steelartisan | (no subject)

"I have always wanted children," he says simply, and with a rueful half-smile.

It's not the whole answer. But it's still true.

"Someday. If I could. I like children."

He loves them, really. And he loves family.

He says this mostly to his sketchbook, quietly and thoughtfully, and only at the end does he glance at Kate, a little hesitantly.

She's biting her lip, a little, and not looking up.

"Do you want them with me?"

And the answer, instant and certain, is yes, of course.

But he doesn't know what she thinks.

(And there's Mikhail. Always that, in the back of his mind.)

"I love you," is what he says finally, and with a small and crooked smile.

"I don't know what you want. Da. Someday. If you do."

"I love you too."

That's soft, and to the sketchbook as much as Piotr.

It's a minute before Kate looks up, looks over at him and looks tired. Because it's Piotr, and she does love him, and since she was thirteen and a half she's thought off and on about being married to Piotr and having children with Piotr. Because Piotr was brought up to think family was the most important thing, and probably without that he still would, and she knows it.

And because for herself she does. She always has. Stryker used that against her, once, made her see the dreams she had before finding out about mutants and X-Men, and mother was there at the top.

And she doesn't know how to say it, really, so she just lets the words tumble out, says, "Phasing induces miscarriages most of the time," without thinking about building up to it or gentling it.

It doesn't say what she wants, and she realizes it after the words are out. And she doesn't know how to say I want them too, to say, I want them with you after that, just looks down at the charcoal lines on paper.

What do you say to that?

Oh and are you sure and I didn't know and I'm sorry and--

"Oh."

"Not all." She shrugs, a little. "Just--it makes it harder. Stress on the system. Too much and the fetus is--split, I guess. It's hard on it."

And nine months is a very long time.

"And I phase in my sleep most the time," she half-whispers, smiling crookedly and without humor.

And then Kate doesn't say anything for a moment before saying quietly, "I do want them. With you."

That makes it worse, she thinks.

"Katya..."

It does make it worse.

She wants his children, their children, too, and just hearing that is a joy he's longed for, and it does make it worse.

"We know very smart people," he says finally, and a little helplessly. "Maybe..."

Maybe something. Sometime. He was brought back from the dead; surely there's a way to help them have a child?

"Shh."

Just that, softly, as she leans against him.

Only part of it is because she doesn't want to hear about maybes she doesn't trust.

"Odds again, Petey," Kate says after a silence, fingers tracing his. "Nine months is a long time. I phase in my sleep she doesn't say again.

"But maybe," she whispers, and squeezes his hand. "Let's...let's make sure there's no problems with conception first. And then worry about keeping the pregnancy. Just--it's a long time to not phase," she says again, tiredly. "I don't think I can even half-promise a child that's biologically ours, Piotr." I can be okay with that if I have to, but can you?

He slips an arm around her silently. She fits in the circle of his arm; she has always fit so well.

"All right," he says finally, and quietly.

It's not. Not really.

But it has to be.

"Really?" Her smile's crooked as she looks at him. "You're fine with not ever having a baby?"

It doesn't sound very much like she believes him.

That's because Kate is smart. And because Kate knows her boyfriend.

Piotr exhales.

"I want a child," he says to the lake. "Children. A family. And there are more reasons I have not said."

"But I want them with you, Katya. If that means there are obstacles, then there are obstacles. I do not want to hurt you."

He doesn't need to think of Kaylee, weeping in her engine room, to know how much this could hurt them both.

And because Kate is human, even if a mutant sort.

"I know," she murmurs and turns to kiss his shoulder. "I want you to have them. I want us both to have them. I just don't know if we can."

"What other reasons, Piotr?"

He's not looking at her, now.

This he hasn't said to anyone.

"You remember when my cousin Larisa asked me to come to Moscow. Months ago."

"...Uh-huh."

In the immortal words of Han Solo, she has a bad feeling about this.

Now, whyever would that be?

"She was a journalist. She had found that people were being murdered -- burned up, all the same way. All of them descendents of my grandfather."

"I did not know some of them," he adds absently. "Barely or not at all."

It's not hard to know where to start in this story. It's hard to know what exactly to say. How much detail to go into.

"She said she had found that we were descended from Grigori Yefimovitch Rasputin. Our grandfather was his son. I doubted -- it is not an uncommon name. It seemed fantastic. But she had done the research, and she was right."

This is Kate, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Right. Okay. Why not? Makes as much sense as anything else in our lives."

