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"Don't even think about it," Ms. Frost says. She would know, so Pietro lets his hand fall back to his side. The table, and the spread of weapons on it, remains untouched.
"It's boring here," he says, resentful. Too bad Mystique isn't here. She's the only fun one besides Papa.
Ms. Frost doesn't even look up from her magazine. "Try spending all your time on a submarine with a megalomaniac, kid. At least this base has places to be alone." Then she does look up from her magazine, and her gaze is so cold that Pietro runs all the way to the other side of the base.
The other side of the base, of course, is all windowless concrete walls and even more boring. Pietro kicks the wall. Oma didn't have very much, but he had two tins cars at her house, and he made them race whenever he got bored. He forgot to pack the cars when Papa came to get them. He kicks the wall again.
"It wasn't a very good idea," Wanda says softly. She can always find him, no matter where he runs to. He likes it that way, even if sometimes she says what he'd rather not hear.
"Yes, now my foot hurts," Pietro says, clutching his foot in exaggerated pain.
Wanda stamps her own foot. "That's not what I said! What are you going to do with a gun?"
"Save the world!" Pietro retorts, folding his arms. If he can just figure out how to work one of the guns or get strong enough to pick up a sword, he and Wanda can go out on missions with the Brotherhood. He'll be brave and he'll be strong and he'll help his father finish with the humans, and then they'll go home, not here. "Here is boring and stupid and I want to go home," he says when Wanda keeps staring at him with sad eyes.
That makes her look even sadder, so Pietro zips over to her side and puts an arm around her. She sniffles. "Don't steal a gun," Wanda says. "Remember what Papa said about the bad man hurting his friend with one."
Automatically, Pietro's mind skips through the directions to the mutant school where Papa's friend teaches, a neat chain of locations ending with 1407 Graymalkin Lane. Papa made him memorize the way as soon as he brought them here in case there was ever trouble. Pietro thinks he would rather stick around for anything exciting, but he's promised everyone, Mama and Oma and Papa, to keep Wanda safe.
"I'm glad one of you remembers the story."
Pietro straightens up at his father's voice, happy and scared like he always is when Papa is around. Happy, because it's Papa, who gives strong hugs and cooks good food whenever he has time. Scared, because Papa has to spend so much time fighting the humans who want to hurt them. "I remember too!" he insists. "The bad man wasn't careful with a gun and your friend got hurt and has to use a wheelchair now."
Papa looks like Wanda when he's sad, or maybe it's Wanda who looks like Papa. Pietro thinks that if he looked in a mirror, he could see some of Papa, too. Maybe Papa when he's angry. "That's right," Papa says. He rubs his face. Without the helmet on, he looks tired. "You two are children. Guns do not belong in the hands of children. There are too many adults who can't use them properly as it is."
It sounds like today is a day Papa has some extra time. He's not even wearing the helmet. Pietro and Wanda exchange a quick glance.
"Tell us again about the school," Wanda says, tugging on Papa's pant leg.
Pietro takes the other pant leg. "I'm not sure where it is," he lies. "New Jersey? It's one of the new places in America." Really, Papa's had him repeat the directions so many times he could say them in his sleep, but pretending he can't remember will get Papa to stop whatever he's doing and practice with him.
Papa looks down at them and groans. "All right, all right, follow me to my office. It's been a while since we've run through the escape plan, anyway."
The walk over takes them past Ms. Frost. Despite her warning earlier, Pietro does more than think about sticking his tongue at her. He thinks he gets it back in his mouth before she can see, or maybe she just doesn't care.
Pietro and Wanda settle into the chairs in Papa's office. Everything in it is made of metal, most of it twisted out of its original form into furniture. There's a big map of the world tacked up on one of the walls, different-colored thumbtacks stuck into various places. Pietro finds Germany on the map as Papa waves his hand, more thumbtacks floating out of a drawer in his desk.
"The school is called Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, and the man who runs it is named Charles Xavier. He's a telepath like Ms. Frost, so once you enter his range a few miles out, he'll be able to direct you if you're frightened or lost," Papa says, and one of the thumbtacks lands on 1407 Graymalkin Lane, Salem Center, Westchester County, New York, United States of America. If Pietro closes his eyes, he can trace the lines on the map in his head to almost anywhere.
"Because he helps all the mutant children," Wanda chimes in eagerly. She misses school more than Pietro; she's always been better at sitting still and being quiet. Pietro would like living in the bunker a lot better than school if he just had some toys and could go be a hero like Papa.
