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quicksilver-events · 2 years

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How Kleptomaniacs Do

Hi @geekinthecorner ! Here's my gift for you for the @quicksilver-events. Thank you for organizing this fun event and I hope you like it ❤️

Rating: T

Words: 5369

Cross-posted on Ao3

By the twenty-eighth year of his life, Peter can say with confidence that he’s used to people not taking him seriously. He figures it's only natural when he doesn’t take life itself too seriously. So he plays along, makes preposterous claims with nothing to show for it, and his self-deprecating bursts on occasion surely doesn’t help; but it wasn’t a problem, not really, since he hardly bothered himself with how others might perceive him.

Peter’s carefree outlook had probably been in the making since the age of six when he literally tripped his powers. One minute he was running— nothing unusual, just another one of his valiant attempts to quell his hyperactive mind and limbs— when the next, he was falling, and there was almost like a ‘snap,’ and all of a sudden, Peter’s world spun in slow motion. Very consciously and very contemplatively, Peter placed his right foot in front of his left. Drew back the arm he had instinctively thrown out in front of him to break his fall. And huh. His feet found their purchase on the ground anew. His six-year-old brain correctly registered that falling would hardly be a problem anymore. What it had failed to grasp, however, was that newfound speed was not the only thing he gained.

The moment was an awakening. One which led him to understand a little more about the world and everything in it. Conversely, the world began to understand him a little less. The more time passed, the starker the contrast, and the lonelier it became. Peter shrugged off the unwanted emotion on principle, burying it deep, because he was enough of a mess the way he already was. Besides, as a mutant with ADHD and a healthy dose of kleptomania, he was partial to giving in to his impulses rather than ruminating on his feelings.

But sometimes, the loneliness got too much too heavy, like a huge ball of lead in the pit of his stomach he couldn’t quite push aside.

Peter sighs, frustration thrumming in his veins as he throws his head back and kicks his legs out carelessly on the ergonomic chair in his room; his pick of choice in the X-Mansion that had since been improved with furnishings and decorations– clunky paperweights, posters, torn at the edges, and a ton of pillows. Currently, Peter’s shins were pressed against the study table that was slapdashed with swashes of silver– in a way strongly reminiscent of its owner. He tucks one leg neatly beneath him, pushes himself backward and swivels the chair, worn at its cuffs, crossing his legs once there was sufficient traction. Scott, Jean, Kurt, Ororo, Raven, and the other mutant kids he’s come to know flash by in his mind, bright and loud, in sync with the white lights overhead and the sounds of Queen blaring over the headphones affixed haphazardly over his head. He loved them, but they would eventually realize he didn’t age quite the same.

Charles and his d–Erik blink by next. They looked at him as if they knew, sometimes. The secrets he kept like dead weight in his chest. Charles was the type of authoritative figure that Peter appreciated; strict where it counted, yet allowed him to get away with more than he lawfully should have. And Erik, well, Peter was way too preoccupied with worrying about Erik finding out about a different secret altogether. He worried every time his father– who didn’t actually know he was his father– caught his eyes for anything more than a second. Or said to him anything beyond a perfunctory greeting.

As the oscillations eased and the world slowed to its usual crawl, Peter runs a hand through his silvery locks, causing them to fall naturally over his forehead. The feeling in the pit of his stomach remained, present and tangible. He catches a glint of red in his mind’s eye, and trains his focus on it, laser-sharp, holding his breath in reflex because it was Wanda. His spitfire of a sister with her matching auburn hair that cascaded in waves to her waist, her fondness for red, sharp hazel eyes, and quick wit.

On most occasions, Peter tries to keep his thoughts away from Wanda. It was hard, knowing she was miles away with her goals, hopes, and dreams– and not by his side, just existing with him on the same pane. She would if he asked, he knew. But it wouldn’t be fair to Wanda, and Peter couldn’t do that to someone whom he loved more than anything else in the world. Making up his mind, Peter fumbles and grabs his phone from the mess of items (or stolen knick-knacks, but who needs to know?) on his table, and shoots off a text to his twin sister. His phone immediately pings in response.

It read: ‘fancy a call dear brother mine?’

Peter grins. It made perfect sense that they were perceptive of each other’s moods even with the distance between them. His grin only extends when Wanda’s voice starts to filter over his headphones, unmistakable fondness lacing her constant quips. By the time they said their good nights, Peter doesn’t care to relocate to the bed. He clutches his phone like a lifeline, basking in the feeling of a sudden warmth blooming in his belly. As he closes his eyes, Wanda’s fond exasperation of “just tell him already!” echoes in his ears. He settles in a comfortable spot that finds him sprawled across the breadth of the chair in a way that would (probably) cause Charles or Erik to frown disapprovingly if they had the pleasure of chancing upon him.

When sleep finally overwhelms him and psychedelic rock tunes from Pink Floyd fill the room, the last thought that flits into the forefront of his mind was that Wanda in all her infinite wisdom was right– putting off things he was scared of only extended the torture.

A side effect of Peter’s psyche is that he doesn’t sleep much. He still makes a gallant effort; as evidenced by the sight he wakes up to– soft rays of the morning sun peeking through the windows and reflecting off the floorboards in his room. It had actually been close to morning when he had fallen asleep but meh, tomahto-tomayto.

With his erratic sleep patterns, it was pure irony that his father stuck to his like clockwork. Peter spares a glance at the clock on the table which read ‘6:30 AM FRIDAY' in blinding white LED and speedily washes up, shrugging on one of his freshly washed silver jackets. He leaves the room with an audible swoosh.

Peter speeds down three flights of stairs, to the kitchen on the far left corner and stumbles upon Charles and Erik. More accurately, he intentionally finds them; having already memorized their schedules by cataloging their whereabouts each time he ran into them since Erik’s return. Peter had tried– was trying– to make the most of the opportunity which had fallen into his lap; by connecting with the metalbender whenever possible without being too obvious about it. Admittedly, the raised eyebrows that graced Erik’s usually stoic demeanor every time tell him that he’s not doing a very good job.

This particular morning, Charles is the one standing in front of the stove cooking breakfast, the smell of sizzling bacon quickly filling the air. In contrast, Charles is idly turning the strips of glistening bacon. Erik’s already seated at the dining table, attention focused on the morning paper in his hand. A stack of plates, cutlery, jugs of coffee and water was present on the dining table, well within an arm’s reach.

Peter fights down the feeling of something that he can’t quite put a finger on at the fairly domestic sight.

He could get used to this, he thinks, even if Charles is again without his usual mop of curly dark hair Peter’s gotten so used to. Having dined with Charles and Erik on several occasions where he’d chanced upon them at 6:30 am in the morning– rather unintentionally in the first couple of instances– Peter works out that breakfast was a quiet time the duo shared every morning before getting swept up in the whirlwind of the day. Erik usually didn’t look too thrilled whenever he crashed their strange morning ritual, but Charles always insisted, and Peter, with his bottomless pit for a stomach, had always been obliged to accept.

“Good morning, Peter. You’re up early today. Would you like to join us?” the professor, as if on cue, greets cheerily. Without waiting for Peter’s response, Charles wheels over to the refrigerator, taking out two additional eggs and strips of bacon.

In contrast, Erik only inclines his head in acknowledgment, but the right side of his mouth lifts in a poor attempt of a smile– which by Erik’s standards, was in reality, a warm welcome. Erik refocuses his attention on the paper a second later, but his smile lingers.

“‘Sup Charles, Erik, don’t mind if I do,” Peter blurts a little too quickly, flopping in place opposite Erik and promptly pretends to busy himself with a glass of water that Erik’s nudged over to him. Erik had instinctively reached for the jug of coffee in reflex before the implications of giving Peter a caffeine boost hit him and his hand had swerved off its initial course and for the jug of water instead.

“Thanks, man,” Peter says to be polite, taking a large chug of water which empties the glass, actively willing himself not to act like a creepy stalker and resisting the urge to check whether Erik’s still smiling that not-quite smile of his.

Erik arches a single eyebrow at the display, considering the young man in front of him; whose face was partially obscured by a nest of silver, and, who was resolutely not meeting his eyes. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Peter was constantly twitchy in his presence, which made it all the more a mystery why he continued to create these opportunities for interaction when said interactions did nothing but reduce him to a bundle of nerves.

Strangely, the clumsy attempts by the speedster were almost endearing, brightening his somewhat aimless days. Back on the road, he had been plagued by a strong sense that something was missing, and his feet had brought him back to the X-Mansion. Oddly enough, it appeared that the almost silver bundle in front of him was at least one of the reasons why he had decided to return.

“My pleasure,” Erik decides on and almost has to bite his lip to keep from chuckling when the unexpected reply has the very expected (but desired) result of Peter snapping up to meet his gaze, dark brown eyes blown wide in surprise. Not for the first time, Erik finds himself absently wondering what the world looked like through those dark orbs, all kind and soulful and alive.

“Here” Erik makes use of the way Peter’s hands had loosened around the empty glass to snag it back for a refill of water– the only thing Erik decided he was comfortable with the speedster drinking– and pushes it back to him.

Jumpiness and rather questionable fashion choices aside, Erik also held an appreciation for Peter’s powers since he had demonstrated firsthand his handiness and durability while aiding in Erik’s escape from the Pentagon. Peter had almost been like a burst of fresh air then, his mischievous and curious eyes twinkling at Erik from the opposite side of the glass prison awakening something within him. A hope, a passion, exceedingly rare and precious after having not interacted with his kind for the extended time that he was in captivity. Never mind that he was a little noisy. A side effect of the nature of his powers, Erik had concluded then. Loud and flashy and showy, and never quite in one place.

It might make the air between them a little less awkward, Erik muses, if Peter would talk about what was eating at him. Since the start, their encounters suggested that he held no hard feelings against Erik about his views towards humankind, nor did he resent Erik for his failure to step in and deescalate things during his skirmish with Apocalypse. So if Erik was so lucky, perhaps it was something trivial. Recalling the shift in Peter’s demeanor when he had brought up his family, Erik blinks.

“How are things with your family?” Erik finds himself asking, certain he was on the right track with his line of inquiry when Peter, in the midst of draining yet another glass of water, stills. He folds his morning paper neatly and sets it to the side, giving the speedster his undivided attention.

The question and attention, however, have the unfortunate ripple effect of Peter choking on the mouthful of water he’s just inhaled.

Erik resists a sigh. He really should work on his timing.

“Mrs Maximoff checks in regularly. She seems to be doing well every time I see her,” Charles, on his way over with two plates of food in hand and a third balanced precariously on his forearm, replies primly.

Peter Maximoff.

The family name rings in his ears, stirring a faint memory of an equally mischievous set of dark eyes that licks the edges of his mind. Erik brushes it aside with rising panic. Because, no, surely not. Peter frantically signaling to Charles with his hands in a vague pantomime of ‘stop’ not helping the direction his thoughts were heading.

“How about his father, and siblings?” Erik pushes, unrepentant, watching as Charles furrows his brows in concentration as he transfers the plates on his person onto the dining table. Peter observes their exchange with wide eyes, but he’s no longer coughing nor flailing his hands, so Erik tries not to pay him any attention and focuses instead on Charles’ facial cues.

“Peter’s never told me about them,” Charles says as he takes a seat beside Erik, confusion warring on his face. He flicks his gaze between Erik’s look of concentration and Peter’s look of barely concealed alarm and asks: “Why are you so interested in my student all of a sudden?”

Oh crap.

With Wanda’s encouragement, Peter had been absolutely certain he was ready to tell Erik. But facing Erik and Charles, who had collectively turned their frowns upon him in scrutiny, suddenly he wasn’t quite so sure anymore.

After a brief moment’s hesitation, Peter decides to listen to the alarms that were blaring, sharp and loud, from his chest all the way to his throat. He inhales his breakfast at superspeed and makes a strategic retreat with “Thanks Prof, Erik, the eggs were awesome.”

Peter wills himself not to turn back. If he had, he would have caught the look of shock and comprehension slowly dawning on both their faces.

“You’re a wuss,” Raven declares dryly, her yellow eyes narrowing as they appraise him impassively.

Peter bites back the protest that was already forming on the tip of his tongue, accepting the admonishment when he comes to the realization that there was no way he could possibly win this one. He throws Raven a hurt gaze instead, hoping she would go easy on him.

“Don’t give me that,” Raven shuts him down, but she looks relatively less cross and Peter could work out the faint hint of a smile on her lips.

“if you insist on dragging this out any longer, he’ll be long gone before you even know it. Again. We don’t need you moping around, skiving on your classes and missions.”

And knowing Erik, there’s a good chance he’s already thinking about it. Raven doesn’t say, but the sentiment hangs in the air between them anyway, thick and heavy.

“We’ll come back to this when you return. In the meantime, don’t let it distract you,” Raven continues and Peter snorts. He had managed to get Erik of all people, out of the Pentagon of all places, and Raven was worried about them breaking a single mutant out of a dingy bar, really?

And if Raven wanted to berate him for taking it lightly, Scott and Jean were surely worse off. They had already made post-mission plans, which Peter was totally crashing together with Kurt because it involved lots and lots of ice cream. Jean was cool with it, so Peter didn’t know why Scott had been acting like such a prick about it. Jean pops to mind, all freckles and sunshine smiles and bright easy agreement– and okay, so maybe Peter did know– but it still didn’t change his mind about the ice cream.

As if sensing his wandering thoughts, Raven waves her hand in annoyance. Peter immediately schools the expression on his face, rapt and attentive all at once, and Raven is the one who snorts this time.

“Look, all I’m saying is that there’s an equal chance of things going to hell during an easy mission, as things going perfectly fine during a hard one,” Raven says with an air of finality that held no space for argument. Not that Peter would argue with Raven anyway. He didn’t have a death wish, and she had always made a frightening amount of sense.

“I’m counting on you to keep an eye out for them,” Raven leaves him with.

“Yes ma'am,” Peter replies to her retreating back and sets his mind to do just that, snickering when she flips him off good-naturedly for his choice of honorifics and makes his way over to Scott, Jean, and Kurt.

–

Peter was never, ever, not taking Raven seriously.

Well, he never actually made that mistake before, but if there was any chance of him doing so in the future, the present situation ought to remind him why he shouldn’t.

As an X-Men, Peter had already been on several missions and this one hadn’t seemed that different. On paper, they weren’t even supposed to break a sweat. Rescuing mutants who were being held against their will had since become something of a commonplace with the X-Men. But not– as it was becoming increasingly apparent– when the mutant in question was Archangel.

To be fair, none of them had known what they were getting into when they stealthily entered the basement of the still closed bar in bright daylight. Peter doubted that Raven’s sources had any malicious intent– because who in their right mind would double-cross Raven– so presumably they didn’t know any better either; that the mutant chained up in the basement of the shabby, rundown bar was Archangel (or was he Angel now?), whom dangerous people seemingly kept tabs on, and, which led to their current predicament.

A paramilitary trooper armed to the teeth in kevlar takes his place amongst the dozen that were surrounding them, encasing the five mutants in an ironclad circle. Scott had been caught unawares while they were working to release Angel from the overhead chains he had been suspended from and was currently being held by one of the troopers; an arm around his throat, his back pressed against a kevlar vest, and a handgun to his head. With the way Kurt was supporting Angel’s weight and how the feathered mutant was leaning heavily against him, at present, only Peter and Jean were ready for combat.

Peter flexes his fingers experimentally, considering their situation. Something that everyone, sans Wanda, did not know, was that Peter could control the flow of time. His powers weren't just all– speed. Speed was a big part of it, but Peter had discovered that he could also bend time, and gravity, to his will. By the time he figured it out, he had already been speeding time up for himself by default, so the world wasn’t so terribly, unbearably, slow. It was a conscious effort, like a muscle he always kept flexed. But doing so was a double-edged sword, which sometimes caused him to be unable to react quickly enough.

Because of his promise to Raven, Peter had intentionally kept his control lax during their mission and spun time slower, allowing him to instinctively catch and hold the flow of time at the most crucial moment. Too bad it wasn’t before their current hostage situation; which had also, unfortunately, resulted in his arm taking a bullet meant for Scott.

Peter wasn’t too worried, because he had been practicing– slowing time till he could walk a couple of laps leisurely around the X-mansion before the professor uttered his next word in class, then steadily increasing the number of laps in tandem as he slowed time even more. He could stop time for a whole hour instead of the five minutes he had started with, before it started to resume, slowly trickling by as his control waned.

Deciding that his left arm; the one with the bullet still in it, retained its finer motor functions even though it hurt like a bitch, Peter moves decisively, dismissing the way Scott, Jean, Kurt, and Angel were currently looking at him being shot in horror.

First, he disarms the trooper who shot him because, rude. Then he gets rid of the gun aimed at Scott’s head. Eventually, all thirteen guns were scattered in different places around the vicinity. It didn’t matter if their adversaries or anyone else got ahold of them because they’d realize that none of the guns were loaded anymore. More importantly, the X-Men would be long gone.

With his speed, it had taken Peter only a few seconds to dispose of the guns and scan the area for backup. There was nothing immediate, but Peter figures the two police cars that appeared to be en route 10 miles away were mighty suspicious.

There was still plenty of time left on the one-hour window so Peter opts not to release his hold just yet. He makes two trips back to the X-Mansion starting with Scott and Jean, then with Kurt and Angel. Only after ensuring Angel was lying comfortably on one of the beds in the med bay where both Raven and Hank were conveniently at does he release his hold.

“Peter!” Scott immediately lets out a blood-curdling scream which shocks every unlucky mutant patient in the med bay awake, and pauses in confusion the next moment at the notable change of environment.

“I’m okay man, no need to shout about it,” Peter quickly reassures, placing himself in Scott’s line of sight and tries not to grimace. He really should have considered where they left off before bringing them directly to the med bay although it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

“How did you…” Angel croaks from the bed, his voice strained from general disuse and a lack of liquids.

“I’m fast remember? Really fast. Supersonic levels of fast.” Peter smiles in what he hopes was a comforting manner– thank goodness he hadn't inherited those shark-like smiles of Erik’s–, appearing in front of Angel with a ‘swip’ and manhandling a cup of water into his hands.

“You can thank me now guys,” Peter suggests when the numerous unflinching gazes made his skin prickle uncomfortably.

“What happened?” Raven demands, breaking the silence as she stalks over to him. Immediately, everyone who wasn’t Peter, Jean, Scott, Kurt, Angel, or Bruce pretends to mind their own business.

“Thank you,” Scott beats Raven in getting to him, flinging himself upon Peter in what Peter decides was a poor attempt at a hug. Maybe because it hurt, or maybe because it made him see stars, but whatever it was that made the hug inadequate, he was too late to stop the gasp of pain that left him.

“Scheiße, du bist erschossen!” Kurt hisses.

Peter’s German left something to be desired, but he thinks he can guess the sentiment.

Trying to blink away the dark spots from his eyes, Peter catches Jean’s gaze. Expending the final dredges of his steadily dwindling consciousness, he slows time down and telepathically yells at her a string of alphanumeric characters complete with visual imagery.

–

The next time Peter opens his eyes, he’s on one of the beds in the med bay. Groaning, he wills himself to sit up, gingerly shifting some of his weight to his left hand. The searing pain that flares up his left arm makes him regret his decision. Frowning, he prods at the bandage that was wrapped around his left arm with his right hand, trying to figure out what went wrong.

“Hank says it's infected,” Erik helpfully supplies from his right.

That actually made a whole lot of sense.

Wait wait wait.

Peter turns his gaze, almost worriedly, to the right. Yup, his ears had not deceived him. The words had indeed come from the metalbender seated on the bedside chair and looking at him with what seemed like a mix between concern and distress.

That didn’t make sense at all. Why was Erik looking after Peter while he was out, instead of someone like Scott, for example? Peter’s drug-addled brain was definitely hallucinating, because why would Erik be distressed? And although Peter figures Erik might like him better than most other mutants in the mansion, their level of friendship didn’t warrant Erik hovering around, all concerned like.

Erik must have misunderstood the worry behind Peter’s eyes because he elaborates: “the bullet was lodged too deep for your enhanced healing to dispel, and the wound closed with the non-organic matter still in your body. It's out now, so it shouldn't be long till your body clears the infection.”

