Erik hadn't meant to forget. He'd promised Charles that he could be trusted with Wanda's gift, while Charles bought Pietro's for the twins' birthday. It wasn't his fault that one of the machines in the steel mill had malfunctioned, and that he'd acted in haste to stop the activated transfer paddle from crushing his coworker against an electrical box. It wasn't his fault that humans reacted in fear rather than gratitude when they found Erik, hands thrust out before him, trapping the paddle in midair only a few inches from the other man's face. And it definitely wasn't his fault that he had to stay far past his shift's end, filling out accident reports and mutant registration forms, gritting his teeth through the entire ordeal.
Ordinarily, he would have succumbed to his anger, claiming discrimination and threatening his supervisor within an inch of his life before making his aggressively dramatic exit, but he had promised Charles that he would be better this time. Besides, without Charles' inheritance to depend on, he needed this job. They were barely making their mortgage payments each month since Charles had been demoted from tenured professor to high school biology teacher, after revealing himself as a mutant.
Erik pulled into the driveway, the wheels of the black Audi RS4 crunching over gravel as it rolled into to a stop. He turned off the ignition with a thought, keys dropping into the pocket of his leather jacket as he reached blindly into the back seat, his fingers finding only empty seats. Shit.
He leaned back against the headrest, covering his face with his hands. He daughter's birthday gift was still sitting on the chair of his supervisor's office, where he'd set it down next to him to fill out all of those damned forms. Charles, he knew, would be livid, or worse, quietly disappointed and entirely unsurprised. Erik sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes before opening the car door. He was late enough already.
Charles was in the doorway waiting for him, the overhead light casting shadows over his unimpressed expression. “And what time do you call this?”
Erik opened his hands in supplication. “I meant to be here earlier, but I was held up at the plant.”
“You're always held up at the plant,” Charles answered resignedly, pivoting on his heel to return inside. Erik followed him, kicking off his work boots in the hallway and draping his jacket over a small wooden accent table to his left as they went.
“Charles--”
“I don't want to hear your excuses, Erik.” Charles refused to look at him as he entered the living room, where Pietro, silver-haired and uncharacteristically quiet, sat on the floor watching cartoons. One of his overall clasps was undone, the strap dangling loosely down his back, an he was holding something in his lap that Erik couldn't see over the boy's shoulder.
“You knew that today was important. It's their first birthday since we got back together, a chance for you to show them that you've changed.” Charles pointed at the grey houndstooth sofa, where, for the first time, Erik noticed Wanda curled up on the cushion, knees drawn into her chest as she clutched the fabric of her scarlet red dress in her fist.
“And now you can explain to your daughter why you missed her birthday dinner and didn't even bother to bring her a present.”
For a moment, Erik considered rescinding his shields and letting Charles into his mind, but he banished the thought immediately. The last time he'd done that, the results had been catastrophic, and he was done making excuses. He should have remembered. He should have been better.
Erik circled the couch and knelt down on the floor before his daughter. “Hi, sweetheart.”
She hugged her legs tighter, turning her face away from him, and Erik's eyes flicked to to Charles, who only nodded his chin as if to say, go on then.
“I'm sorry, Wanda,” he tried again. “Something happened at work, and--” he stopped, shook his head. “And you don't care about that. Tomorrow, I promise, I'll pick up your present from work and come straight home.”
The words had barely left his mouth when Wanda scooched off of the couch and ran from the room, dark chestnut curls flying behind her. Erik listened to the sound of her bare feet slapping against hardwood as she flew up the stairs before standing up. He turned to find Pietro still glued to the television, watching some new superhero show about a brother and sister team, and squeezed his son's shoulder affectionately.
“At least one of them had a good birthday—what the hell is that?”
Pietro looked up at him, wide-eyed and confused, and Charles huffed out an exasperated breath. “It's a doll, Erik.”
Pietro offered Erik a tentative smile and held up the toy. “It's Talking Tommy!”
“I am aware,” Erik had to fight to keep his voice even. “I'm also aware of exactly how much that thing costs, Charles. We can't afford toys like this!”
Pietro's smile vanished, and he hugged the doll to his chest as Charles crossed the room and stepped into the space between Erik and the boy.
“Do you really want to do this in front of him?” Charles hissed. “He was afraid to ask for this doll because he knew you would be upset!”
“Then why did you buy it for him? There must have been something he wanted instead.”
Charles threw up his hands, as if the answer should be obvious. “Because it's his birthday, Erik! He deserves something nice! And so does Wanda, even though you treat her like she's invisible!”
“I don't--”
“Yes, you do!” Charles' voice reached a higher pitch, his normally pale complexion flushed with barely contained anger. “You act as though she's inferior because she's not a mutant like Pietro!”
The heat in Erik's head was growing, narrowing his vision and overtaking any kind of rational thought. “How dare you!” he exploded, shoving a pointed finger in Charles' face. “I love both of my children, be they mutant, human, or otherwise!”
“Of course you do. That's why you left one's gift at work and believe the other isn't worth a few extra dollars on his birthday.”
The cool, steady cadence of Charles' voice was enough to send Erik over the edge. He was dimly aware of Pietro clinging to Charles' wrist, his other arm still wrapped around the doll.
“Daddy, I don't need the Talking Tommy, it's okay if you can't afford it.”
Erik wheeled on the child, wild-eyed and furious. “He's not your daddy!”
Pietro's eyes filled with tears and he sped from the room faster than Erik's slowly softening glare could track. When he faced Charles again, breathing hard, he saw that Charles was on the verge of tears as well. Something inside of him fractured, tiny fissures breaking through the haze of madness that had taken over. He reached out a hand, but Charles took a step backwards.
“Charles, I didn't mean--” his voice cracked, unable to continue. Nothing he could say would make this right.
Charles only shook his head and left the room without another word, leaving Erik alone with his thoughts and....oh. Pietro had dropped his doll when he ran off. Erik picked it up, smoothed its golden blonde hair, and was about to drop it onto the couch when the doll spoke up.
“My name is Talking Tommy, and I don't think I like you.”
Erik frowned. He must have his a button, or caught his thumb on the pull string without realizing. He felt for the little loop of plastic and gave it a tug, just to make sure.
“My name is Talking Tommy, and I think I could even hate you.”
“Jesus Christ,” Erik muttered. What kind of toy was this? He whipped the thing across the room, satisfied when it hit the adjacent wall with an audible thunk.
“My name is Talking Tommy, and you'll be sorry...”
“What the hell?” Erik was still staring at the toy in shock when Charles returned a few minutes later, still keeping his distance from Erik.
“The children are in bed, and Pietro has stopped crying.”
“I shouldn't have yelled at him,” Erik said, still watching the doll. “None of this is his fault.”
“He's seven years old, Erik. He shouldn't be concerned with whether we can afford his toys.” Charles took the long way around, walking behind the sofa to retrieve Talking Tommy from where he was still lying against the wall. “He's asked if he can sleep with his new doll. That is, unless you've decided he can't have it,” Charles added dryly.
Erik perched on the armrest of the couch, shoulder slumped in defeat. “I don't want to fight with you anymore.”
Charles gazed at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before turning to leave. He paused in the doorway and spoke up again, without looking at Erik. “I'm going to bed after I tuck the twins in. You should do the same.”
Erik watched Charles' figure recede down the hallway, then move to the right to head up the stairs. It wasn't until a few hours later, when he knew Charles would be asleep, that he finally retreated to their bedroom, extending a tendril of his power to turn off the television behind him.
~
Wanda wouldn't come down for dinner the next evening. Her bedroom door remained locked all day, and although Erik could have unlocked it with a flick of his wrist, he didn't want to make matters any worse. Instead, he tried to speak soothingly through the door, offering apologies and promises to make it right, then moved on to telling her all about the wonderful gift he'd gotten her – she loved puzzles, he knew, their difficulty level far beyond the competencies of a normal seven year old, but she always completed them with intelligence and patience. He'd found a 2000 piece puzzle of Monet's water lilies, the impressionist's soft, short strokes and blending of colours enough to offer her a new challenge. When that didn't work, he told her that Charles was making her favourite meal, and, jokingly, that if she didn't come out, her seat would be occupied with Talking Tommy instead.
Finally, Erik sighed and went back downstairs, but not before leaving her present on the floor outside her door, and letting her know that he was doing so. Perhaps she would take it once he left, Erik reasoned, as he sat down at the head of the table. Charles had relinquished the place a few weeks back as a peace offering, hoping that Erik would live up to the position, but so far, he had done nothing to deserve it. He lifted his fork, about to dig into the meal Charles had placed before him, when something caught his attention in his periphery.
“What is that doing at the table?”
Charles followed his gaze to the doll in the seat next to Pietro, with whom the boy was diligently sharing his meal. “It's good for him to have a friend, Erik. Even if it's just a toy.” His tone was patient, but firm, as though he was expecting another altercation.
“He has friends. And he has Wanda,” Erik pointed out.
“Wanda is currently shut up in her room,” Charles reminded him. “And he says the children at school are too slow for him.”
Pietro glanced up from picking all of the peas out of his vegetables at a lightning fast pace. “They don't like when I finish things before them,” he agreed. And they're boring.”
Charles nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps having a more...stationary friend will help him to socialize with others that aren't as fast as him.”
“You mean to be normal.”
Charles paused, his fork midway to his mouth. “That's not what I said.”
“It's what you meant.” Erik glared at the doll, who winked at him in response, and Erik inhaled sharply. He must have imagined it, or maybe the doll's head fell forward at just the right moment. Those blinking eyes worked by gravity, didn't they?
“I meant to adapt.” Charles was eyeing him cautiously, his tone still calm and even. Pietro paid them no mind, having returned to pretend-feeding his doll the peas that he didn't want. A few of them fell to the floor in the process, and Erik nodded towards Pietro's plate.
“Eat your peas. They're good for you.”
“Tommy can eat them for me,” Pietro protested, a few more falling to the floor as he tilted the spoon into the doll's mouth.
Erik opened his mouth to retort, but Charles shot him a look that told him to let it go. Fine. It was fine. Pietro could dump his vegetables on the floor, Charles could continue to “socialize” the kid into playing nice with humans, and Wanda could stay shut up in her room all night if she wanted. If he wanted this to work, if he wanted his family back, he had to learn to choose his battles.
After dinner, Pietro left Talking Tommy at the table to help Charles with the dishes, and Erik found himself alone with the doll again. He pushed his chair back, about to stand up, when a familiar, recorded voice began to speak.
“My name is Talking Tommy, and I'm beginning to hate you.”
“Yeah? Well my name is Erik Lensherr, and I'm going to get rid of you.”
“You wouldn't dare!” The doll exclaimed. “Charles would hate you, Pietro would hate you, and I would hate you.”
Erik shifted to reach into his back pocket and retrieve a crumpled book of matches and pulled one out to strike it and hold it close the doll's face. Tommy gasped and turned his face from the flame, and Erik smiled grimly.
“Then you have feelings.”
“Doesn't everything?”
“What do you think you're doing?” Charles stood in the door frame, hands on his hips.
Erik quickly extinguished the match, blowing out the flame before it reached his fingertips. “Charles! This is your doing, isn't it?”
Charles just looked at him, aghast at Erik's sudden change in temperament. “I'm not the one holding a match to my child's birthday gift!”
“You don't understand. It talked to me!”
Charles rolled his eyes. “Yes, Erik, that's what it's meant to do.”
“You're still mad at me about last night,” Erik accused. “You're using your telepathy to make me think it's saying these things, aren't you?”