Papa smiles, even though his eyes are sad. "That's right. It's the safest place you could possibly go if there's ever trouble. Now, Pietro."
Pietro sits up straighter as more thumbtacks fly into the wall, marking out different steps along the way from the base to the school. He recites the names of the places along with Papa, though he's careful to get a few details wrong. Papa has him say it again and again until he's wordperfect. Wanda chimes in as well, though she can't really keep up with Pietro's speed. "Two is safer than one," like Papa always says.
What about you, Papa? Pietro doesn't ask. He and Wanda get lonely, but at least they're always together. Papa doesn't seem to like most of the Brotherhood, so if he and Wanda leave for New York, Papa won't have anyone.
It doesn't seem fair, but people tell Pietro that life isn't fair all the time.
*
There are a lot of new people all around her all at once, all playing a game she doesn't know. Wanda clutches Jean's hand a little tighter while the tall, dark-skinned man--Armando?--has everyone introduce themselves. Jean squeezes Wanda's hand reassuringly when the smallest one, a girl with dark skin and white hair, asks her to say her name again.
"I'm Wanda," she murmurs. "I've never played baseball."
"Me neither!" the little girl declares, unbothered. "Armando is a good teacher and so is Alex when he's not mad at us for not listening. So listen or he won't teach us!"
"Thank you, Ororo," says the tall blond man, but he's smiling a little. "You don't look like you'll have any trouble listening." Mute, Wanda shakes her head. Jean squeezes her hand again, and this time Wanda squeezes it back. "Your brother, on the other hand…"
"I have the ball!" Pietro yells from the other side of the field. He must have taken it from Armando just now. "Do I win?"
A spark of familiar irritation allows Wanda to let go of Jean's hand. "Pietro! You're ruining the game and we haven't even started yet!" she yells back. She stomps her foot even though Pietro is too far away to really see it.
"Yeah!" Ororo shouts next to her, startling Wanda. "You're ruining it!" She stomps her foot as well, a mirror image of Wanda in miniature. A little sister, almost. Wanda smiles.
"We thought we'd teach you baseball human-style, no mutant powers to start," Armando says after Pietro zips back over to hand him the ball, acting like nothing ever happened. Wanda sticks out her tongue at him, but lets him come stand next to her.
One of the boys frowns. "The professor says we should be proud of our powers and use them when we need them."
"When are we going to need ice in baseball?" one of the other boys asks.
"The professor says use powers when we need them," Armando says. "Most of you are new to the game, which means most of you don't know the rules. Rules are for doing what, everyone?"
"Keeping us safe!" Jean and a boy with glasses say at the same time. They smile at each other.
"You gotta know the rules of regular baseball before we can start messing around with powers," Alex says. "Don't like it, you can go practice your powers somewhere else and the rest of us will have fun playing baseball."
Even Pietro stays quiet at that, and Wanda knows that he hates pretending not to be as fast as he is. It got him into trouble at Oma's all the time. He's probably planning to use his powers anyway, come to think of it.
"Don't spoil it," Wanda hisses in Pietro's ear. "Papa might come soon, so don't get us kicked out for breaking the rules." That, she remembers vividly from school in Germany. Break the rules, or do the wrong thing, and the other children won't let you play. Even before living with Papa, Wanda and Pietro were lonely a lot of the time.
Wanda listens with the rest of the children as Alex and Armando explain the rules of the game. A new boy, old enough that he must be a teenager, joins them just in time to help give a demonstration of how to hit the ball. "And pitchers, you don't want to hit this guy with a baseball," Armando says with a grin. "When Sean yells, it hurts."
"That's his power," Jean says once they've all been split up into teams. Wanda and Jean are on the same team, waiting for their turn at bat. "Sean makes sonic waves with his voice. He can even use them to fly when he wears a special suit!" She points to a boy in the outfield. "Warren has wings like a bird, so he doesn't need a suit to fly. Ororo uses the wind to fly 'cause she can control the weather."
Pietro looks interested in spite of himself as Scott takes a second swing at the ball. Over Alex's shout of encouragement, he asks, "Can you fly?"
Jean laughs. "I don't know! I can move things with my mind and I can read minds a little, but I've never tried to move myself." She frowns, concentrating. Wanda looks down at Jean's feet, which remain firmly on the ground. "Guess not."
The list of who has what power continues as Jean points everyone else out. Just as it's Pietro's turn to swing the bat (step up to the plate, Armando said), Jean asks the question Wanda's been dreading.
