The One Time He Does

Peter knows what a broken leg feels like.

That, of course, is courtesy of Apocalypse. The ground had risen up and wrenched his foot out from under him, and with a swift kick, a sickening snap, and blinding pain, he couldn't have moved his foot without lightning bolts shooting up his leg. While that had beyond sucked, the worst part had been the recovery time, not the pain itself.

So when Peter wakes up to find both of his shins bent at awkward angles, he lets out a groan before the pain even registers. He immediately tries to bring his hands to his legs to assess the damage, only for his arms to stop short, twist ties digging into his wrists behind his back.

After he gets over the initial bout of holy shit that hurts, he directs his gaze around at the log walls. He's at the center of the room, the reddish door a ways ahead of him. It's kind of a homey place, actually. There's a quilt on the wall and the windows' thin, red curtains don't do much to keep out the sunlight, but they still look pretty swaying in the breeze. No place is a fun place to be kidnapped, though.

Kidnapped? he ponders. Yeah, he'll go with kidnapped.

He takes a deep breath—ouch, his throat—and shouts as loud as his lungs will allow him.

"Don't waste your breath. No one will hear you."

Peter jolts and cranes his neck around to see a man sitting in the darkest corner of the room like some kind of wannabe Bond villain. His legs are crossed and he leans back in his chair, not even bothering to look at Peter as he methodically cleans a pistol. It's a transparent gun; glass jumps to Peter's mind, but he finds plastic more likely.

When Peter opens his mouth to reply, the movement reveals a sore spot at the base of his neck and he remembers a needle being driven into it, but everything after that is dark. He's fairly certain now that this guy isn't an undercover cop, despite the badge he'd flashed after tasing Peter at that gas station.

"Impersonating an officer is illegal," he points out around a grimace.

"I'm not too worried about the legality of any of this, but thanks," Bond Villain responds, sparing him a brief glance.

"So what is it, then?" Peter asks. "Money? Do you want money? Or is it a mutant thing? It's a mutant thing, isn't it?"

To his surprise, the man shakes his head. "I have nothing against mutants. My cousin's a mutant, actually. It's just one in particular I have a problem with."

"Who, me?" Peter squints his eyes, trying to get a better look at the man's face. He could swear he'd never seen him before.

The man puts the gun in a holster at his side and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "Your father. Magneto murdered my son with his mindless killing."

Peter short-circuits at this and stops straining his neck. He stares down at his legs and it takes him a second to come back to himself. "So I'm what, a hostage?"

"You're my means of revenge."

Peter swallows. "You really think I'm his son? He doesn't even-"

"You said so yourself." Peter can hear the man's boots clumping on the floor toward him.

"When?" Peter demands with a scoff.

"At Stryker's. You said it to Mystique," he rounds Peter's chair, but still faces the door, "and to all the scientists watching. Including me."

Peter closes his eyes for a moment, cursing his blabbermouth. "I must have been… drunk."

The man huffs and gives him a disbelieving glance. "Save it."

"Well, I've got some bad news for you." Peter presses his lips into a thin smile and clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth before continuing. "Magneto and I—we're not tight. Also, between you and me, he's a bit of a distant father, to be honest. But he'll still probably kill you for this, so." Peter gives a small shrug that hopefully comes across much more nonchalant than he feels.

The man mirrors his shrug. "I'm not too worried about that either. For what it's worth, I am sorry about this. You don't deserve it."

Peter rolls his eyes. "Oh, well if you're sorry, then I guess it's fine." He twists his wrists against the zip ties, only digging them further into his skin.

The man doesn't respond to this, so Peter uses the silence to try to formulate an escape.

Running is out of the question. Any civilian help isn't likely either if the 'no one will hear you' is the truth. If Peter has to guess, he'd say that he's in a cabin in the woods, probably at least a mile radius from any civilization. But based on the fact that this man really only wants to kill him to piss off Erik, the plastic gun, and that he hasn't killed him yet, he's most likely waiting for Erik's arrival. And seeing as this man would have no way to contact Erik directly—Peter would know if there were a way—he must've called the X-Men to demand Erik's presence. Which, most likely, meant Charles has been made aware of his situation, and has probably already Cerebro'd up a rescue plan. Probably. Hopefully.

Even if Charles hasn't, Peter is still relatively in the clear. Bond Villain couldn't revenge-kill him in front of Erik if Erik never shows up. While Peter would be massively offended if that were the case, it's starting to feel like an ideal outcome if this guy really doesn't have any problem with Peter himself. Maybe he would just… let Peter go?

It's a foolish notion, but Peter clings to it. After what feels like hours, Mr. Kidnapper rounds Peter again to stand behind him.

It's not too long after that when footsteps sound on the front porch. The doorknob turns and the door swings open to reveal Erik, his hand slightly upraised. Peter's not sure whether he should be relieved or horrified.

"I was starting to worry Xavier didn't pass along my message," says the man, stepping forward. The barrel of his pistol enters Peter's peripheral vision and he stares up at it.

"Who are you?" Erik demands.

Don't ask questions. Just knock him out already.

