This was the longest and most exhausting oneshot I have ever written. (I actually had to divide it into two parts.) Apologies ahead of time for any plot holes; there was a lot of ground to cover. Feel free to point out any confusion/missing information and I will get back to you in a private message.

(Disclaimer: Neocolai does not own X-Men or anything related to the franchise.)

Training. Social skills. Communication. Teamwork. Or in other words, not listening to his music or even running at partial speed for three hours while Ororo toured New York City. There was still enough upheaval after Apocalypse for Charles to enforce one rule.

No mutants traveled alone.

Peter didn't count – he could bop the president on the nose and they wouldn't even catch it on camera. Storm, on the other hand, was slower than Magneto catching on to hints. (Peter was just shy of begging Charles for a dog – at least the professor could send in a request form for him, and maybe then Dadneto would get the point.)

Sludging through New York on a muggy afternoon was not his idea of fun. They had to walk to every corner, and even though he had offered twenty times (really, it wouldn't be any bother to him and he was pretty sure girls liked piggy-back rides), Storm refused to be carried.

Charles had already given him a dark, you'll be in so much trouble if you leave her behind lecture, and he wasn't eager for the sequel, but three hours of pointless wandering without any distraction was just plain mean. The others were probably laughing at him right now, like it was a funny joke that Quicksilver was meandering around town helping a girl with her shopping.

Life sucked.

"Peter, look at this," Ororo said, beckoning him to a store window. She pointed to a blue hoodie spattered with streaks of color. "Why would anyone buy this? It looks like a child's painting."

"Yeah, people dig that stuff." Peter shrugged. He almost asked her, 'Have you been talking with my dad? – Cause that's exactly something he would say.'

Sometimes it was really hard teaching Magneto how to have fun.

"Kurt said Americans have strange souvenirs," Ororo said as she held up a miniature taxi cab. "I like these, though."

"Yeah, they're… pretty common…." He really wanted the blocks to be shorter. Pizza parlors were just too far away via slow time.

"What about you, Peter? Nothing catches your interest?"

"Nah, I'm just…." Hungry hungry hungry – wait.

He saw the table lined with picture frames and wilted flowers just as Ororo murmured, "What do you suppose that's for?"

"I dunno." Leading the way, Peter looped through the crowds, wishing Storm would go just a little faster. He might have sped a little. Just a tad. She was right behind him, anyways.

When he reached the table, time stopped moving entirely.

No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…

"Peter?" Storm's hand brushed his arm before she stiffened.

He wondered if she looked sick.

He wondered when he'd stopped breathing.

He wondered if it really mattered.

Pictures lined the display, some sun-faded, some splotched with rain. Eager faces looked hollow amidst crinkled iris petals. Crucifixes and small treasures littered the shrine.

"They're all children," Ororo whispered.

Children. Young faces of boys and girls ready for school, for a weekend out with their mom or dad, for a new puppy, for birthday cakes, for the circus, for ice cream in the park, for running and playing tag and doing everything normal kids would do on the best day of their life.

Or the last.

"No, no, no…." Peter whispered. A list of names. Forty-two on one table alone; he memorized them before Ororo finished reading the first column.

Abby, Marshall, Robin, Clara, Madeline, Donald, Laurence, Bobby, Dale, Justin, Kara, Molly, Janice, Juanita, Shaun, Lukas, Deepali, Asya, Michael, Holly, Earnest, Francis, James, Elwin, Adele, Chloe, Dinah, Jacques, Pollyanna, Surya, Colby, Heather, Ashley, Delun, Kyle, Joseph, Yuri, Hannah, Chad, Teuchi, Albert, Hans, Abothi.

Forty-two kids killed in the earthquake that had shattered countries across the globe. From the news reports, Peter knew there were thousands more.

Reeling, he searched until he saw another table four blocks down. He flashed between civilians, normal people too numb to notice one more shrine, and saw another, and a fourth, and then three more, countless tables and fences and sidewalks filled with dying flowers and memories. Grandparents, fathers, mothers, toddlers, kids who were just learning arithmetic, young men and women hoping for a future career and a family.