"What are your powers?"
Pietro's head whips around at the question and he stays perfectly still despite Scott calling his name from second base. He opens his mouth, but Wanda shakes her head. Pietro nods and picks up the baseball bat.
Jean takes Wanda's hand again, green eyes large. "I'm sorry. You don't have to say anything. Scott didn't like to talk about his powers at first. They made him wear a blindfold until Alex brought him to live here."
A blindfold. Wanda shivers. She always had to be very careful around other people, but they never made her wear a blindfold. "Ms. Frost says my powers affect probability," she says, slow to pronounce every syllable in the last word. "I'm not sure what that means. Sometimes my hands light up red. When I got mad, whoever I was mad at used to have bad luck, especially if I pointed at them." Jean doesn't pull away, so Wanda does it for her. In a tiny voice, she adds, "I figured it out when a girl who was mean to me broke her arm."
That was a terrible day, all wailing sirens, and just over a girl refusing to let Wanda and Pietro have a turn on the swings. Oma was so disappointed--somehow she knew, even though Pietro didn't tell.
Wanda's eyes are closed, so at first she doesn't understand the soft brush of Jean's thumb, wiping away the one tear that leaked out. "The Professor says that's why we have to learn to use our powers," Jean says. "So we can use them to help people instead of hurt them by accident."
She opens her eyes to Jean's smiling face. She's not afraid of Wanda. "Maybe you'll learn to use your powers to be lucky instead," Jean adds, and bounds off to her turn at bat.
Something soft and warm settles in Wanda's chest, like Papa tucking a blanket over her when she's almost asleep. Maybe she already is lucky, just to be here at school.
*
Fool, fool, foolish man. Erik curses at himself as he brings the twins back to the base, the memory of Charles's kisses staining his mouth like wine. It's not enough, the two they shared; it was never enough when they were together, one kiss following another whenever they were alone. That was shattered along with Charles's spine, and Erik shouldn't--can't--pretend things can ever be like they were. There's too much at stake.
Wanda and Pietro cry until they fall asleep again in the car. Erik feels like the cruelest of men, dangling a real home in front of them and ripping them away from it time and again. Something must be done for the twins, but he's too tired to think of it tonight, his heart too sore from old wounds. They deserve better, but damn Charles for filling their heads with better before Erik could define it, could set the wheels in motion for them.
"You've had a spat with your telepath," Emma observes after he puts the children to bed. She's standing in the hallway, not bothering with the pretense of waiting for him. That's never a good sign.
"You're my telepath," Erik snarls. Whatever games she has in mind, he's not playing.
Emma lifts an eyebrow. "Some gaps even I can't fill. Come have a look at the intel Mystique gathered for us. I'll make you a drink if it means you'll stop snapping at everyone you look at."
Mystique has grown increasingly distant, always off on missions when Erik is around and leaving her briefings whenever Erik is away. The girl who once followed his every move with worshipful eyes is long gone, perished after a few arguments and one disastrous mission. She looks at him and sees her brother's blood on his hands, feels the guilt of leaving Charles to bleed on a beach in Cuba. The woman who should have been one of his closest allies is now someone he catches glimpses of only by chance.
Work takes Erik's mind off Charles, as Emma must have known it would. Mystique's report describes a virulently anti-mutant sect in upstate Maine. Out of the way, but not harmless--their hatred begins with a mutant born in the community, a woman with webbed fingers and toes and the ability to regrow major limbs. What they did to that woman, barely out of girlhood, before Mystique exacted vengeance--
There is no room for Charles's idealism in this life. Erik curls his hands into fists and devises another plan for recruiting. Hours bleed into days, days when he's traveling the country, or the world if Azazel's available. Most of the mutants he visits are eager to join the cause, or at least provide safe haven and supplies to members of the Brotherhood. So many have been harmed by the communities that should have been their homes. I cannot promise you a home until all of mutantkind is free, Erik says from beneath Magneto's helmet. What I can promise you is justice. Humanity will pay for its crimes.
He spends weeks crusading for his cause, returning each night to small children who follow him with sad eyes. Erik has to crush another surge of anger at Charles each time. Wanda and Pietro are his children, beloved with a ferocity he had not thought himself capable of after Cuba. How dare Charles steal their affections with no more than a few cookies and games? Charles has done nothing to make the world safer for them, hiding away in his school like a shameful secret. How can Wanda and Pietro long for some sort of mutant haven when Erik is doing all he can to remake the whole world in that image?
