i.
She kisses him when he’s not looking, when he’s distracted by an
apple pie in the bakery window and the warmth of those lips lingers
against his cheek like the first touch of sunshine after a long Winter.
It makes him pull faces, to crinkle his nose and shudder in protest,
but deep down he doesn’t mind it. Deep down, maybe he’s even quite
fond of the overly girly way she tries to do it so discreetly, as if he
hadn’t been prepared for the way she tiptoed up and hovered at his
side. He feels special perhaps, for being blessed with such a gift, when
it’s borne of kindness and nothing else. Maybe it’s love, he’s too young
to know, but he’ll accept it for as long as she’s willing to give it.
ii.
He’s grown so fast, she can no longer reach him. There’d been a time
once, when Magda had been taller, scrawny as ever, but still a good inch
or so higher than the boy she’d come to call friend. Puberty had soon
changed that though, when Erik had shot up and now stood at just shy
of six feet. It’s strange to be looking up at him, but it’s not as if it’s a
terrible view. She likes the way her head can tuck under his jaw, but
perhaps not the way he delights in her inability to bless him with physical
affection. It makes him smile when she’s having to drag phonebooks
across the living room floor, when it requires at least three of the thick
tomes neatly stacked to bring her anywhere near tall enough to kiss him.
She avoids his mouth, perhaps out of understanding, but his nose is just
as pleasant, she seems to think, especially when coated in a peachy
haze of lipstick.
iii.
They’re arguing again and she can’t stand it. Their new life had seemed
so idyllic, yet with the prospect of a child on the horizon, things seemed
to have gotten worse. Erik wants to move. He wants to head to the city
and give them a better chance, but Magda’s happy here. She’s safe
and content in the simplicity of the mountains and she doesn’t want to
exchange that for anything. It’s the same every night when he tries
to broach the subject, when he’s whittling away at her resolve and
she’s having none of it. It’s a stalemate in every sense of the word,
shared languages melting into the mother tongues, German and Polish
insults flung at every angle in an act of valiant frustration. She kisses him
to shut him up, to make him stop calling her an idiot and telling her she’s
wrong. It’s angry, when her fingers are winding into his collar and pulling
him down, angry and nervous, because she knows deep down whatever
he decides will be what they have to do.
iv.
She’s too tired to move, exhausted and weary in the aftermath of Anya’s
birth. She hadn’t expected it to be so hard, but the bundle of squirming
joy currently in Erik’s arms is enough to prove that it was a worthwhile
endeavour. Half-lidden, she smiles at them both, sweat beading on her
brow as she bears witness to stubby fingers mashing at the German’s
face, babbling lips blowing bubbles as the new and proud Papa greets
his precious little girl with a stubbly and heartfelt kiss. She looks like
Ruth, he thinks, bright eyed and mischievous and for a moment if makes
his heart ache with a pang of longing. At least this way he can take
comfort in knowing his family lives on.
v.
It’s hard to imagine where it all went wrong, yet she knows it has as she’s
currently staring at her husband through a plate wall of glass. Maybe it was
Vinnytsa, maybe long before, she can’t quite tell, she just knows she misses
him as if she’s missing a limb. He’s a part of her, a precious constant in her
chaotic life even if all they do is bicker. She wants to break him out, wants to
bake a file into a cake and let him make some miraculous escape. Maybe he’s
dangerous, maybe he’s not - it’s not her place to determine his fate. Her hand
is lingering on the cool sheet of glass, her forehead pressed against it as she
waits for his hand to meet hers. She tries not to cry, but the tears come anyway,
rolling down the structure between them as she kisses him through that wall and
tells him she’s sorry. That she didn’t mean the things she’d said, or to run when
she’d been afraid.
vi.
She’s glad that it’s Charles that breaks him out, perhaps not so impressed
with Pietro’s ability to flaunt legality, but it’s enough to give her hope. He
doesn’t feel like a husband anymore, now he’s just back to being Max, back
to being her oldest and dearest friend. She doesn’t kiss him like she used to,
doesn’t find ways to touch his arm or greet him with human intimacy. Instead
she keeps her distance, instead only stealing pecks from his cheek when the
circumstance allows. It’s easier this way, even if it breaks her heart. He’s moved
on, so it’s only fair that she does the same.
vii.
She promised she wouldn’t kiss him again, but she can’t help it the day he comes
back bloodied and bruised from some political quest. She thought he was dead,
thought that he’d lead their children into battle and done something idiotic, but
there he stands while she’s shedding tears for him, when she’s smacking him and
swearing and wrapping her arms around his shoulders and kissing his neck. It’s not
romantic but hysterical, the clear and palpable relief of the man she loves in her own
little way finally walking back home in one piece. If anyone’s going to kill him, it’s going
to be her, and she’ll fight anyone that ever dares to try and challenge that theory.
viii.
Magda doesn’t see him much these days, but she’s glad the children do. Once in a
blue moon she likes to sit down with him, now that his hair is peppered with grey,
to talk about life and what he’s doing. It’s nice to connect with family, to hear from
the horse’s mouth what he’s thinking and what it all means. She still teases him about
Charles of course, about whatever that on-again-off-again-relationship is, but she’s
happy he has someone to talk to and someone that can weather his ill moods. It says
too much when she kisses his cheek goodbye, when there’s a weight in her shoulders
and a secret she’s not willing to tell. She’ll speak to him soon, she says, as if she knows
something he doesn’t - but he won’t realise what until it’s too late.
ix.
He’s at lunch with Raven when he gets the call, when Pietro’s voice is beginning
to crack and he can’t find ways to properly put it into words. Matka’s sick, he
tells Erik, and that’s all he needs to hear to excuse himself and find his way to
his dear friend’s side. It’s been nigh on sixty years since he’s been back in this
house, and he feels younger for it, as if the years have melted away the minute
he set foot in that door. Magda looks old though, it pains him to admit as she
lays shivering in that old cot bed. He doesn’t need an invitation to set himself
down at her side, to sprawl across that creaking mattress, cape and all and stay
there with her. It reminds him of the time they’d helped each other through the
flu, of the time they’d fended off death and lived to fight another day. He wishes
it were the same again, when she clutches his hand and kisses his palm, whispering
her goodbyes and leaving him alone in the world.
x.
It’s a good thirty years before he follows in her footsteps. Thirty long years of
bickering with Charles, of fighting the good fight and building up a utopia on
Genosha. He’s watched his children grow, welcomed grandchildren into this
world and lived the life he’s perhaps always dreamed of - but it doesn’t stop
the weariness in his bones or the call to go home. He answers it on a Spring
morning from the comfort of an armchair, a book in his lap and a glass of scotch
at his side. It’s not a bad way to go he thinks, not when there are so many old faces
waiting for him at the other side. It’s Anya that greets him first, her mouth warm
and wet as she plants pint-sized kisses all across his face and cuddles him as if
it’s the first time. Magda soon follows, hot on her daughter’s heels but no less
enamoured. She kisses his cheek, as Edie claims another, Ruth hovers in the
background, pulling faces of disapproval at her brother, but she’s happy to
see him too, much like Jakob who draws him in as if there is nowhere else he
belongs and holds him there, proud as anything. Because his boytchik had
finally come home.