"I was a father once, but you took that from me." The gun cocks. "Now you'll feel my pain."

Fortunately, Peter hadn't explained his powers along with his parentage during his brief period in government custody. While Peter's broken legs definitely hinder him and hurt like a bitch, they don't turn his powers off. When Mr. Kidnapper pulls the trigger, Peter easily tilts his head to the side, watching the bullet slowly pass by him and bury itself in the log wall. The man looks over, eyebrows lowered, and fires again. Peter lifts his chin and lets it glide past, relishing in the fear dawning on the man's face as he realizes that he's screwed. He observes Erik's fist draw closer to the man's cheek and gives him a shit-eating grin.

The gun clatters to the floor and Erik shakes out his hand, glancing over at Peter. "You okay?" he asks, going in for another swing at the man's head.

"Never better," Peter chimes, then grimaces as bolts of pain shoot up from his ankles.

Erik overtakes the man, knocking him to the ground with a kick and dispatching him with a well-placed blow to the temple, the blood from his lip pouring out to stain the wood panels. Erik looks down at the unconscious human lump on the floor with his lip curling in something between rage and disgust. Erik turns to the discarded plastic gun on the ground and takes a step toward it, prompting a sharp, involuntary breath from Peter as he realizes what Erik plans to do.

For some reason, Erik freezes. He stares at the gun for a moment too long before stiffly turning back to Peter with a carefully masked expression. He wipes the sweat from his upper lip, leaving a streak of blood from his knuckles. "Who else does he have?"

Peter shrugs. "Just me."

Erik raises an eyebrow, then nods. "All right. You see us, Charles?" Erik calls to the air.

The X-Jet is already on its way, rings Charles' voice in Peter's head.

Erik draws a coin from his pocket and morphs it into a sharp edge. Peter feels a tug at his wrists and the snap of the ties breaking follows. He leans forward to stand, then catches himself on the chair to keep the weight off his feet. Even tensing the muscles in his legs sets them aching.

"Oh yeah," he says breathlessly. "He broke my legs." He gives Erik an exaggerated shrug as if to say what can you do?

Without hesitation, Erik takes a knee beside Peter's chair and picks him up with a grunt, the upper half of Peter's body slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and Erik's arms wrapped around his thighs.

"Oh. Okay," is all Peter can think to say. His voice is muffled against Erik's flannel shirt.

"Comfy?" Erik asks.

"Mmph."

The wooden floor and stairs pass under Peter's eyes, then he watches Erik's boots tromp through underbrush and carefully step over logs. His feet stop when the wind starts to roar in the trees, and soon there are voices Peter recognizes as Hank and Raven's.

"Hank's here," Erik murmurs as he moves forward. "Should be able to help with your legs."

Even though Peter already knows this, it's strangely comforting to hear it coming from Erik's mouth.

Peter jolts awake with a gasp, expecting to feel a bullet passing through his skull, but instead he finds a soft pillow under his head. His hair is sweaty near the scalp, but as it dries he starts to cool off. Except for his legs. He feels like he's thigh-deep in warm mud with how clammy they are. He lifts his head to see white casts, and his brain finally makes sense of the situation, the retina burn from his nightmare finally fading away.

He expects to see Hank sitting in the chair by his bed, but instead he locks eyes with Erik. "Bad dream?" the mutant asks.

Peter tries to shrug, but he doesn't have a wide range of motion at the moment, so he just kind of tucks in his chin. "Guess so. I was frozen in place, and when that guy pulled the trigger, he didn't miss." His voice is higher and shakier than he would've liked. Peter rubs his eyes with the (slightly trembling) hand that isn't hooked up to any IVs. "Doesn't matter. I'm awake now."

"Mmm." Erik leans back and scratches at his stubble. "You know, I've been trying to figure out why he kidnapped just you and not anyone else."

"Yeah," says Peter, drawing out the word and dropping Erik's gaze. "Weird, huh?" He bites his lip.

"I don't even remember the man's son. He must have been one who was caught in the crosshairs," says Erik, sliding a hand down the side of his face. He actually sounds regretful, and Peter can't express how relieved he is by that.

Peter reaches over to the morphine drip and increases the dose. His legs feel fine, but maybe if he could convince Erik he'd fallen asleep he'd stop talking about sons. He closes his eyes.

"Do your legs hurt?" Erik asks.

Peter grunts, then turns it into a light snore.

"I thought you said you were awake." Erik chuckles. "Morphine doesn't knock you out, you know."

Peter pops an eye open to see Erik turning down the drip. Erik catches his gaze and sits back. "Do you want me to leave?"

Peter opens his eyes fully and looks up at the ceiling, sighing. "No."

He suddenly wishes he hadn't diverted the conversation from the topic of sons; he wishes he'd gone ahead and told him. He remembers the barrel of the gun pointing down at him and can almost hear Kurt's voice saying, "If you die, can I tell him?"

It isn't just that urgency, though, that motivates him. He hadn't been sure of it before, but he knows now that he and Erik have something, some kind of connection that Peter has never felt with anyone else. He thinks he can finally put the big label on it that he'd shied away from so many times before.