"I miss Jean," Wanda says tearfully, the fifth or sixth time he's refused to let them run off to the mansion. "She's my best friend!"
Pietro says nothing, but his lower lip is pushed out so far it's amazing it's still attached to his face. Wanda will still let Erik stroke her hair, but Pietro moves out of range whenever Erik lowers his hand. Erik thinks of his twins curled up on Charles's lap, so trusting of every promise he no doubt offered, and his heart gives a spasm that's half-rage, half-pain. He wonders what Charles has said about him. Neither of the twins have asked any awkward questions, aside from Wanda's plaintive, Why can't you be friends?
They're too young to understand the only truthful reply: I can't be friends with someone I love, not when he doesn't love me anymore.
That's the essence of it, beyond any philosophical differences. Erik destroyed Charles's love for him the way he's destroyed every other good thing in his life: with spectacular violence. No matter how sad the twins are, Erik can't face Charles again, not with him offering his kindness and his kisses out of some misguided sense of obligation to what they once had. Wanda and Pietro will do fine at the new base. He even badgers Emma into giving Wanda a few lessons in consciously controlling her powers rather than letting her emotions take control.
Then it all goes to hell.
Somehow, some anti-mutant group has gotten enough intelligence on the Brotherhood to know which one is the telepath. They visit when Emma is away in the guise of selling weapons. Erik isn't in the room when those men turn the weapons against the Brotherhood, but he senses the deployment of a dozen gas bombs, far too many for a demonstration.
He runs to Wanda and Pietro, put to bed just an hour ago. They're already awake, huddled together in one bed and round-eyed at all the shouting. "Go to Charles!" Erik says, seizing their hands in his. They're both so small, so fragile. "Pietro, go as fast as you can. Wanda, hang on tight. Don't tell anyone where you're going and I'll come for you when all of this is done."
An explosion rocks the base. More shouting rings out. Erik fights the urge to curse as he presses a swift kiss to each child's forehead. "I love you both. Go to Charles."
"Papa," one of them sobs out--he honestly can't tell who, in the chaos of raised voices growing ever closer. Then Pietro is off, Wanda clinging to his neck, and Erik can draw in a breath before heading in to the fight.
God. With the school to run to, at least his children don't have to see their father turning militant humans' weapons against them, twisting around their limbs until they break bone. Erik doesn't trust himself to do more than deflect bullets, but the fools thought they could overwhelm him with the sheer amount of their ammunition. Erik leaves a trail of broken bodies in his wake until there is nothing more to defend, nothing more to break.
The air smells like blood and smoke. The next base will smell that way too, in time.
"I can't bring them back here," Erik murmurs. The admission produces a deep ache in his chest, but it's no less true. His next trip to Charles will be to tell him he's won, that he has to say goodbye to the only family he has left before that's destroyed, too.
*
Pietro never thought that Charles's school would be so hard.
He's faster than Wanda at almost everything--faster at reading and writing in English, faster to remember names and dates and facts, faster to learn the games that the other children play. It's always been that way with them, and besides, Wanda has the things she's fast at, too, like math and making friends. Pietro wishes that Wanda could be faster at learning to control her powers because Wanda wishes it, and he makes sure to notice whenever she uses her powers on purpose instead of by accident.
Nothing Pietro has to learn at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters is hard, except now he gets in trouble for stupid things. If he sneaks cookies for a snack and doesn't eat dinner, Armando talks to him about how the best runners take care of their bodies with something called nutrition. If he tries to leave class before the other children are finished, whoever is teaching will give him extra work instead of letting him run around the mansion. If he picks up something that doesn't belong to him, no matter where he is, he hears Charles's voice in his head saying, Now, Pietro, you know better than that. If he says things that are maybe a little bit mean to the other children, Papa talks to him about what a good person does and then makes him apologize.
Pietro can't believe that last month he was so happy to stay here. Today he got in trouble for drawing monsters on the chalkboard behind Hank's back, cheating at Go Fish with Scott, and telling Ororo that he was better at reading even though he had only been going to school for a month. Ororo started crying and crying and Wanda had given her a hug, even though Pietro was just telling the truth.
Maybe he'll never leave this room in the mansion. The furniture is all covered up with sheets, but there's a picture on the dresser of Charles and a pretty girl with blonde hair. Pietro touches her face in the frame, leaving a smudged fingerprint in his wake.