He shuddered before the fifty-third memorial. Gone. Faces swarmed in his mind. Too fast. Too many.

Magneto had killed them all.

No, no, Dad, please no….

He never thought about the people inside the buildings Magneto wrenched apart. Some random thought must have convinced him that he and the mutants would be the only casualties if they failed. He never realized….

"You're one of them."

The croaked statement dragged him into time again. He looked at the grey buildings and blaring cars, lost for the first time. He didn't even remember leaving Ororo.

"You're one of them, aren't you?" the voice repeated.

Peter looked up dazedly, finally noticing the man watching him from the edge of the shrine He was dressed in a business suit, dark hair mussed, eyes red and weary, an orange lily wilting in his hand. Reverently the man placed the flower beside the picture of a gap-toothed girl.

"Are you satisfied now?" the man said in a dull rasp. "Are we conquered enough?"

"I…." Peter's throat closed in. He wanted to run; to leave the monuments and their contents and pretend Apocalypse had never happened. It was just him and his dad, there wasn't ever any killing, Magneto wouldn't do that, Mom was wrong she was wrong about everything and they could just leave Westchester now and he'd stay in the car for hours if he needed to but no one would ever know that….

"Brigitta," the man choked. "Her name was Brigitta. She was five. I … Marge and I were on our way to her school choir performance when the custodian called. The building just…."

The man shuddered, breathing in just to not cry, but Peter could see the tears he was trying to hide, concealing his weakness from a mutant, from one of them.

Agony lashed into action and in a blink Peter knew what would happen; saw the man reach down; calculated how many cities he could cross before there was bloodshed.

He couldn't move.

Copper blurred in the man's hand, pain flashed into hatred on his face, and all Peter could think was Professor Professor Professor because he wanted to call for his dad, he wanted to so badly, but Magneto would kill them all and he couldn't be responsible for that, not for more kids like Brigitta and Nallie and Vincent and Andy, not another Washington D.C., not En Sabah Nur all over again, and then the brick was moving towards him and he knew he should step out of the way, that this was going to hurt, that he had all the time in the world and he just had to move an inch and everything would be okay, but all he could do was watch as it crawled towards his forehead and then the man looked scared like he hadn't actually meant it and Peter realized he really should have moved sooner but it was too late to run, too late to do anything but hope someone would catch him, someone that wasn't his dad, someone who wouldn't hurt other people because his kid got hurt by a stupid hater with a bad aim...

Then pavement blurred in his vision and he didn't think about anything.

In the middle of promoting his pawn to knight (Erik would have chosen queen), Charles stuttered and almost capsized the opposing rook.

"Really, Charles," Erik said as he righted his wobbling castle. "Are you so distracted that – "

"Peter."

One word.

Flicking his king aside, Erik rolled to his feet and yanked the door open with a command. He slid on the helmet, ignoring Charles' dismay. "Where is he?"

"You're not going," Charles said quietly. Erik could already picture the telepath's mental route; predict when Kurt would flash into the room.

"What are you talking about?" he growled. "I'm going after my son."

He dreaded the possibilities. En Sabah Nur had returned from the dead. William Stryker had found a new lab pet. Peter had run into a crumbling building and miscalculated. The kid had forgotten his sack lunch.

He hoped it was something as simple as the latter.

He knew he was wrong.

"I can't let you interfere this time," Charles said as Kurt materialized behind his wheelchair. "I'm sorry. I promise I'll – "

The dang teleporter was smart. Before Charles could finish and Magneto could drag the wheelchair towards him, blue and black spiraled and he was left behind.

To worry and wonder alone.

Cursing, Erik flung a hand into the chess board. Wood splintered against the wall and pieces scattered. Casting the queen aside, he squeezed his eyes shut and calculated. Ororo had left on her own at eleven in the morning. Charles had insisted Peter go after her. He would have rendezvoused in less than two minutes. Three hours past, at a casual pace for Ororo (now that she wasn't running from shopkeepers), allowing for Peter's snacking and Storm's affinity for shiny objects, they might have covered six miles in any direction. The most logical assumption would be the mall – all young folk congregated there – but thrice now Peter had mentioned a certain pizza parlor he enjoyed; the one right next to a homeless dog shelter.

