AN: 'lo all. This is an idea I've been toying with for a while, being at a loss as to how to carry on with Discoveries. Sorry it's such a big chunk of story – I'm too lazy to put it into chapters! Bad Wench.

It was three o' clock in the afternoon, about the time when the mid-July sun scorched everything it touched. Heat hazes danced above the dry, dusty ground, reminding you that if you had any sense, you would stay indoors with the curtains closed and a fully-functioning air-conditioning system.

Or drive down to get some ice, if you were unfortunate enough to live in a filthy, crumbling Victorian mansion that retained heat as well as it held stench.

There was one fatal flaw to this plan. If the house was derelict and Victorian, then the mode of transport was ailing and at least twenty years outdated. It had chosen today of all days to give up the ghost, sputtering lazily on starting and emitting a noxious brown smoke.

So now Lance was standing in the roasting heat, peering into the bonnet of his car, hardly able to see for the sweat that kept dripping into his eyes. He had taken off his tee-shirt and was using it to mop his forehead, taut muscles in his broad back straining as he bent over to examine the thingy-tube that monitored the stuff-level.

He knew nothing about cars, and was especially clueless where this shit-heap Jeep was concerned.

"I hate everything about you," he sang into the bonnet. The Ugly Kid Joe song was the Brotherhood anthem, a monument to their all-inclusive loathing of anything and everything. It was as trashy and uncool as they were. Plus, failing all intelligent explanations, the song contained the word 'sex.'

Fred was pretty skilled when it came to fixing cars and Pietro was good at diagnosing faults, but his fellow Bros had deserted the house to spend the day loitering in the air-conditioned mall. He longed for the cool, clean air of the mall rather than the choking fumes he was trying not to inhale.

Looking into the intricate machinery gave no clue towards what needed to be fixed. The smoke seemed to be coming from everywhere. He waved his screwdriver around vaguely. It was too hot to think logically.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he cried to the vehicle, kicking the wheel angrily. "Huh? What's wrong with you?"

Of course, it didn't reply. He rocked back on his heels, hot and frustrated. There was a man coming up the drive – an older man whose silver hair reflected the sun almost offensively. He was tall and upright, elegant in his movements. He wore a white linen shirt and khaki slacks, and he dangled a panama hat in his left hand.

It took a moment to work out who this man was. Lance watched him stroll up to the front door and ring the bell. The man peered at his reflection in the glass panel, sweeping the front of his hair back in a manner identical to Pietro.

Which meant, of course, that this was Pietro's father. Lance had only seen flashes of him before – a helmeted, caped crusader in red. He had never considered that Magneto was a real man who wore normal clothes.

Shit. Why was Magneto here, why now, when Lance was surrounded by metal tools? Feeling helpless, Lance pulled on his sweat-drenched top. If he had to face this terrible man, he would feel better doing it with clothes on.

It was at this point that the man turned round, spotting him. He almost glided over to Lance, fixing him with a cold steely glare.

"Are you part of the Brotherhood?"

There was something so deeply intimidating about the presence of this man that Lance merely nodded.

"And you are..?" the man prompted. Lance's stomach performed a series of somersaults.

"Lance, sir. Avalanche."

"Ah," said the man, sounding mildly pleased. "Very pleased to meet you, Lance."

He held out a large, smooth hand which Lance took, sincerely hoping that his powers wouldn't activate to shake Magneto off his shiny designer shoe-clad feet.

"Never mind the formalities, you may call me Erik. Can you tell me, Lance, is Pietro at home?"

Erik's impeccable manners did little to settle Lance's nerves. It was always the worst villains who had the best manners. Lance could imagine him standing over the body of a victim freshly impaled by a scaffolding tube and saying, "Thank you very much. You died very nicely."

And this man was looking for Pietro! Torn between whether to disclose Pietro's whereabouts or whether to snarl at him to mind his own business, Lance just shrugged.

"Sorry, he went out a few hours ago. I don't know where."

A dark looked passed over Erik's face, his eyes closing to reveal the same thick black lashes as Pietro. Lance could sense disappointment and perhaps the tiniest hint of understanding that Pietro would rather eat his own burnt-out running shoe than see his father.

Don't shoot the messenger, Lance begged Erik silently.

"What a shame," said Erik coolly, shading his eyes from the sun to get a good look at the Brotherhood house. Lance watched him take in every loose roof tile, every cracked window held together by duct tape, the yellow fungus growing up the drainpipe, Todd's 'THE BROTHERHOOD FUCKED YOUR MOM' graffiti….