I'd like to see you in my office, please. Though Charles uses words that sound like asking, he means it as an order. Papa explained it to him after the first time Pietro got in trouble. People who speak English, especially if they speak English like Charles, don't always say what they mean. That's another thing for Pietro to dislike about this stupid school where everyone is stupid and slow.
He's worked himself into a fine sulk by the time he drags his feet into Charles's office. Charles--or the Professor, he should call him Professor X like the other kids--is sitting behind his desk, marking some papers. He always looks busy and important in his office, even though Papa is always saying, Charles, stop pretending to work and come lose another game of chess. Nobody else says things like that, though, so maybe Charles does work when Papa isn't here.
Charles makes a final mark and then sets down his pen. "You're having quite the day, Pietro," he says.
"I'm not sorry," Pietro mutters.
"No, I don't expect you are," Charles says. He doesn't say anything more, just keeps looking at Pietro until Pietro has to say something else to fill the silence.
"I get bored when I finish early!" Pietro says. "It's not fair that I have to do more reading just 'cause I'm faster! And I am a better reader than Ororo, so she shouldn't cry."
It almost looks like Charles is laughing, even though he's not making a sound. "And your version of what happened at Go Fish with Scott?"
"Well," Pietro allows, and scuffs his shoe on the floor. "I wanted to see how long I could trick him. It took him forever to notice."
To his surprise, Charles wheels himself out from behind his desk until he's face-to-face with Pietro. Charles doesn't even look mad, though the impression of laughter is gone. He has a small smile on his face, and his blue eyes are serious. Under the weight of Charles's gaze, Pietro rocks back and forth on his heels, hands jammed in his pockets.
"I'm going to tell you a story, if you'll forgive a professor his indulgences," Charles says at last. He's always saying weird things like that. "Once upon a time, there was a little boy who thought himself very superior to those around him. He could do many things they couldn't. He learned things quickly. He could remember anything he read. He could even reach into others' minds and retrieve what he needed to know." At Pietro's surprised look, Charles laughs. "Thought this story was about you, didn't you? Others have been through the same, my lad. You remind me of myself sometimes."
"Did you get in trouble?" Pietro asks. He can't imagine Charles, who wears sweaters and talks about being the better man, getting in trouble for anything.
The corners of Charles's eyes crinkle when he smiles. It's nice, Pietro thinks. "All the time," Charles says. "My upbringing gave me much more practice in how to behave in polite society, but all the same, other children did not like me. It's hard to be liked when you're different, but it's harder still to be liked when you think you're better than everyone else. It took me a great deal of time to figure out that faster is not always better. I would like to spare you some of the pain by telling you what I had to learn for myself."
Pietro eyes Charles, doubtful. If faster isn't better, then he's not better, and that just can't be true. But that stuff Charles was saying about being liked, well, that sounds true. Everyone likes Wanda more than Pietro. It's okay because Wanda still loves him, and Papa, but sometimes… sometimes…
His eyes are watering. Pietro sniffles a little and thinks that he'd like to sit on Charles's lap.
"Of course," Charles says, and pats his lap in invitation. Pietro climbs up and rests his head on Charles's shoulder. "I went to a great deal of trouble to build a school so that no mutant child had to be alone. Don't make yourself lonely."
"I won't," Pietro promises, and closes his eyes. He'll apologize to Ororo and Scott and say that he'll be it the next time they play hide-and-seek. That's what Wanda and Jean tell him to do whenever he makes any of the kids mad, and it always works. He'll make everything better as quick as he can, but first he'll have a nap.
*
"Again," Papa says, unrelenting.
Wanda stares so hard at the pencil her vision blurs. Spots of red light dance around it. It wobbles, standing up on one end for a breathless second, and then more spots cluster around it--
--and it explodes, spraying pieces of lead and wood everywhere.
Wanda sinks to the floor and bursts into tears.
"It's just a pencil, Schatz," Papa says, kneeling next to her. Wanda buries her face in the front of his shirt but doesn't say anything. If she could just stay here forever in the safe circle of her father's arms, that would be perfect. Everyone else can see her crying over messing up yet again. Everyone else has learned to do new things with their powers in the few months she's been at school. Everyone else but Wanda, whose bad luck powers give her nothing but bad luck.
