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Erik holds firmly to his Jewish roots. His inheritance is something that not even the bloodiest war can take away from him. His mother taught him from a young age to keep Shabbat, to make Challah for Friday nights in case he decided not to get married. The war, the Nazis, unfortunately took away his mother, the Shabbat songs, the verses of the Torah. "Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, who makes bread grow from the earth”. It's the only prayer he really remembers, as he feels religious guilt gnawing at him if he doesn't say the prayer before eating. Even though this earns him curious looks from the kids, from a wide-eyed Sean beside him, asking what he was doing. And then Erik would explain that he was saying a prayer before eating and would explain his Jewish roots enough that Sean would get bored. Charles was better at explaining things than he was, even though the telepath wasn't religious. Anyway, Erik was no role model after all. He wasn't even sure if he believed in a God. But ignoring His existence was like ignoring his mother's, and Erik missed her so much, even after so long hiding it under pain and anger, that he refused to do that, to forget Him. He didn't go to synagogue on Shabbat, he didn't know of any near Charles's mansion, but he busied himself remembering Sabbath prayers and trying to recite them in imperfect Hebrew, which left him with a tight throat. But Erik tried to redeem himself in any way possible. Perhaps a place in paradise would be reserved for him if he redeemed himself of his sins. There were a lot of them. But Charles used to say that no one was ever completely lost, and Erik believed Charles with his life.
So here he is standing in Charles' kitchen in the morning before the kids wake up. In the back of his mind, he feels a rapid, painful throbbing, possibly Charles is having a migraine or feeling sick. Erik doesn't judge him for that, he didn't usually have the best of health as a child either, and even though Charles wasn't one anymore, he was still two years younger than Erik. So he gets it into his head that he's doing this for Charles, not because Hanukkah is coming up and he feels guilty about not celebrating it. He could have done all this before, but he was too busy killing anti-mutants and taking care of the Brotherhood. The domesticity he now had left him plenty of time to remember what he should have done. Erik prides himself on having been a good cook since he managed to escape the hell that was his childhood life. The children agree with him, Ororo was always good at saying that he made the best food in the mansion. Maybe he liked her more. Speaking of the girl, Erik feels the metal of her earrings, indicating that the kid is getting closer. Ororo couldn't be more than sixteen now, but she never lost the chubby childish cheeks that Erik had a vague memory of, or the messy white hair that she wore every morning. Her undercut was growing out, so it wasn't uncommon to see her rubbing the sides of her head, like now, her face twisted between sleep and irritation. The girl with lightning bolts in her hands—Hank called her that in the beginning, Erik still remembers—pulls up a stool at the table and sits right next to Erik, her cheek pressed against the cold counter. She is trying to wake up. Erik feels strangely paternal.
“Good morning, Ororo.” He is the one who starts what is an attempt at conversation, the girl has never been a morning person.
“It's Ori, Erik.” She scolds him for not using the nickname Charles gave her completely accidentally. “What are you doing?”
“Challah.” Erik chuckles softly, because Ororo has always been very direct in her questions. "It's a..”
“Shabbat bread.” She says without even letting Erik finish. A hand with black painted nails - beautiful, by the way - comes up to rub her eyes. "I know what this is. I met Jewish people as Charles looked for more of us. Strangely enough, they all reminded me of you.”
“Looks like Charles wasn't the only one who missed me, then.” Erik sounds provocative, but he's more surprised than anything. Not all the kids liked him, and that had mostly been his fault. He hadn't really been kind to their teacher in the past.
“I didn't miss you!” Ororo screams and her eyes turn white. Erik whistles softly and runs his hand down her back. He learned that it calmed her, the low whistle he made when he cooked and physical contact. Maybe she spent too much time with Charles, or he spoiled her too much when he got back. “I just said I remembered you. Now come on, I want to see you make Challah, I'm hungry.”
Erik chuckles to himself and steps far enough away from Ororo to focus on the ingredients in front of him. Flour, warm water in the kettle, salt, yeast, raisins, sesame seeds, oil, honey, eggs, sugar… Everything seemed to be there, as far as he could remember. This was the Challah recipe his mother used to make for Hanukkah, so Erik doesn't feel like it's a problem to make it on a regular weekday instead of the usual Friday.