Charles would be there in seconds. It would take Erik fifteen minutes by the crow's flight.

Time enough to evaluate the lingering damage.

He followed the police sirens. The crowds. The shaking, babbling voice echoing regret.

"I didn't mean to – he was just a kid – I didn't want to hurt him, l swear! I – I never wanted to – oh, Marge is never going to forgive me…."

Soundlessly Erik approached. The throng parted before him, fear shaking those who recognized Magneto's helmet. The officers retreated, brandishing their guns, wise enough not to shoot. In their midst, a man in a rumpled business suit raised his head.

"You're the one," he said quietly. "I should've known." Sighing, he closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt the kid. He was never responsible."

Erik followed his gaze to a chipped brick. Flecks of scarlet dotted the pavement.

The memorial table folded into itself.

"Then it's by your own admission," Erik said coldly as he raised his hand.

Wretched grey eyes rose to meet his, and the man raised his head. "Finish your tally, then." A crinkled photo slid to the pavement. "Seems we're all disposable to you freaks, anyways."

For an instant Erik hesitated. The photo turned in the wind. A dimpled smile framed by copper locks. Cheer and safety clinched in the eyes of a five-year-old.

A daughter.

He almost relented.

Then his eyes settled on the brick. The image of burgundy streaks in silver gripped his mind and he saw brown eyes filled with adoration, now murky with confusion and pain. He had held the boy after En Sabah Nur crippled him. Never again. They would rue the day they harmed Magneto's son. Every human from this day forth would honor the silver prince.

Picture frames rattled and shredded. Lethal shards shivered mid-air, prepared to silence the officers and those they protected. A woman screamed and huddled over her toddler.

"Magneto, stop!"

Unfaltering, Erik spread his hands. Dainty, razor thin threads hovered above his palms. He could envision Charles' rebuke: the same haunted, pleading look as though the telepath hoped that one day it would be enough to change the world forever.

Charles would always be one step behind.

A shout too late. An impression of similar incidents; the appeal to his compassion, and Charles' ultimate failure.

I won't lose another child, Erik vowed.

Just as he raised his arms to punish mankind, petite arms wound around his neck and bony knees jabbed his sides. Concentration shattered, he wrenched aside and yanked the perpetrator from his back. Storm swung into the fall, irises glowing white as the air crackled around them.

"Enough!" Erik shouted. He analyzed swiftly, choosing between the folding table and the storm grate to hold her back. The table would do.

Air fizzled behind him, jarring him before he could retaliate. Whirling, he thrust Nightcrawler away, snagging the mutant's belt buckle and bolting him into the folds of a taxicab. Another shove propelled Storm across the street. One more distraction. One more –

"That's enough!"

The solid whack from behind sent him skidding. Metal shards plinked harmlessly, and one of the humans howled in fear.

Dazed, Erik straightened to meet his adversary. Charles scowled up at him like a furious puppy, bracing a basswood plank for a second attack.

"Don't stop me," Erik growled low. "Not this time."

"It's always been this time, hasn't it?" Charles lashed. "Every time you feel threatened you kill hundreds more. When is this going to end, Erik?"

Clenching his fists, Erik looked from the professor to the huddle of humans. Jean stepped between them, crimson glowing in her hands, while Nightcrawler flashed out of his yellow prison.

Blue eyes were taciturn with disappointment as Charles cast the plank aside. Solemnly he shook his head. "What did you expect me to tell Peter when you're finished?"

Raggedly Erik inhaled.

"You're not really that scary," the kidhad remarked just the other day. "I mean, when you're dropping metal on people it's pretty terrifying, but that's why I'm here…."

Stepping back, Erik measured the devastation. Fear and hatred resonated in the faces around him. Cameras flashed as reporters formulated their articles for the evening news.