"It's all right," Papa says, soft. "No one is hurt." He's switched to German. Wanda lifts her head, feeling a little better at the familiar sounds. Her stomach plummets when she sees Jean standing nearby, big eyes worried. There's no sign of the others, though, and no sign of Pietro means he must have gotten them to leave. He's been a little kinder lately, a little more thoughtful, even to people who aren't family.
"I don't want to do this anym-more," Wanda says, hiccupping mid-word. "I don't want to have powers anymore. Will you still love me if I'm not a mutant?"
"Of course," Papa says, and kisses her forehead so hard it makes a loud smacking sound. "Your mama was a human and I loved her very much. But it hurts my heart to hear you talk that way about a part of yourself."
Jean makes a small sound. Wanda and her father both turn to look at her. "I can go, if you like," she says. "I didn't--I could feel that you think people are scared of you. I'm not, so I stayed."
"Come," Papa says, settling down cross-legged on the floor. Wanda climbs into his lap as he pats the floor next to him. Jean is still a little shy around Papa, who is such a strict teacher when it comes to their mutation lessons. (He doesn't like being called a teacher, either, even though that's what he does whenever they're in the mansion and they're not eating.) "Don't be frightened, Jean. Both of you girls. Charles told me that you worry about your own powers, Jean."
When Jean nods and takes a seat, Wanda's eyes widen. Jean never said anything about that! So they're alike in more than just hair color and favorite games. Somehow, it makes Wanda feel a little better.
"Controlling your mutant powers can be frustrating and difficult," Papa says. "Pretending otherwise is silly. Some mutations are easier to use and understand than others. Bobby makes ice. Alex and Scott create plasma beams. Pietro can move faster than sound. Sean's power is soundwaves. These mutations are all special, but they're much easier to understand than telepathy or probability manipulation."
"And I have the Professor to help me learn," Jean says. "You're teaching yourself about your power."
Wanda holds out her hand. A little sphere of red light floats above her palm. It fades when she closes her hand. "I get scared when I think about bad things happening. Why isn't anyone else scared that I'll put a hex on them? All the kids at my old school were scared if they believed Adele."
"You wouldn't hurt me," Jean says, so quickly that Wanda almost misses the sadness on Papa's face.
"Any tool can hurt by accident," Papa says at last. "Your powers are a tool like any other. If you were a big girl, a teenager, and you wanted to use a saw, I would tell you the same three things. Learn how to use it from your elders. Use it when you're well-rested and your feelings are steady. Never use it in anger." He closes his eyes. "Charles once told me to find the point between rage and serenity."
Jean's brow furrows. Wanda waits for her to work out Papa's meaning rather than trying to puzzle it out. When there are a lot of English-speaking people around, sometimes Papa forgets that Wanda got her English from Ms. Frost and didn't learn it herself. "The point between being angry and being calm?" Jean asks.
Papa smiles. "Very good. There is a place inside your mind where you can go when you need peace. It's usually a happy memory. When you're at peace in your happy memory, you can access your powers."
Jean's face lights up. "It's like Peter Pan! Think of a happy thought…" Her voice trails off as she looks between Wanda and Papa. "I'll ask the Professor if we can go to the movies soon."
"It was a nice song," Wanda says, hoping Jean doesn't feel left out. "I liked it."
"Thanks. You'll like the movies, I know you will." Jean's eyes fall closed for a moment, then open again, bright with--something. Wanda feels a wash of warmth and then an image forms in her mind: a dark room with lots of seats and a big, bright screen. Movie theater, her English supplies, one strand of telepathy connecting to another.
"Wow," is all Wanda can say. Jean beams.
Papa stands up, dusting off his pants, and pulls a few screws out of his pockets. He always has something metal in his pockets. "I want you to catch these before they fall to the ground, Wanda," he says. "Try different memories. See which ones stick."
"But I'm not trying to hurt the screws," Wanda protests.
"You weren't trying to hurt the pencil, either. The probability is small that a pencil or a screw can float, but that isn't a problem for you." Papa tucks a strand of Wanda's hair behind her ears, expression soft.
The screws roll across the floor, even with Wanda's memory of her new dress. Jean helps pick up the scattered pieces and Papa doesn't say a word about he could do it faster by himself. The next three memories aren't strong enough either. On her fifth try, Wanda closes her eyes and pictures the baseball game from months ago, hears the crack of her bat against the ball, feels the sun on her skin. When she ran around the bases, she saw Papa standing next to the Professor, smiling without any sadness at all.
"Wanda," Jean whispers, and Wanda opens her eyes.