This did not bode well. Still, fixing the Jeep might kill him before Erik did. Trying nonchalance, Lance picked up a spanner and loosely tinkered with some bolts.

Erik made a small hum of displeasure, but said nothing. This reminded Lance of his English teacher, who would glance over her flabby shouder at his work, tut and walk away. This was a thousand times worse than being told he was stupid – similarly, Erik's silent reaction spoke volumes.

"I can pass on a message to Pietro, if you want…" Lance tailed off hopelessly. He didn't want to make it sound like he was trying to get rid of Magneto (or Erik, not that he would ever call him anything but sir) but of course, he was.

Erik flashed his straight white teeth. "I'd prefer to give it to my son myself, if you don't mind. However, he is proving impossible to catch."

"You can't catch him, he's Quicksilver!" blurted Lance, before ducking under the bonnet to hide his embarrassment.

"Yes," Erik simply said, and Lance could feel him peering into the exposed machinery of the Jeep. "Old girl giving you trouble, is she?"

His tone softened as if he was trying to be pleasant. There was still a touch of stiff formality in his manner of speaking that made it impossible to relax around him.

"Trouble's one word for it."

Lance stepped aside warily to let him have a look. After all, if it was a metal-related problem, maybe Erik would come in handy.

"Christ!" gasped Erik, taking a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket and mopping his face as he drew away.

"It's a mess, right?" agreed Lance. "I dunno where to begin."

Erik squinted up at Lance, wrinkles running from the corner of his eyes to his temples. "Changed the oil?"

"First thing I did."

"Checked the coolant level?"

"Yeah."

"Tested it for leaks? Checked the air-filter?"

For a while, Erik fired off solutions to which Lance answered that he had already tried them. He was surprised that this man, who was so ruthless in battle, and who was also Pietro's loathed father, was bothering to speak to him let alone help him.

Finally, Erik stood back from the Jeep, tilting his head to one side thoughtfully. "Would you mind if I tried something?"

"Go ahead," Lance said. It was difficult to mask his excitement, knowing what the great manipulator of metal was capable of. Maybe he could remould the Jeep into a Bugatti Veyron. "Please."

Erik waved an elegant hand, signalling for Lance to stand well back. Then Lance could only gawp at the overwhelming display of coolness as the man laid his palms flat over the bonnet, and without any apparent effort, made everything slide into place with a pleasing metallic clunk. It sounded as though the nuts and bolts were tightening, and immediately, the smoke stopped.

"Whoa," was all Lance could offer. In an awestruck daze, he shook Erik's hand as he mumbled incoherent thanks that featured the word 'awesome' at least three times.

"What did you just do?" he finally articulated, staring blankly from the bonnet to the amused looking Erik.

"I don't quite know," admitted Erik, sweeping his hair off his face again. "But it always seems to work with broken machinery. See? Deadly and handy."

His eyes glittered devilishly and he almost smiled. Lance was taken aback by this – it was a typical supervillain joke, but Erik's delivery was ironic as if he didn't want to be a badass metal mother.

Looking at the man who was not grey but silver, not old but experienced, Lance began to question his assumptions. This didn't seem to be the man on the battlefield who levitated like a red and purple phantom, bringing metallic doom to those who opposed him. Neither did it seem to be the evil, abusive father that Pietro raged against. Against his best judgement, Lance could feel admiration fizzing inside him, and mixed with the fear that remained; this produced a sick reverence that left Lance thinking about him for hours afterwards.

"How about you show me your mutant ability? It's only fair in exchange for my display," Erik said, gazing proudly at Lance. Lance felt the world squeeze in around them as if the only thing that existed was the unbearable pressure of those severe grey eyes.

"Uh…" He fumbled for a moment, wiping his palms repeatedly on his too-tight too-warm jeans. He knew that Erik was still looking at him. What were his powers? How did he access them? Think, Alvers! "Uh… I can make the ground shake. Well, more than that, I can break it and bring things down. Like an avalanche, which is, uh, why I'm called Avalanche I guess."

Erik nodded, and spread his palms in a polite gesture as if to say 'go ahead.' He took a seat in the shade of a large oak tree and peered up expectantly

Lance felt suddenly naked. Embarrassed, exposed, and grossly inferior. He flexed and unflexed his hand, hoping that his power wouldn't fail him now. The overwhelming fear of being unable to perform or impress and the threat of complete emasculation was scarily similar to how he had felt before sex.