Disappointment clouded Charles' expression. “The fact that you think I would do that, after I swore to you I would never enter your mind again...” Charles shook his head sadly. “I don't know what you think this doll is saying to you, but it's just stress, Erik. You're upset and sleep deprived, don't think I didn't hear you sneaking into bed at 3 am last night, and you're not thinking straight.”
Erik started to say something, but thought better of it. “Fine. You're right. It's just my imagination.”
Charles picked up the doll and took it with him from the dining room, presumably to give the damned thing to Pietro. That was alright with him, Erik thought. He could wait.
Later, while Pietro brushed his teeth and got ready for bed, and Charles sat with Wanda behind her closed door, Erik's present still lying untouched in the hallway, Erik found the doll sitting demurely on the sofa against a plum coloured throw pillow. He picked up the doll and tossed it into a black garbage bag, relieved when it didn't say a word as he double knotted the red drawstring ties, and took it out to the trash can that he was meant to bring to the curb. He slammed the lid over the bag with more force than necessary and guided the two metal bins in the garage to the street with a wave of his hand, not caring who could see him. That, he told himself, was the end of that.
He was back inside in time to tuck Pietro into bed, giving a noncommittal shrug when Pietro asked after his doll and telling him that he hadn't seen it since dinner. Pietro sighed dramatically, but at Charles' insistence, chose a well loved grey rabbit from his collection of stuffed animals and settled back under the covers.
Erik was halfway down the stairs when his phone vibrated in his jeans pocket. A quick glance at the caller ID told him the number was unknown, and he slid a thumb across the touch screen to answer it.
“Hello?”
“My name is Talking Tommy, and I'm going to kill you.”
Erik took the stairs two at a time, racing out the front door to the trash bins sitting at the curb. He lifted both lids, and there, lying at the top of the second one, was an empty, torn open black bag. He ran back to the house, nearly colliding with Charles, and grabbed the other man by the front of his shirt, his heart pounding.
“Where is it? I know it's you, there's no other explanation!”
“Erik, please, I don't know what you're talking about!” Charles shrank in Erik's grip, hands coming up between them to try and push him away.
“The doll, Charles! First you have it insult me, and now you make me think I'm getting death threats from that thing on my phone? I want you out of my head. Now.”
Charles froze, incomprehension flickering in his eyes. “I don't know what you're on about Erik, but you need to let me go before you do something you'll regret.”
“Tell me where the doll is.”
“Pietro has it. He must have remembered where he put it before bed.”
Erik released Charles and flew back up the stairs, tore into Pietro's room and yanked the doll from his son's arms. Pietro immediately sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Papa? What're you doing with Tommy?”
Charles, having followed Erik upstairs, entered the room, his hands up in mock surrender. “Erik, give him the doll. He hasn't done anything wrong.”
Erik rounded on him angrily. “It was in his bed! This is his doing! You two are in this together, aren't you?”
Charles stared at him. “Erik, please. There's definitely something going on here, and if you would just calm down for a moment and think, we could sort it out. Maybe if you actually let me into your mind, I could help you.”
Erik's chest tightened. Charles couldn't get into his mind, he'd made certain of that. Would he really squander their chance at happiness over a doll? Erik looked from Charles, to Pietro, and back again, before pushing past Charles and heading back to the garage, the doll tucked sideways under his arm. It wasn't them, Erik realized. It had been the doll all along, turning his family against him by making him believe he was paranoid and delusional.
“Erik, what are you doing? Please come back and let me help you!”
Charles couldn't help him, because it wasn't in his head. There was something horribly wrong with this doll, and Erik was going to get rid of it once and for all.
The metal vice was sitting out on his workbench, recently cleaned and ready for use. He slammed the doll down, plastic hands knocking against the pockets of its blue jeans, and positioned its head in the grip of the vice. His fingers curled, wrist twisting counter-clockwise, and the vice began to tighten. He could feel the doll resisting, and he clenched his teeth, forcing it even tighter, and then, just when he thought he was starting to denting the plastic head, Talking Tommy began to laugh.