Instead of screws, wildflowers hang suspended in the air by globes of red light. Wanda gasps, hands flying to her mouth, and the lights wink out. Screws clatter to the floor, but she can hardly hear them over Papa and Jean's congratulations.
Tears prick Wanda's eyes as Papa hugs her. She thinks she knows now why adults can look happy and sad at the same time. If it's possible for metal to turn into flowers, then anything might be possible for her, anything at all.
*
"It would be wrong to ask Ororo to do something about this humidity."
"Very wrong," Erik agrees, settling down on the bed next to Charles. "As tempting as it is, do you really want to wake her up and then put her to bed again?" Since he, the twins, and Charles returned from camping yesterday, Ororo has been constantly underfoot, desperate to reestablish herself as one of their children. Heart aching for her, Erik spent the day on the receiving end of her "help" with household chores. Now, though, he's ready for a few hours without little ones underfoot.
Charles sets his book aside, wearing one of his melting smiles. "I suppose not." Then, a little shy still: "Come here."
A camping trip with two small, active children wasn't the most ideal venue to renew their physical relationship, but all that time in close proximity pushed them toward the inevitable. Erik spent the past seven days laughing with his children, the past seven nights relearning Charles's body. He's mapped every scar with hands and mouth, tried to find redemption in the way Charles calls out his name. Erik thinks it's going well, this slow slide back to being together, but sometimes it's hard to look at Charles without wondering when Charles will finally stop loving him.
Sometimes, when Charles is warm and inviting, the edges of his smile gone wicked, looking at him is the easiest thing in the world.
"Mm," Charles says when Erik kisses him, his hand curling around the nape of Erik's neck. "Yes, I find the humidity tolerable after all."
"Stop talking," Erik says, and kisses him again to prove his point. Charles's lower lip between his teeth, the smell of summer in the air, the reassuring tang of old metal furnishings--yes, this is right. He bites Charles's lip hard enough that Charles gasps, then smooths over the hurt with his tongue, all while Charles's hand curls into a fist in his hair. They're both wearing far too many clothes, but now they have the luxury of time, so Erik contents himself with sliding one hand under Charles's shirt.
Then Charles pulls away, skin paling underneath his summer-scattered freckles.
"Raven," is all he says. Then, eyes closed and brow furrowed, Charles corrects himself: "Mystique."
"Here?" Erik asks, already swinging his legs out of bed. He adjusts his clothing. "Is she hurt?" He tries not to think, She must be badly hurt, to come back here. Erik won't pretend to understand the years of history between Mystique and Charles. Charles goes back and forth between keeping a photograph of her in his bedroom, got terribly upset when Erik pointed out it wasn't even her true face. How many times do I have to remake my family? Charles shouted, touching off one of their worst arguments since Erik came to live on the grounds.
As for Mystique, she became as unknowable as her name after joining the Brotherhood. Erik let her be after she stopped seeking out his company. He's familiar with the need to cut all ties to the past, to remake oneself. The only time he's heard her refer to Charles was to tell him to stop pining and get on with his life.
"She's all right," Charles says, his frown now one of concentration rather than pain. "I don't want to read her too deeply, per our agreement. She's wary, conflicted… I think she needs to talk to someone. You had better go."
Erik gives Charles a startled glance, but Charles's face is carefully blank. "Well. Tell me where she is."
Mystique is standing in Charles's office when Erik finds her. She's wearing her true face, as well as a white cloak that covers her from neck to foot. (Emma put a stop to her "parading around naked, like a mutation counts as clothing" within 24 hours of the Brotherhood establishing a base.) "Magneto," she says, her voice registering slight surprise. "Or I guess it's back to Erik, isn't it?"
"I'll answer to either," Erik says. Truth be told, he's seen enough of children at play in the past year to find all the business about costumes and codenames rather childish. Magneto is far sillier a name than Mystique.
There's something wrong in the set of Mystique's shoulders, her posture suggesting defensiveness despite the bitter anger in her question. Charles says she wasn't hurt, but perhaps he didn't--or wouldn't--delve deeply enough. Erik eyes Mystique's cloak.
"Where's Charles?" Mystique asks.
"In his room. His current one, not his old one. I don't think--you'll have to tell him if you want to see him."
Her mouth twists. "He doesn't want to see me."
"He misses you every day." Erik's words come out sharper than intended. He doesn't regret his time with the Brotherhood, and it's a great comfort knowing that Mystique is still out in the world furthering the cause, but he won't let her delude herself into thinking Charles doesn't love her still. Not when making the same mistake cost him so much. "He's not here because he doesn't want to drive you away. He wants you to feel safe here, even at the cost of his own feelings."
