could never stay. He loved them, he did want to protect them, but he didn't know them enough and they couldn't know him. That wasn't friendship. He touches the scar on his shoulder. Kinship? A promise sworn to a friend that never asked.
But Pietro wasn't going to get tangled into the complicated semantics of the twisted loyalty he had for this group of vandals, certainly not with Lehnsherr.
It isn't enough to deter him. "Who are they?"
He just couldn't let it go. Pietro brushes him off. "A bunch of lowlives in the sewers. Sometimes they do some small sabotages but they usually just hide. They're shy." Lowlives is a cruel term to use, but he wants Lehnsherr to stop asking questions. He doesn't need him to kill more of the people he has left. He's taken enough from him.
"Survivors?"
Why can't he let it go? "Mostly just abandoned kids." He says eventually, but the pang of guilt in his heart stays the same. They're so much more to him. But it's not something he can explain to Lehnsherr.
It's not a lie. It just feels like one but he didn't say anything untrue. Lehnsherr wouldn't understand anyway. Loyalty meant nothing to him.
"What bad blood is there between you and Charles?" Lehnsherr asks him one night.
Pietro stills in his bed. "Why do you care?"
"Simple curiousity. I apologise if I overstepped." Lehnsherr goes quiet again. He's so weak these days.
To be fair, Pietro expected Charles to have already told Lehnsherr about his infamous end with the X-Men. They seemed to share everything.
Pietro toys with his Walkman. "We disagreed on some moral issues."
"Did you find his dream unrealistic?" The quiet question takes the air out of Pietro's lungs. They were truly alike.
Lehnsherr notices it. He keeps talking. "Did you think that he was too kind to those who hurt us? Too patient and too willing to sacrifice us for them?"
Every word is a dagger in Pietro's heart. Lehnsherr's words reflect Pietro's own endless arguments with Xavier. He hates how clearly Lehnsherr can see through him.
Pietro puts the Walkman away quickly. "That's your part." He brushes him off quickly. "And I'm not you." He adds after.
"I'm nothing like you." He says firmly. He believes it. Lehnsherr was a monster that Pietro never became. Never would become.
"Of course you aren't." Lehnsherr's voice is sarcastic. It gets Pietro on his feet faster than anything. He sees red.
"Keep your fucking mouth shut." He snarls, inches away from his face. "Or I'll make you regret it."
Lehnsherr drops his eyes and nods silently. He could even face him. What a coward.
The rage still boils in Pietro. "If I were you, I'd kill you when you came begging. You tried to do kill me, remember?" He backhands him and ignores the grunt of pain Erik makes. He deserves to pay for his words, for his actions. " I'd kill you like you killed Jean! Scott! They're dead because of you!"
"Is he sick?" Logan asks, something like concern showing in his face.
"What? Is he? Since when? What happened?" Pietro fires the questions at Logan. Why wouldn't Erik tell him?
Logan shakes his head. "That's the question. Did you notice anything odd about him?"
"What is he a dick to you? Or too nice? He has his moods, just ignore him. I think it's the dementia." Pietro shrugs and lies back in the grass. Who knew what was going through Erik's mind? Well, probably Xavier. "Or you'll have to be more specific."
"He's... bruised." Logan says hesitantly
That raises Pietro from his laying position once again. "Bruised, bruised where?" Did someone hurt him? Was it from a mission? "Like, hurt? Did someonehurthim? WhodoIhavetokill? Talk, Logan!" He shakes Logan's shoulder when he takes too long to answer.
"I don't know what happened. He has bruises on his forearms. I thought you'd know why." Logan says slowly.
Pietro freezes for a second. He tried never to think about that, about the moments when anger overtook him. He falls back into the grass, trying to seem unfazed. "Oh."
How to explain it to Logan? He couldn't even face himself when he did that. He could hardly explain it to a friend. "Yeah, I know."
He can't keep up the unbothered façade. "My fault."
"Your fault?" Logan asks in disbelief.
"Yeah, when running." Pietro lies."I probably gripped too tightly when I carried him." He feels so sick of himself. It was not probably, it was purposefully.
He can't stand Logan's eyes. He starts ripping out the grass to not have to look up
"Better than vaporising him, no?" He continues, still lying. "Not all of us have your healing factor."
Hank McCoy is dead and Pietro tries very hard to not think about it. He's reminded of it in every hateful stare from the Brotherhood. He retreats into the safety of his and Erik's bedroom, hoping to escape it there.
He polishes his dagger when Erik comes in.
It's only sheer surprise that makes him drop the dagger instead of stabbing it into Erik's side as he's slammed against the wall.
"Do you even care? That another mutant died - indirectly caused by your actions?" Erik spits out venomously.
Pietro doesn't do well when provoked. He shoves Erik hard enough to make him stumble. "You're one to talk. How many of them died in Alcatraz under your lead?" He's trying to be all high and mighty when his hands are just as stained as Pietro's. "How many of them my friends?!"
"That was different. That was war, this was a targeted attack. A slaughter you were partially responsible for!"