'Come on, you bitch,' he growled to himself, building the familiar tingle in his fingers. Erik's eyes were like a magnifying glass held to the sun, and he was the poor ant getting fried. 'COME ON, YOU LITTLE PUSSY!'

The frustration seemed to fuel it – almost immediately, Lance sent a low, deep rumble through the ground, causing the earth to crack and shift, throwing up a rich and heavy fragrance. It felt so good to do this that it was hard to stop, although for the sake of the Earth, he always had to. Then he closed his eyes and relaxed his arms to halt the quake, breathing deeply.

"If I don't stop, I'll create a canyon," he apologised, sinking into a sitting position next to Erik.

"Indeed," Erik replied, nodding his head slowly as he admired the trail of broken ground. "You are very powerful."

"Maybe," muttered Lance sullenly, unable to hide the dark mood that always reared its ugly head when his power was mentioned.

Erik seized upon this, boring another steely glare into him. "Are you unhappy with being a mutant, Lance?

This absolutely demanded a response.

"I don't mind being a mutant. It's just… I wish I wasn't so destructive. There's always got to be a limit, I always have to stop myself. I look at Pietro, who can run and run and run without any consequences, and I wish that I was like that."

"There are consequences," Erik interrupted, a frown forming a deep crease between his eyebrows. But just before Lance could ask what these consequences were, the frown was replaced by an almost manic energy. "Now Lance, you mustn't resent your gift. Do you know what you can do? You can manipulate the very earth. Yes, it is destructive, but it's a matter of control. Look who you're talking to – if anybody understands about destructive powers, it is me. And didn't I just use mine for good? Trust yourself with your gift; believe in its potential, and remember that you are the master of it. Can you do that?"

Enthralled, Lance nodded. This was one skilled orator – Erik's passion made Lance believe every word.

"Good. Tell me, Lance, how does it feel to use your power?"

"It feels… awesome. Like every bad feeling I've ever had is escaping into the ground, like I'm letting all the pressure inside me out. And I can see the destruction I cause and I feel like God. I'm fucking with nature because I'm angry, and I get this feeling that if I wanted to, I could end the world. This planet we're standing on – if I shook it hard enough, I could break open the core and every living bastard would perish…" He tailed off, terrified of what he had just said. His heart pounded and tears pricked his eyes – he had never vocalised these feelings, never thought to explore them. "S-sorry. For swearing."

"Fuelled by rage," Erik said clinically, as if they still talking about the Jeep. "That is not a bad thing, Lance. Don't be ashamed, you can achieve greatness."

Lance felt that if Erik told him that he could sprout pink fairy wings and fly, he would believe it. Now he was certain that Pietro, not to mention the rest of the world, was wrong about this man. Erik had fixed his car. Erik had made him feel things that he had never felt before, and Erik had made him feel worthy. That was something nobody else had ever bothered to do.

"It is getting late," announced Erik, standing in one fluid movement. For a man of his age, he was clearly extremely fit. "I am going to have to go, but before I do, I'd like to offer you some help. I can give you guidance on how to master your gift. I could also help you to hone it; perhaps even give you some training. Would you be interested in that?"

Lance almost clapped his hands with glee. He had seen how cool the X-Geek training suite was – Magneto's had to be about ten times cooler. He probably had real guns and everything. "Would I! I mean… Yeah, that'd be great, sir. Thank you."

"Excellent," said Erik in a very business-like manner, handing Lance a card with his contact details.

Lance blinked at the card, wondering if any other supervillains gave out business cards. Then he remembered something Pietro said about his father using cards to hook and recruit mutants. He wondered if he should be repulsed at this like Pietro was, but all he felt was flattery.

"Thank you," he said again, shaking Erik's hand. He had to work hard to hide the extremely dorky grin that was bubbling up inside him. In one of those giddy mental images one gets in moments of extreme excitement, he pictured himself skipping around the house with that business card, singing 'I've got a golden ticket!' Then, worried that he may be humming the tune aloud, he gave Erik a formal little nod.

Erik tilted his hat like an old school movie hero, and started up the driveway. Heart still thudding, Lance gazed from the fixed Jeep to the contact card to the retreating figure. He felt weird, slightly faint, but that was surely the heat.