Erik ripped the doll from the machine and tossed it on the workbench before grabbing a blowtorch and goggles from where they rested nearby. He drew the goggles firmly over his eyes, furious and determined, and brought the torch to the doll's face. As the flame grew closer, however, it sputtered and extinguished before reaching Tommy's synthetic skin. He tried again, and again, without success, and shoved the equipment aside in defeat. Erik scanned the garage, looking for something, anything else to use, until his gaze landed on the table saw across the room, the blade gleaming even in the dull light of the small space. He narrowed his eyes at the machine and it flared to life, the buzz of the electric saw growing louder as it picked up speed. Erik laid the doll down before the blade, such that it would cut right through its neck.
“Erik?”
Erik jumped, letting go of the doll as he spun around to find Charles approaching him warily. “Erik, you have to stop this. Whatever's going on, we can fix this. It's not too late.”
“I am fixing it, Charles. Don't you see? It's the doll. It was always the doll!”
Charles was opening the fuse box, squinting at rows of labelled switches. “Erik, that's enough. You're out of control.”
Erik's hand snapped out before him, and the fuse box slammed shut, barely missing the tip of Charles' nose as he jolted backwards in surprise, putting his arm out to steady himself. “God damn it, Erik, what is wrong with you? You can't keep blaming the doll for your problems!”
Charles moved towards him, reaching around Erik to grab Talking Tommy, but Erik's fingers closed around his wrist, stopping Charles short. Charles stared at his wrist, locked in Erik's grip, and swallowed hard before raising his eyes to meet Erik's own.
“Let me go, Erik.” He enunciated each word carefully, attempting to hide the tremor in his voice. “Before you do something you'll regret.”
Erik squeezed his eye shut, opened them again. This wasn't him. He couldn't lose Charles a second time. He released Charles' wrist, flinching at the bruises already beginning to blossom. Charles gave him one last, pitying glance before leaving him alone, quietly closing the door behind him. Erik watched his departure before turning back to the table saw, still whirring incessantly as it worked the doll's throat. Erik shut down the machine with a thought and removed the doll, only to find its neck completely unmarred.
“Why won't you just die?” Erik demanded, shaking the doll by the shoulders. Tommy didn't respond, its glassy blue eyes dancing with laughter. Erik rooted around for another garbage bag and shoved the doll inside. If he couldn't destroy the doll, he'd just throw it back in the trash. At least it would be out of his way for awhile, long enough to try and make things right with Charles.
Erik was still mentally rehearsing apologies when he entered his bedroom, only to find Charles folding blue button down shirts and placing them in a large, black suitcase. He didn't acknowledge Erik at all, just kept folding shirts as though focusing on this one, specific action was all that he was capable of in this moment.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” Charles answered tonelessly. “The twins and I are going to stay with my sister.”
“Charles, come on, you can't just leave,” Erik pleaded, his vision swimming.
Charles dropped the shirt he'd been folding onto the stack he'd created. “How could I live with you after what you've done?”
“I did what I had to.”
“What you had to?” Charles wiped away an angry, wayward tear. “After all this time, you still won't let me in. And if you won't allow me help you, then you need to see a psychiatrist before I let you anywhere near this family again.”
“I swear to you, the doll talked to me,” Erik insisted, and at Charles' raised eyebrows, quickly amended, “Alright, look. I'll give it back to Pietro right now, I swear. Just...please don't leave.”
Charles sighed. “Fine.”
Erik took the stairs two at a time, praying that the doll was still in the trash bin where he'd left it. Thankfully, the bag containing Talking Tommy was still lying on the rest of the garbage in the can, still tied up and untouched. Erik tore the bag open and retrieved the doll, nearly dropping it when it started to speak.