He's right and Pietro knows it. But that won't make him give in. Pietro didn't take Beast's eyes on a whim. "I did that for you. Did you forget?" He takes a step closer. "Why should I care that he's dead?! I didn't kill him." It's the truth. He hurt him once, eight years ago.
"Your actions caused it! Do have no regret in your body? No compassion?"
Did Erik dare to ask that now? After everything Pietro did for him? After all the shit he had to go through, all because he was Erik's son.
After he finally did something Erik could be proud of and took revenge on his behalf. Finally acted as coldly and cruelly as Erik himself. He regrets becoming that every day.
He won't say it. He won't lie either.
"Why would I regret defending my father?"
"Has my helmet personally offended you?" Erik's sarcastic tone breaks Pietro from his thoughts.
He looks up from staring at it. He must have lost time. "I hate it." He spits out.
Erik hums lowly. "Do you have a reason for that? You have your own untypical fashion choices."
Pietro shoots him an annoyed glare. "My 'untypical fashion choices' allow me to survive my mutation, old man." Goggles and ear protection was necessary when crossing certain speeds. He learned the hard way. "That bucket isn't necessary for you."
Erik doesn't seem angry at the description. "No, it isn't. It is however, practical, even if only for reputation."
Pietro grimaces. He knew all about Erik's reputation. Smart people feared Erik no matter what he wore. "So you're not getting rid of it."
"Do you truly hate it so?" Erik lifts the helmet with his powers and floats it over to Pietro. "It's just a helmet."
It's more and they both know it. It's a symbol of Magneto, the heartless terrorist. It's a protection against the one Erik loves the most. It is in itself, a cage.
Pietro takes it anyway and looks at it. Just a helmet. He gets an urge to put it on. Would he resemble Erik more?
Erik's time with Xavier must be rubbing off on him because he seems to read Pietro's thoughts. "Be my guest." He says plainly.
Pietro gives it back instead. "It fits you better." Does it? He's glad Erik rarely wears it now. Seeing him in it always makes his stomach twist.
Erik floats it back onto the table. His gaze is rueful. "Is that what you think?"
Pietro leaves it unanswered. He doesn't want to dive into feelings. It's not a lie, the helmet was crafted for Erik.
It feels like one.
Pietro can see Erik spiral. He's sitting on the bed and staring blankly in front of him, just like he did when he lost his powers.
He doesn't seem to notice Pietro when he picks a book out of the bag.
He doesn't even notice when Pietro crosses the room and sits down by his feet. Not even when he leans his head on his knee.
It must be pretty bad then. Pietro presses his head harder into Erik's leg, not wanting to scare him by talking just yet. It doesn't work.
"I can see the wheels turning in your head, old man." Pietro finally speaks up. Whatever he's thinking about, it's nothing good. Probably mutant genocide, how he didn't prevent it, all the same shit. He'd never change.
Erik flinches and then looks at him in surprise. He rests his hand on Pietro's head.
"Stop blaming yourself." He says firmly. Then, more kindly. "There's no point to it now."
Erik nods shortly and focuses on running his fingers through Pietro's hair. Pietro leans into the touch. There's nobody around to judge.
It takes a while but the hand in his hair stills again. Pietro makes a displeased face when Erik stares off into space again.
He picks up the book next to him. Once and Future King, as always. "Read to me."
Erik is still staring off. Pietro considers hitting him to get his attention, but saves that thought for later. Instead he pokes him with the book. "Now."
Erik takes it with shaky hands.
"Do you ever think that you didn't do enough?" Erik's voice is quiet.
Pietro blinks. He wants to brush him off and tell him to shove it. Years ago he would have. Maybe even just months ago.
Xavier must be rubbing off on him. "All the time." Pietro confesses. "I spent fifteen years hiding instead of fighting."
Erik's hand continues the petting. Pietro takes it as an encouragement. "No matter how many people I save...it doesn't bring back those I could have saved. If I wasn't a coward-"
"You're not a coward." Erik interrupts him. "If you were a coward, you would have sent me away."
Pietro pulls away. "I didn't do that just for you. I did it for Xavier." He doesn't think he ever told him that. Erik seems surprised. "And for myself." He says, more quietly. "I was....am selfish."
Erik doesn't try to reach for him. "You are not selfish. Wanting to be loved is not selfish."
Pietro rolls his eyes on him. "Xavier is a really bad influence on you. That's not your words."
"You don't listen to him." Erik smiles fondly. "Perhaps you'll listen to me."
"When have I ever." Pietro muses quietly.
"A man can dream." Erik retors. "In time, you may lose your stubborness."
Pietro leans back into him. "I'm sixty four, old man. I'm not changing anymore."
"I know. Charles believes that your stubborness is inherited."
Pietro's lips curl up into a smile. "Where could he have gotten that?" He taps the book. "You're not getting out of the reading."
Erik mocks a sigh and opens the book. "You can already recite it. You don't need me to read it."
"I don't like reading." Pietro fiddles with his shoelaces. "And my memory is shit. So get going."
"From where should I start?" Erik asks when his hand settles once again in Pietro's hair.
"The Ill-Made Knight." Pietro decides.
Erik sighs again, this time for real. "You always chose that."
"Yet you keep asking." Pietro pokes him again. "Read. I'm tired."