…

When Pietro finally returned, he was drenched in speed-induced sweat. Why do I do this to myself? He wondered as he stood on the landing, bent against Lance's bedroom door to catch his breath. The door was slightly ajar and a tiny slither of Lance's crumpled bed was visible. The impish desire to sneak inside that empty room healed Pietro instantly, and before he knew what he was doing, he was on the other side of that door.

Lance's room was, of course, a massive smelly anti-climax. Socks strewn everywhere, empty coke cans on the floor, the guitar lying on the scruffy tartan-sheeted bed as if it was having a nap… He had posters of babes and cars and rockstars – all very nondescript and unrevealing of his personality. Pietro sighed, stepping gingerly to avoid hooking stray pairs of boxers onto his feet. Lance's desk was just as much of a disappointment, holding Pisa-esque piles of half-done homework and yellowing textbooks. There was a wallet – empty, unfortunately – and several bottlecaps of foreign beers that may or may not have suggested sentimental value.

"You boring bastard," Pietro muttered. He turned to leave, but a business card caught his eye. Why would anybody want to do business with Lance 'predictably ordinary' Alvers?

On closer inspection, the card produced a horrible feel in Pietro's stomach, as if a troop of slugs were squelching their way through his digestive system. Oh yes, he had seen these before. It pained him to admit this, but he always secretly coveted one. No, he felt sick. He needed to put the thing down and leave, or better, take it with him and destroy it in the hope that Lance would forget all about the card's dishonest promise. And he hoped to all deities that Lance had not already contacted 'Erik Lensherr – Mutant Mentor'….

Mentor. What a disgusting nerve that man had. Mentors were positive forces. Mentors cared. Why Lance, anyway? What was so special about him that Erik would rather give him a card than his own fucking son?

Pietro glared at the card, hoping that it might ignite if he glared at it hard enough. He felt angry and hurt and jealous and betrayed. He didn't even know who he was upset with. His mind worked too fast to make sense of it.

Although Pietro's mind worked fast, when it was absorbed in one thing, it registered little else. It was for this reason that Lance found Pietro standing in the middle of his bedroom, scowling at a card that he had picked up in blatant snooping.

Taken aback, Lance paused by the door. "Um, hello."

Pietro glanced from the offending card to the offending boy, transferring the scowl in an instant. Lance found it beyond odd that Pietro should be angry at being caught snooping in a room that wasn't his, but Pietro's reactions were rarely sensible.

"What the fuck, Pietro?"

Like a hungry crocodile, Pietro's eyes narrowed to slits so that only a flicker could be seen. "What's this?" he asked, pointing at the card.

"Why are you in my room?"

"What's this?"

"It's mine, and why the hell are you in my room?"

"Your door was open," Pietro deadpanned, either ignoring or failing to register that he was in the wrong. He was talking in that tight, calm, dangerously controlled manner he used when he was severely pissed off. "Talk me through this calling card, Lance."

Lance swallowed a few times. "I don't know man; it's a card, contact details."

Pietro rolled his eyes and waved the card impatiently. "Don't be a douche, Lance, I know exactly what it is. When did he give it to you?"

"Back off," commanded Lance, removing the card from Pietro with effortless power. "Prissy little ass. If you must know, your dad dropped by this afternoon looking for you."

At this, Pietro's jaw retreated and his mouth turned inwards as if he was sucking a lemon pickled in bleach. "What did the old bastard want?"

"Didn't say," shrugged Lance. "He waited a while for you, helped to fix the Jeep and then we talked a little about powers."

"Oh, powers!" Pietro exclaimed, spitting out the 'p' sound. "Tell me you didn't buy the 'treasure your gift' spiel. Let me guess, he told you he'd help you. You think he can fix you like he fixed your Jeep. Well, here's what sucks, Lance, he's not going to help you. You know what those cards are really for? Recruitment. Recruitment into his army of stupid brainwashed mutants who, by the way, are just there to take the bullets for him. You'd better not be stupid enough to fall for this shit."

Wow. He really hates that guy, thought Lance, wondering why the words felt like daggers. Pietro was almost certainly wrong. Before Lance had met Erik, he believed that he was a callous evil monster who rejected all of Pietro's efforts to build bridges. Now he perceived Pietro to be the cold one, avoiding his own father and poisoning others against him. Erik had been so nice and charming, and Pietro was nothing but a selfish creep.

"You know, it's not really your business whether I call him or not," said Lance.

Pietro prickled as expected. "Of course it's my goddamn business, he's my father."

"Your father when it suits you," Lance muttered. Why was he so annoyed?

"Meaning what?" