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━━ WHAT WE LOST
"THANK YOU AGAIN, Peter."
The downcast sky of pewter grew bares down on us from above, and though the sun is barely visible, heat radiates off the dark tarmac. Sweat drips down my back, and I regret wearing jeans, the denim sticking to my legs. I hug my waist as Charles, Hank, and I stand outside the private jet. Erik and Logan are already inside. He and I haven't spoken at all since leaving the Pentagon. He won't even look at me, not after what happened in the kitchens, when I stiffened at his touch.
I remember the last time we hugged, the night before Cuba. He'd told me he cared about me, and promised to keep me safe, and I couldn't help but wrap my arms around him. Those few days at the manor, with Sean and the rest of my family, those were the best days of my life. I was safe, I was loved. I had both Charles and Erik by my side. I was healing.
Then it all came crashing down.
"Yes, thank you very, very much." Charles' mostly sober voice catches my attention, and I turn back. The two shake hands, and Peter, with his silver jacket and stolen baseball hat, smiles widely.
"Hey, I saw your flight plan in the cockpit." Peter says. "Why are you going to Paris?" Charles and Hank share a look, while I smirk and glance at the two.
Peter seems genuinely curious, but both men say nothing as they turn and walk up the steps into the jet. Charles then whirls back around and tosses the keys to the rental car at the boy. Peter catches them swiftly, and I raise an eyebrow up at the telepath. He ignores me.
"Do me a favour and return it for me." Charles says.
"Okay." Pater responds, looking at the keys with a glint in his eyes. I purse my lips, knowing that isn't a good sign.
"And Peter?" We both look up again to Charles, who points a finger at him. "Take it slow." I hold in a laugh while Peter smiles again, looking down to his shoes. Charles and Hank go inside, leaving only me and Peter out in the airport. I rub a hand across my forehead, the heat swathed over me like a blanket, and I turn to Peter again, sticking out my other hand.
"I do mean it, Peter." I say. "Thank you." Peter nods bashfully and shakes my hand, then rubs the back of his neck. I smile and turn to leave. I do like him, with all his oddities. He reminds me of the youthful fun that surrounded the manor house ten years ago, even after Cuba, when children would run about the halls. Some were fast, like Peter. I remember one boy that was only three, who was able to manipulate the light to make him go quickly, travelling at a speed where half the time we couldn't even see him.