The wind gusted, and a crinkled photograph settled at his feet.

He buried his face in his hands.

"It's the shock," Hank said, all but shooing Erik away from the bedside. "He has a minor concussion; nothing I can't handle."

"He isn't responding," Erik said haggardly, moving in as soon as Hank turned his back. Smoothing silver bangs aside, he gripped one clammy hand and squeezed, commanding a reaction. A bruise was already swelling under the stained bandage. He wished he had broken the man's leg.

"Your hovering isn't helping," Hank chastised. Sighing, he grabbed a bowl and thrust it towards Erik. "He's going to be nauseous when he wakes."

"How bad is it?" Erik insisted. Peter's eyebrows twitched and drew inward. His legs spasmed.

"It looks worse than it is," Hank paused to assure. "Head wounds are little monsters. His pupils are responding to light, and Charles was able to get a few words out of him before he passed out again. I think this is the first time he's had an injury besides the leg."

"What did he say?" Dread and curiosity darkened his tone.

Hank's eyes flickered to the side. "He asked Charles not to tell you what happened."

The curtain rod snapped and Hank cursed. "You're not assuring me for that matter." He moved to shoo Erik out; a snarling tiger in glasses and a lab coat. "Come back when you're able to control yourself. You're only going to distress him more."

"I'm fine!" Erik snapped. Gritting his teeth, he inhaled raggedly and forced calmness into his voice. "I'm fine, Hank. I won't disturb him; I promise."

"Yeah, I've heard that before," Hank muttered.

"He's my son," Erik said thickly. "He'll want me here."

Hank's skepticism was a brutal twist in his gut. He opened his mouth to protest and then flinched. Erik suspected a losing argument with Charles was to blame when Hank turned on his heel, busying himself in the adjacent room.

"Fine," the blue mutant called back. "But if he wakes and seems distressed, you leave."

Erik settled in, flipping open Experimental Psychology in one hand, never releasing his son's thrumming fingers. The kid's pulse was as fast as a hummingbird's wings. Little wonder he couldn't be still, even while unconscious.

He was so young for his age. So lost in his strange, fleeting world. Did you always wonder about your father? Erik considered. Was there anyone to take that place? He imagined a little boy with grey hair, who raced sunbeams and wondered why the birds couldn't keep up. Did the other children taunt you? Did they push you around? You who could outrun a hurricane; did you ever have a friend?

He should have been there. He could have ignored Magda's infidelity; sought her out amongst the humans; learned if there was anything left to tie them together.

But Erik knew his own pride. His derision. His burning anger for those who betrayed his people.

Only Peter had given him incentive to hold back, and even that bond had been tested. He had almost murdered for the boy's sake. He would do so again.

Hatred had consumed him since childhood.

Just as the cabinet handles began to curdle and the curtain rod twisted another loop, a soft murmur quelled his bitter thoughts. Erik snapped the book closed and leaned closer, gently shaking Peter's hand.

"Hey, Kid…." Come on, you've been twitching long enough, and those dang limbs can't possibly be still for much longer. "Peter," he commanded softly, "Enough lazing around. You're the one who's supposed to be vexing Hank by now."

"I won't take that as an encouragement," Hank called from the other room.

Huffing, Erik jiggled Peter's hand again, squeezing it twice for emphasis. At last the creased brow eased and slits of brown glittered.

"Hey," Erik murmured.

Blinking agitatedly, Peter squeezed his eyes shut. "M'not gonna puke… that'd be awful."

At least he could have given the human a swollen forehead to match his son's. "Hank says you have a concussion," Erik said, setting the basin near Peter's head. "No roadrunner demonstrations for a few days."

"Cool," Peter agreed too readily. "The bumblebees in my head are doing all the running for me."

Erik pressed a hand against the kid's forehead. Just in case.

Peter faltered as though he was trying to decide whether or not he wanted coddling when nausea was associated. Finally he turned into the pressure and peered up at Erik. "Y'din' float away this time."