And they say I'm the telepath, Charles murmurs in the back of Erik's mind. Despite the joke, Erik catches traces of joy and terror alike. Shall I join you?
"Charles wants to know if he's invited," Erik says.
Mystique turns her face away, staring out one of the windows. "This concerns both of you."
She lets Erik stand in awkward silence until Charles wheels into the room about fifteen minutes later. Did she learn that trick on her own, or did Emma teach it to her? Erik waits it out, mentally revises their security systems to deal with shapeshifters. The children are all asleep by now, but Hank keeps late hours, and sometimes Alex and Armando go on late night walks. The question is moot as long as Charles is around to sense someone crossing into his range, but a security system shouldn't rely on one person for everything.
Charles's nerves are humming so loudly that Erik feels his mind approach along with the metal of his wheelchair. Mystique remains turned toward the window until Charles takes a position next to Erik. Erik takes Charles's hand, Mystique's opinions be damned. He made his own choice, as she made hers.
Mystique doesn't turn toward them yet, but her hands come to rest on her abdomen as she begins speaking. "I'm pregnant," she says, and there it is--the telltale swelling beneath her cloak, revealed by the press of her hands. She must be far gone to show so extensively. Charles's surprise washes over Erik, but neither of them make a sound. "The baby's father is not a person who should raise a child. I'm not cut out to be a mother, either."
"Raven," Charles says, so soft that Mystique flinches. She turns to him, yellow eyes narrowing, but all he adds is, "Won't you sit down? You must be so tired."
With a gesture, Erik pulls one of the chairs closer to her. Mystique all but collapses into it, the swollen state of her belly revealed as the cloak parts. There are tears on her cheeks as she looks at them, gaze lingering on Charles's wheelchair. "You're not going to tell me I'll be the perfect mother?"
"Neither of us had ideal role models," Charles says, voice steady. His hand trembles in Erik's though, so Erik presses it harder. "So you need a place to stay, then? And a home for your child?"
Her hands go back to her abdomen, protective. Erik has a pang of sorrow--he missed Magda's pregnancy, the twins' birth. He'll never know if Pietro entered the world with the same speed he lives in it, if the curl of Wanda's little fingers made the flowers grow. "The Brotherhood is no place for children," Erik says. "You're making the best choice." They don't have anything like a nursery, but that's easily fixed with lumber and tools, a few coats of paint. The walls should be yellow, like sunshine, like Mystique's eyes.
"This is ridiculous," Mystique says with a choked laugh. "I'm an assassin, Charles. A spy. A thief if need be. If the humans all died tomorrow, I'd travel the world to dance on their graves. I have so many enemies I had to come here to protect my child. You're going to open your doors to me, just like that? No, you'll want me to stay. To be a mother and a schoolteacher. You have Erik for every other kind of companionship."
"I don't have my sister!" Charles rips his hand out of Erik's, balls both hands into fists on his lap. He's shaking so hard Erik can feel it in the metal of the wheelchair. "I didn't have my sister as I bled out on the sand! I didn't have her as I survived countless operations! I didn't have her when I had to rebuild my entire fucking life!" He covers his face, and the surge of emotions ebbs from Erik's mind. "I know I've lost you. I will take any part of your life that I can get."
It's a retread of everything Charles went through with Erik, and he didn't even have the excuse of being heavily pregnant. Guilt washes through Erik, guilt that he can see in the unhappy frown on Mystique's face. "The school is for any mutant who needs refuge," Erik says gently. "Your child will grow up surrounded by other mutants, who will no doubt be thrilled to have a new baby. It's not about who's right and who's wrong. Ask any child here--it's a place where no one has to be alone."
Tears continue to roll down Mystique's cheek, but she makes no sound. After a long few moments, she clears her throat. "May I have a glass of water?"
"I'll get it," Erik says immediately. "And you should eat something, too, for the baby. I'll come up with something."
As Erik leaves the office, en route to the kitchen, he can hear Charles tentatively raise the subject of where Mystique would like to stay until her child is born. The next few months will be painful--Charles will hope against hope that his sister will stay, and Mystique never will. But this baby, though not a reason for her to stay, will always be reason for her to come back. Some family bonds won't be severed, no matter how damaged.
Erik smiles as he reaches for the breadbox.