The water is poured with the sugar and yeast. Ororo asks to help and Erik lets her knead the dough with her hands. Ororo can't stop talking about school, about how she learned to create little storms in her hands and that she wants to learn how to control the weather. Erik wonders how much of Ororo's life he has wasted in his rebellions. Something like guilt burns in the back of his throat as he watches the girl's slender fingers fill with dough. He wouldn't say it out loud, but he loves many of these children, even though he isn't as patient with them as Charles was. And Ororo is the daughter he always wanted to have. He is sure that Charles, even asleep, has some influence on this, as he has a very old memory of his mother saying that one day, when he got married, his wife would teach his children how to make Challah. And even though he's come out as gay and isn't actually married, here he is, teaching a child who isn't actually his daughter, how to bake bread. Eggs are cracked, oil and honey are added and he uses a metal spatula to finish mixing while Ororo washes her hands. The girl's eyes follow the "magic" he does with his powers. The remaining ingredients are added and a comfortable silence falls over the kitchen. Ororo adds the raisins and finishes mixing, then the dough is left to rest. Erik greases a metal baking tray with the remaining oil and places the dough in it. He won't ignore the feeling of pride that fills his chest and makes sure to keep that feeling locked away from Charles, damn curious man he was. Ori tends to get tired of things pretty quickly, so he's surprised when she just sits cross-legged - how? he doesn't know - on the stool and watches the clock above the window.
“What was she like?” The girl breaks the silence, picking at her nail polish.
“Who?”
“Your mother. Or did you call her Eema?”
Erik feels his throat close up again, but he swallows the lump hard. "I'm a German Jew, so I called her Mama or Mutter.”
“Charles said you speak Yiddish.” Ororo rocks on the stool, her fingers sparkling with lightning. "I want to hear it.”
“Still as bossy as I remember.” Erik laughs. He could have her as a daughter, honestly. Just like him sometimes. “Ir zent a shtark meydl, Ororo. ikh bin zeyer shtolts mit dir.”
Her cheeks get a little darker. She smiles. Maybe she understood, Ororo was always very intelligent. "Are you really proud of me?”
And Erik finds himself smiling in response, reaching a hand up to stroke her hair. "Yes, very proud of you, Ori. More than I would have imagined myself being, to be quite honest. But, it seems like you have a more than special place in my heart, child.”
“You're one of the few adults who calls me by my name, you know? I think only you and Charles do that. Hank and Raven keep calling me Storm. I like my hero name, but Ororo is much better.”
Erik laughs loudly, picking up the form from where he had placed it. An hour has passed. "I was like that with Magneto too. I always liked being called that, it scared people. And I thought that was cool. But Erik is who I really am. And Charles taught me that there is more inside me than just pain and revenge.”
“Is that why you love him?”
Erik stops and thinks. There are many more reasons why he loves Charles. "Yes, and much more than that.”
“What do we do now that the dough has rested?” Ororo turns her attention to the dough that Erik is starting to separate into pieces, using his hands.
"We divide the dough into six pieces, as I did now. And then…”
“And then we braid the bread and leave a part of the dough aside, the challah, which gives the bread its name.” She reaches out and rubs Erik's back, who looks tense or sad as the metals are vibrating throughout the house. "Hey, it's okay to cry, I guess. Your mother would be proud of you, even if you didn't answer me about her. But if you know how to make Challah so well, it's because she taught you perfectly.”
Erik wipes away the tears that insist on rolling down his cheeks and concentrates on shaping the six pieces of bread into thinner strips. Ororo squeezes herself into the small space between him and the counter, as if she wants to be taught how to braid the bread. And, well, see if that doesn't fill Erik with a flood of memories of himself doing it, of his mother's cold hands holding his, moving them in the correct braiding motion.
“Erik, I want to learn how to braid bread, teach me.” Ororo takes a deep breath, placing Erik's calloused, heavy hands over hers. "Please.”
With tears burning in his eyes and his mouth pressed against the girl's hair, Erik moves his hands under hers, making a perfect braid with the bread. He doesn't trust himself to speak without crying, the memories are still very vivid in his now unlocked memory.
“It looks great to me, it's quite pretty.” Ororo says with a smile, walking to Erik's side like before.
“Yes, it's really beautiful. You did a good job.” Erik says, his voice breaking, wiping his face with the back of his hand.
“No, Erik. You did a good job.” Erik feels Ororo's arms wrap around him and damn that girl, when did she learn to mess with his heart?
The bread is put in the oven to bake and it doesn't take long for it to be ready. Ororo is impatient and lightning sparks in her fingers from anxiety, perhaps she wasn't joking when she said she was hungry. But Erik has experience of himself and other people burning their mouths on freshly cooked food, so this won't be the time to burn someone, even if it earns him looks and groans from the girl.
Seeing her with her eyes shining, sighing with joy, leaving the kitchen while taking bites of bread, is enough to make Erik feel less guilty than when he arrived in the kitchen earlier.