“My name is Talking Tommy, and I don't forgive you!”
“Shut up, shut up!” Erik jogged up the walkway with the doll, and was more than a little out of breath when he finally reached Pietro's room.
Pietro was asleep when Erik eased the door open and tiptoed in, gently laying the doll on the pillow next to his son. Pietro stirred and rolled over, draping his arm over the doll, and Erik allowed himself a few seconds to catch his breath and take in Pietro's sleeping form, one of the few times that he remained stationary. He was growing so fast, and soon he would no longer have an interest in talking dolls. Maybe, Erik thought, he could hold out until then. Maybe he could take the constant punishment, if that was what it took to keep his family together.
~
A scuffling sound from the hallway roused Erik from his slumber, and he stretched and rolled over, giving a yelp of surprise when he rolled right off of the couch and onto the carpet. He'd forgotten - Charles had agreed to stay, but Erik had been sent downstairs to the living room for the night. He climbed to his feet, rubbing his sore tailbone, and crept towards the stairs, pausing at the landing to listen for whatever had made that noise. It was still early, the sky just starting to lighten through the narrow, frosted window next to the front door.
“Erik?”
Charles was at the top of the stairs, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. The sleeve of his navy blue flannel pyjamas fell below his wrist, revealing the purple, swelling bruises that Erik had left.
“I thought I heard something. Was that you shuffling around up here?”
“I--” Erik stopped, noticing a shadow hovering behind Charles' calves. “Charles, get away from the stairs.”
“What? You're not making any sense.”
Talking Tommy's beady eyes leered out from the darkness, its tiny, outstretched hands reaching for Charles' legs, and Erik's heart quickened.
“Please, Charles, just trust me. Get away from the—NO!”
Charles' mouth opened in a silent scream as he tumbled down the stairs, his spine cracking against one step, and then another as his head hit the banister, and then Erik was gathering him in his arms, tears streaming down his face.
“No, no, it was supposed to be me it hated, not you,” Erik cradled Charles close to his body as he reached out a hand, calling his cell phone to him from the living room.
“My name is Talking Tommy, and you better be nice to me!”
Charles had opened his eyes and was staring up at the doll in disbelief. “It...it talked...”
“I tried to tell you, Charles, and now it's too late, this is all my fault.” He was dialing now, putting the phone to his ear, when he heard a shriek from the top of the stairs. Erik spoke quickly, voice low, to the 911 operator, and then addressed Wanda, who was hurtling down the stairs towards them.
“Wanda, honey, you need to calm down--”
“I didn't mean it!” she cried, as Tommy toddled down the stairs to stand next to her. “I just wanted you to be sorry, I didn't mean it!”
“Wanda, what are you trying to—oh. Oh, sweetheart.”
Charles tilted his head to look at their daughter, offering her a fragile smile. “It's alright, Wanda. I'll be okay. But you need to let Tommy go.”
Wanda rubbed at her sniffling nose with the sleeve of her nightgown. “I can't, I don't know how!”
Charles' eyes were closing again, and Erik jostled him lightly against his knees. “Don't pass out on me now. You might have a concussion,” he murmured. Then, to Wanda, “You can do it. Take a deep breath, and let him go.”
She turned to the doll, still sniffling. “It's time to go, Tommy. I don't want you anymore.”
The doll stiffened and tilted its head. “My name is Talking Tommy, and I don't think I like you anymore!”
Wanda's lower lip wobbled, and Erik was quick to reassure her. “That's it, my darling, send him away. You can do it.”
Wanda lifted her chin and glared the doll down. “I said, I don't want you anymore!”
The doll vanished without a trace, as though it had never existed, and Erik released the breath he'd been holding.
“That was perfect, Wanda. You did wonderfully.” She was trembling, and Erik ached to take her in his arms, but he couldn't let go of Charles. “Can you do one more thing for me?”
She hesitated, but nodded.