“Since when do you know so much about my powers and aftercare for gunshot wounds?” Peter says and immediately regrets his slip of mouth. The last thing he needed was for Erik to think he was just some dumb kid who shot off his mouth without taking what Erik’s life had been like into context, and yet somehow, that seemed to be the only thing Peter was able to do.

“Since I had the hardest time wrangling a bullet out of my son’s arm,” Erik says matter of factly.

A pin-drop silence fills the room.

“Uh.” Peter manages rather intelligibly as his brain struggles to catch up with the loaded implications of that statement.

Drugs. He was totally putting all of the blame on Hank’s drugs.

“I presume that’s what you’ve been skirting around?” Erik asks, dark eyes locked onto Peter’s for confirmation.

Since the speedster had regained consciousness, his expression had shifted from worry to guilt to contrite. Erik thinks he rather prefers the way Peter was currently blinking up at him owlishly.

The contemplation, as with most things, didn’t last long with Peter.

“You knew?! Since when? And you’re cool with it man? I was totally gonna tell you- but it never seemed like a good time, and it was important to catch you at a good time, because I’m y’know, me. Already giving you problems.” Peter finishes with a sheepish shrug.

Erik’s brows furrow as he tries, with some effort, to digest Peter’s barrage of questions and statements. Eventually seeming to find a suitable answer he says hesitantly: “Since breakfast yesterday. Charles and I worked it out. The name, your age, and how you act around me set off a couple of alarms. Also, no child of mine can possibly give me problems I’m not happy to have.”

If Peter wasn’t so completely overwhelmed by the fuzzy feeling that had taken root in his heart at that moment, he would’ve internally cheered at Erik’s phrasing. Wanda and himself probably desperately needed the immunity from Erik.

“That’s… that’s cool. You’re cool. Maybe enough to let me out of this place kind of cool? We could grab ice cream if that’s your thing. Both the ice cream and bonding I mean. Talking about bonding, do I get to call you dad now?”

Peter almost thrums in clear anticipation of his response.

Erik wasn’t sure what it was that caused his body to move, maybe it was the uncertainty his son was radiating, or the need to reaffirm himself that it was really his son– who didn’t mind that he was his son– in front of him, alive and wanting, but his parental instincts kicked in and he leaned in to scoop the speedster up in a hug, like how he had itched to do since he’d first gotten rid of the offending bullet in Peter’s arm. Erik’s instincts had always served him well because with the way Peter immediately returns the hug, his arms looping around Erik’s back, his hands finding themselves a deathly tight purchase on Erik’s plaid outercoat, it was something they both needed to get out of their system.

“A day of bed rest, doctor’s orders. We can get ice cream outside the following day, as long as it's dessert on top of a proper meal,” ignoring Peter's muffled protests, Erik continues, undeterred. “and I would like it if you called me dad.” Erik thinks he doesn’t need to reassure, but he still does it anyway.

He fleetingly laments the loss of Peter’s silver hair softly trickling his cheek as his son pulls back. “You sound just like Hank,“ the speedster says in mock offence, but he’s all smiles and teeth, and just like that, Erik’s caught up in the realization that he wouldn’t have things any other way.

Erik huffs, capturing Peter’s left wrist and turning his arm slowly. The expressions flitting across Peter’s face indicate that the inspection was causing him no major discomfort, making the bed rest Hank had insisted upon rather unnecessary. But his son could do with some time to recharge, especially if the entire school will soon be flocking around their new hero, so Erik immediately perishes the thought of getting him out of the med bay earlier.

Speaking of which.

“You did good,” Erik says, and at Peter’s slightly perplexed head tilt continues, “though the mission went awry, everyone’s safe thanks to you. Because of an anonymous tip, the state also caught all the paramilitary troopers. Every mutant in here knows it came from you.”

Ah, the telepathic screaming actually worked then. Peter makes a mental note to ask Jean how it translated for her later. Best not to assume that everyone took to the way his thoughts presented just like Wanda. Outwardly, he tries for a deflection, “I’m the best, aren’t I?”

Erik nods his agreement.

Peter squints, certain that his newfound dad was messing with him now.

“I meant it,” Erik reiterates as if sensing his distrust. “You’re a powerful mutant. Don’t let anyone else make you feel otherwise.”