Against all reason, Erik chuckled. "Still punching En Sabah Nur, huh?"

Confusion fled into dismay, and he watched the liveliness fade into quiet nothing. Alarmed, Erik leaned closer. "Easy, Kid. He's gone. No one's going to hurt you."

Moisture blinked into brown orbs and Peter looked away, fumbling to speak. "Did you… did you…." He trembled, gnawing his lip, and finally shoved out, "Did you kill him?"

The ugly blade twisted his insides again. He wondered how Nina would have responded, had she known.

Perhaps this was fate's turnaround for his revenge.

"No," Erik whispered, grateful Charles had been dogmatic enough to track him down once more. Where he would be without that stupid, stubborn telepath…. "I didn't kill anyone. Not even a scratch."

The silver mutant nodded. His eyes drifted lower, and Erik could see the shutters closing; blocking out everything but…..

"Hank."

A tumbling clatter and the mutant was at his side, coaxing Peter with questions and a lightly snapping finger. Agitatedly Peter turned away into the pillow, avoiding the noise, and then … settled.

Quiet. Still. Complacent.

"I'm getting Charles," Hank said brusquely, and in that moment Erik knew.

Whatever future he had built around himself and his son was falling into human hands. Just like Nina.

Like Anya.

The fates truly reviled his legacy.

"Peter," Charles coaxed. Erik could imagine the word resounding in the boy's head.

"He's not responding to me," Charles said after a pause.

"Is there any brain activity?" Hank questioned. He was pulling out the light again, and Erik wanted to slap it away. The damage wasn't permanent. He wouldn't allow it.

Come on, Kid.

"There's plenty of activity: that's the problem," Charles said, pursing his brow.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Erik snapped.

"I'm getting … images." Charles flinched, pressing a hand to his temple. "Stop…. Peter…."

Erik was already halfway to his feet. "What is it?"

"He's panicking," Charles said with another cringe. "There are faces – I can't track them all; his mind is too fast. I think they're children."

Children. The pictures. Erik fell back into the chair.

Exhausted, Charles pulled away. "You know what he's seen."

Of course Charles recognized the memorials. He knew who was responsible for thousands of names.

And yet, in Peter's same childish way, he unerringly forgave the murderer.

If there was one man Erik would have trusted to raise Peter, it would have been Charles. Somehow his son had instinctively made the link.

"He… blames me," Erik established quietly.

"Not exactly..." Charles' tone was ever gentle. "He sees himself… rescuing them. If he had chosen not to confront En Sabah Nur."

Erik's throat closed in as he tried to imagine such a burden. To believe one could have saved the entire world, and that from the man who was implicitly trusted as Father….

"What can you do?" Erik asked haggardly. He tried to hold back the waver in his voice; the certainty that this was the end. His absence would be the only assurance for Peter now. He could watch from afar, but that infallible, precious trust would never belong to him again.

He already missed his boy.

"Don't do this, Erik," Charles urged, and Erik wondered if the telepath had read his mind, or if his thoughts were so open now that prodding was redundant. "He needs you here. There's still faith underneath all that confusion. Don't shatter it."

"Haven't I already?" Erik whispered.

Wordlessly Charles took Peter's hand and tucked it into Erik's. There was no reaction from the silver mutant, but Charles insisted, "He can still feel the outer world, Erik. He calms whenever you're near."

He couldn't believe it. He wouldn't disappoint himself when he proved Charles wrong. It was impossible for anyone to have that much trust. If a warped sense of dependency was the only affection Peter had offered all these months, then Erik he didn't want it. A caged bird was only a prisoner.

Even so, he stayed. Until his back ached and he waved dinner aside. Until he felt as sleepless and aching and lonesome as the nights after Anya died.

And then, hours into the dawn, he realized he hadn't tried everything.

With trembling hands he tucked Peter in, dimmed the light, and retreated to Charles' study.

An open phonebook. Twenty minutes of hesitation. The heated, internal debate of anger and justification.

Finally he dialed.