“Go get your brother, quick as you can, get the overnight bags from under his bed, and have him run you two next door.” Distantly, Erik could hear sirens approaching. “Tell Logan there was an emergency, and that I said you need to stay with him while I take your daddy to the hospital.”
Wanda nodded again and raced back up the stairs, presumably to wake her brother, and Erik returned his attention to Charles, who was gazing up at him with what, if Erik didn't know better, he might have called love.
“You'll be okay,” Erik whispered, his voice cracking. “The ambulance is almost here.”
“I can't feel my legs.” Charles bit his lip. “I can't...I can't feel my legs.”
~
It was getting late, the sun beginning to wane behind wisps of clouds, insubstantial but effective in dulling the late afternoon light. Erik watched from the park bench as Wanda squealed with laughter and danced out of her brother's grasp, dashing to the other side of a winding, brick red plastic slide to avoid him. Pietro tossed Erik a knowing glance before running after her, making an effort to maintain a normal pace. He wasn't restraining himself because they were in public, Erik knew, but to give Wanda a fair chance in their game.
“She's the only one who can get him to slow down.” The corners of Charles' mouth quirked up in faint amusement as he smoothed the soft flannel blanket over his knees. He sat straight backed in the wheelchair, its height placing him at eye level next to Erik.
“Pietro's been so good to her,” Erik commented, his gaze following them as she hopped up onto one of the the swings and Pietro circled around to push her.
Charles' hand closed over Erik's, his thumb grazing Erik's knuckles as he brought them up to the armrest of his chair. “So have you,” he said quietly.
Erik didn't know how to respond, so he said nothing, enjoying the warmth of Charles' skin against his. These little touches were becoming more frequent lately, and Erik found himself living for each and every one of them, waiting for the moment when Charles might touch his arm to get his attention, squeeze his hand after the children said goodnight to Charles and climbed the stairs for Erik to tuck them in, or rested his cheek against Erik's shoulder while they watched television in the evening. Things were still tense between them, but it was getting better. He was getting better.
“It's getting late,” Charles raised two fingers to his temple. At his silent request, Pietro grabbed the chains of Wanda's swing and slowed it to a stop, allowing her to hop off and grab the pair of dolls lying on the grass nearby. She gave Pietro the fair haired boy, dressed in a powder blue shirt emblazoned with a white lightning bolt, and hugged the girl to her chest, dark haired and wearing a vermillion dress similar to Wanda's own. Zwip-Boy and Smash Girl, they were called, from that superhero cartoon that Pietro liked so much.
Erik stood and flicked his index finger to loose the brakes on Charles' chair and nudged it forward with his power, keeping pace beside Charles as the children approached. Wanda was grinning widely, her hair mussed from being on the swing.
“Did you see me, Papa? I went so high!”
Erik found himself smiling back as he took her hand, Pietro running ahead in a burst of energy. “You nearly touched the sky, I think.”
“Pietro,” Charles called. “Not too far ahead. You know the rules.”
Pietro slowed to what must be a snail's pace for him, the heels of his sneakers scraping against the concrete.
“What did I say about dragging your feet?” A note of chiding impatience crept into Charles voice.
“Aw, Dad,” Pietro complained, but he picked up his feet and kept a few paces ahead of the rest of his family, hoisting his doll up so that its head peeked over his shoulder. And then, so fast that Erik thought he might have imagined it, the doll winked.
“Papa?”
Erik shook himself and looked down at Wanda, who was waiting for some kind of reply. “I'm sorry, sweetheart, what was that?”
“I'm tired,” she repeated, yawning as though to convince him. “Can you carry me?”
Erik wordlessly let go of her hand and lifted her into his arms, balancing her weight on his hip, and resumed walking. It was only his imagination, he told himself, as Wanda squirmed against his side and finally rested her head on his shoulder, one hand wrapped possessively around his neck. There way no way that doll had really winked at him. After all, it wasn't as if this was an episode of The Twilight Zone.