“Thanks, dad,” Peter finally says, and Erik finally smiles. Not one of those not-smiles, but a proper smile. The one he usually only rarely wears for Charles; with the shark teeth.

There’s some movement on the opposite side of the cubicle curtain and the telltale sound of rubber-coated wheels skidding on the floor. Charles, because he’s Charles, pauses in typical Professor X fashion before inviting himself into their cubicle. He smiles knowingly the moment he sees the two of them huddled together in close proximity.

“Told you it’ll be fine my friend,” Charles directs to Erik, “and I find it necessary to warn you, once again, that you’ll probably get more than what you’re asking for with this one.”

“As you said before, it’ll be fine,” Erik retorts with unwavering confidence.

Peter only hesitates for a moment before he decides he can’t bear not knowing and asks, “does this mean you’re staying?”

“Yes,” Erik says simply.

The confirmation is absolutely perfect and Peter doesn’t care that he’s grinning like a lunatic because his dad– who finally knew he was his dad– and Charles are smiling at him like they’d gladly have him only as he already is.

Charles holds up two fingers to his temple and there’s an incoming scuffle and commotion of his friends raring to see him, and Peter can't help but think it's a shared sentiment.

Besides, it’s way past due that his wandering heart finally, finally felt complete.

… He’s probably going to have to introduce Wanda to Erik at some point though, Peter thinks fleetingly before he's swept up in the chaos of the hodgepodge of mutants in the med bay.

#so excited to read this!!#quicksilver gift exchange #fanfic #gift #chaoticgardenbread

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quicksilver-events · 2 years

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i promise you're enough

This is a dadneto one-shot for @fouralignments as a part of the Quicksilver Gift Exchange Summer 2022 (@quicksilver-events)! I enjoyed writing this, so I hop you enjoy reading it!

Rating: G

Words: 1309

Summary: Pietro teaches Erik that he is not limited to destruction.

AO3 Link

Erik had truly thought he was getting a hold of this baby thing. In the few short days since he had discovered the existence of his son and unceremoniously had the two-year-old placed into his care, Pietro had cried less and less every day.

But it seemed that he was out of his depth with this particular temper tantrum. He just couldn't figure out what was the matter with his toddler. He had eaten proper toddler food consisting of apples and a ham sandwich just an hour ago, his nappy was dry, and he had already had his afternoon nap.

Erik had tried making silly faces,

("Doesn't Da look like a very stupid man? Doesn't he?")

playing a game called "peek-a-boo,"

("Of course, you are my son and much too intelligent to fall for that.")

singing a lullaby,

("I know mother used a different tune than that, but I can’t remember what it was.")

and walking whilst patting Pietro on the back like Erik could vaguely remember watching a young mother do once,

("Your hair does smell like a baby.")

but nothing had worked, and Erik’s inability to appease his son had pushed him into a bout of self-doubt. Even on the day that Magda had blessed him with the news of his son’s existence, Erik hadn’t felt as incapable of caring for him.

Erik hadn’t wanted to be a parent, and before he’d heard from Magda he had planned on never having children. They were too much of a liability, distractions from his mission, and something for Erik’s enemies to sniff out and destroy.

That hadn’t changed when his former lover had placed a race car-themed bag in his hands and said she’d be back in two weeks. That hadn’t changed when Pietro looked up at him with his grandmother’s eyes and took his hand. And that certainly hadn’t changed when his son had trusted him enough to fall asleep in his arms during their trek back to Erik’s motel room. Still, the little boy had found a way into Erik’s hardened heart quickly and planted the idea of a loving family there in a way Erik was worried would linger for far too long.

"Shh, shh.” Erik rubbed his hand along the toddler’s back. Pietro wailed into his ear yet again, and Erik felt his own eyes burning and quickly blinked his tears of frustration away.

Despite the overwhelming amount of love he had for the child in his arms, he still felt as if he were drowning in his lack of childrearing knowledge. What if this was how the rest of his time with Pietro was to play out? What if he grew up and hated Erik for his lack of paternal instinct? What would happen if he just never stopped crying? Could toddlers die from temper tantrums? What if-

Pietro’s cries ceased, morphing into sniffles. Erik stopped his pacing and looked down at his son. The toddler was looking all around, eyes shining in a combination of leftover tears and newly discovered wonderment.