She wants to hit something.

"What does this have to do with babies?"

He doesn't really want to tell this. There are reasons he's held it in so long.

And it's worse to tell it to her, now, in this context. With what she's just said about phasing. But it will never be any easier, and she won't thank him for waiting; Kate has always preferred to get things over with.

"He was a mutant, and a magician. Rasputin. He learned from Sinister. When he died finally, at the end, he put his essence into all his descendants. Babies."

"He meant to be reborn. But he needs his power to not be split among the bloodline for that to happen. To only have one left alive."

He wants something to do with his hands.

For a moment she's speechless which, really, is something of an accomplishment.

And then she's punching his shoulder.

"This is the sort of thing you tell your girlfriend when it happens, you idiot! Not keep stoically to yourself! You're not Scott! Don't act like it, you colossal tin jerk!"

"I did not know what to say."

He's smiling for a second, though -- only a second, but this is so Katya. Small and fierce and full of words.

...And punches, but he can take those.

"And." This one's harder to find the words for. "My uncle is dead now, and Larisa. But I will not be the last one. Mikhail made sure of that."

He's kind of glossing over the after he broke Sinister's influence on him and stopped trying to kill me part, but whatever.

She's angry.

She's incredibly angry, as she glares at him and debates whether to punch him again.

She decides against it, for the moment, and forces a breath as she rubs at her eyes with one hand.

And what she says, when she's sure she's controlled her temper, is, "So we're going to start trying for a baby, then."

It's not really a question.

"Katya..."

He wants babies. For so many reasons.

But he doesn't want --

He doesn't want her to risk that much pain just for his sake. Doesn't want her to feel trapped, or guilted into this.

Softly, "He went to a place called the Dark Zone. Nothing comes out of there, and nothing dies. He chose that."

Have children, his brother said just before he stepped into his portal and away forever. Lots of children. They'll be strong, like you. And Then perhaps someday I can be at peace.

It's always on his mind.

But this isn't just him.

Her face softens, a little.

Only a little but it's there as she shifts--not quite on his lap, but the best she can in this position.

"You're a jerk. And I'm angry at you," she says first, calmly, before sighing and lifting a hand to his cheek.

"And you're Piotr. You're mine. I've lost you more times than I can count, and I refuse to lose you again."

And then her face softens a little more as she leans in to kiss him, gently. "You always take care of me. Even when I don't want you too. Remember the Brood?" Her smile's crooked. "We both wished I was older. But you wanted to take care of me and love me best you could. So you made us wait.

"I'm older, now. And I'm going to take care of you. Like it or not, bub." The second kiss is a little longer, if just as gentle as the first. "It's not just you. We're an endangered species, sweetie. And in a perfect world there not being many mutants wouldn't be an issue and your great-grandfather wouldn't have a chance of taking over your body. But we've never lived in one. And they're reasons that matter. And," she murmurs against his mouth, "I want your children, Piotr Nikolievitch Rasputin. There's that too. And I don't know if this will work. I don't know if I can go that long without phasing, and I don't know that it won't be hard to conceive anyway. But I'm not going to take my pill tonight. And we're going to see a doctor, to start this off right, as soon as we can. And you're going to fuck me and make love to me many," and there's a kiss to break the words up, "many," and another, "many times, tovarisch. And we're going to make this work if we can."

"Я тебя люблю, Катя." I love you.

He's shifted by now to cradle her more comfortably in his lap, and he cups her cheek with a broad hand, runs his fingers gently through her hair.

(The paint on his hands has dried by now. Which is a good thing, as he's not especially noticing it any more.)

Another kiss, and longer, before he whispers, still in Russian, "Are you certain? I do not -- We both need to be sure."

But he is.

It almost hurts, how much he loves her right now. Almost.

"Da," she says simply, thumb rubbing his cheekbone. "You're stuck with me for life. And that makes me certain enough."

She smiles as she turns her head to kiss his wrist.

"Might not work. Might hurt. But we're going to try it, Peter. Try for me to have your baby. We'll see what happens after that."

There is a question he very nearly asks, right then.

But no. He will do this properly. (But, he thinks, he will be looking at jewelry stores, now.)

So instead he only says "I love you," again, soft and Russian and heartfelt, and kisses her.

It's only when they have to break apart again for breath that he meets her eyes and murmurs, "Our baby. If we can." So many ifs -- but he doesn't know how much his face lights up at just those words.