Because he feels close to Erik. He can admit that now. Sure, Erik's methods are more than a little messed up sometimes, but there's hope for us all, right? And maybe knowing he has a son will give Erik the hope he needs; maybe he won't feel as alone.

Peter looks over at Erik and searches his face, trying unsuccessfully to read it. Apparently Erik can't read his either because he asks, "What is it?"

A million and one excuses flood Peter's head as a reflex, but this time, he pushes them all away. His body fights against him, and he has to force himself to take a couple slow inhales and exhales. The third one he lets out with the words, "I'm your son."

For a good five seconds, Erik doesn't react. He just stares at Peter with that same expressionless face that Peter wants so desperately to do anything else to stop the anxiety fizzing about in his chest. For the first time, Erik looks away first and drops his gaze to his lap, working his jaw as he takes a deep breath. Peter braces himself for a prove it, a no you aren't or even a you could never be a son of mine, but Erik asks quietly, "Isabelle Maximoff?"

"Yeah," Peter says, but his dry throat makes it almost inaudible so he supplements it with a single nod.

Erik looks him up and down, still wearing that infuriatingly blank and calculating expression. "How long have you known?" He could've said it like an accusation, but the only note in his voice is one of faint curiosity.

Peter tries another shrug. "An embarrassingly long amount of time. I didn't know when I busted you out of the Pentagon, for what it's worth." He grins slightly, testing the waters.

Erik doesn't grin back. He swallows, a flash of uncertainty crossing his face before he schools it back. Peter waits for something, anything, but Erik doesn't give him any more clues.

"Sorry," Peter murmurs when he can't take it anymore. Sorry for not telling you, sorry that I've waited this long, sorry for getting myself kidnapped, sorry that you ended up with me.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Erik says with some of that Magneto conviction. He straightens in his chair, yet still doesn't meet Peter's eyes. "You had to grow up without a father. That's on me."

"You didn't know," Peter breathes. Right? he adds silently.

"That doesn't change what happened. I should've been there for you, and I wasn't," he says with a small shake of his head. A muscle pops in Erik's jaw as he presses his lips into a thin line.

"You were there for me today," Peter says. "I don't- I don't blame you for not being there for me as a kid, okay? You didn't know I existed. Besides, you were plenty busy with—you know—Nazi-hunting and stuff."

Erik stiffens at that. "If I had known, I would've-"

"Can we please move on? Water under the bridge, okay?" Peter rolls his head back into the pillow.

Erik's eyes shoot over, but when he sees Peter's grin, he catches it and lets out a relieved laugh. He puts a hand to his forehead. "It all makes sense now, doesn't it?"

Peter smiles wider. "What does?"

Erik regains his dignified composure, but not the small smile. "The way you're always acting around me."

"Oh." Peter huffs through his nose. "But you just chalk it up to a touch of social ineptitude, right?"

Erik shakes his head. "Mm… Right, a touch."

"Hey! At least I know who I get it from."

Erik lightly hits Peter's shoulder as he falls back in his chair, growing stoic again. Peter rolls his eyes up at the ceiling, but allows the silence to sink in.

"When's your birthday?"

The question takes Peter off guard, and he has to pause to process it. "March 14th," he says. Erik gives a tiny frown and he looks upward to the left as if- Peter curls his lip, hoping he's not doing the math. "You're invited to my next party, if you want to come," he says quickly before Erik can ask anything else.

"I do owe you a few of those," Erik ponders with a nod.

Peter yawns widely, then forces his eyes to stay open as if there isn't a weight dragging at his eyelids. "Mmph. You sure morphine doesn't knock you out?"

Erik smiles slightly. "You can try to get some rest if you feel like it."

"I just might," Peter says over another yawn. He allows his eyes to drift close, but cracks open one enough to look at Erik and give him a small grin. "Night, dad."

He thinks he sees Erik smile back before his vision goes blurry. He turns his head to the side and nuzzles his cheek into the pillow, letting out a long sigh. The chair creaks as Erik moves to stand, and Peter's heart sinks in a rush of disappointment before a sudden weight makes the end of his bed dip.

Peter considers opening his eyes to confirm, but the effort required to do so is too daunting. He lets himself grow lax under the warm blankets, all traces of the nightmare officially chased from his mind. This is nice, he thinks blearily as sleep creeps along the edges of his mind. He starts dreaming a lot quicker than he'd expected, and he can almost swear he hears a voice singing.

"Odpocznij moje dziecko," it starts.

For a second his brain tries to decipher it in English, but quickly gives up, simply allowing it to carry him off further into unconsciousness.

"Dzień się skończył

Słońce zaświeci

Gdy przyjdzie poranek

Ale teraz jest ciemno i świat jest spokojny

Więc daj odpocząć oczom swym i zaśnij."

English translation:

Rest my child

The day is over

The sun will shine

When the morning comes

But now it's dark and the world is calm

So let your eyes rest and fall asleep.

Happy Father's Day! If you haven't yet, I hope this fic inspires you to finally tell your mutant global terrorist father that you're his child.