All around them were small pieces of metal floating in midair and creating a sphere-like shape, almost like a forcefield. There were coins, paperclips, a few buttons, and other scraps of metal reflecting the light from the room’s dim light fixture.

All of the little pieces dropped to the ground as Erik’s worried pacing came to an end, and at that same moment, Pietro’s crying began again. Erik rushed to levitate the metal again, the pieces shaking in place and bumping into one another as he attempted to hold onto their specific pattern.

Pietro’s whines faded out into giggles mixed with sniffles. His little hand reached over Erik’s shoulder for a nearby quarter and he chatted away with incoherent babbling.

That was good. Erik could handle this now that he knew Pietro was simply bored, all he needed to do was keep him entertained.

About thirty minutes into Erik’s impromptu display of his powers, Pietro began to fuss again. The two had migrated to sitting on top of Erik’s bed, and he focused on making sure the metal floated precisely the way Pietro wanted it to. However, he was no longer content to simply sit under his father’s half-sphere of floating metal and make grabs at the shiniest pieces, now he wanted to actually be able to touch them.

But even with Erik’s limited parenting experience, he knew letting a two-year-old handle pocket change could end in a visit to the hospital. So his dilemma now was how to keep Pietro from swallowing a dime, while still keeping him happy.

From outside the door, a car horn sounded, catching Pietro’s attention and stopping his fussing for a brief moment. He gasped and pointed in the noise’s direction. “Car!”

Erik raised an amused eyebrow. “Yes, Pietro, that was a car.”

Pietro grinned at his father, then turned to look around at the motel room’s floor. He frowned, little eyebrows drawn together in thought. “No car?”

Erik‘s own eyebrows drew together (in a remarkably similar fashion) as he deciphered his toddler’s meaning, and then came up with a solution.

“Do you… want a car?”

Pietro smiled again, moved his hand as if he were pushing something, and made a “vrooming” sound in response. His son’s communication skills were somewhat lacking, but Erik got the gist of his meaning.

“I’ll take that as a yes then.” Erik let the metal he had been levitating drop to the bed beside him, before carefully selecting a few scraps to use for his project.

Erik had never really used his powers for creation before, only using them as a way to tear down and destroy. Actions like those took rage and a fierce determination to complete, his powers acting as extensions of his fists. But reaching for his rage and frustration didn’t work as he tried to delicately separate and meld together those scraps.

Huffing in frustration, Erik let the crumpled ball of metal drop into his lap. There had to be some way for him to create something instead of destroying it. His power was the manipulation of metal, not the destruction of it!

Pietro’s big brown eyes found his own, thumb stuck in his mouth, and all of his attention stuck on his father’s failed endeavor. Erik laughed, reaching out to run his hand over his son’s hair.

“I suppose you’re getting a little frustrated with your old man, aren’t you Pete?” Erik levitated the ball of metal directly in front of Pietro’s eye line. “How can we make this into a car?”

Pietro’s thumb popped out of his mouth. “Wheels?”

“Very good. Now if only Da could fix those for you.”

On a whim Erik reached out to the metal, not digging for any kind of emotions besides the ones he was already feeling, and imagined the blob growing four wheels.

It worked. Erik blinked in surprise, almost dropping the object in surprise.

“Alright. What else does a car need, Pietro?”

“Windows!”

A few minutes later Erik held a metallic toy car in his hand, complete with wheels he had managed to attach to a working axle. He floated the car the short distance across the bed to Pietro’s outstretched hands where the toddler happily accepted it with a giggle.

A smile settled across Erik’s face as he watched Pietro pushing the car across the motel’s dusty blue comforter set, making little motor noises as he did.

After a particularly adventurous race all the way down the bed and across the room Pietro stopped and pointed at the leftover pile of coins and scraps.

“Da’s car?”

Pietro’s choice of words combined with his watering puppy dog eyes was undeniable. If Erik chose to create yet another toy car and play with his son for the rest of the evening, then that was his own business.

#fanfic #gift #geekinthecorner #quicksilver gift exchange

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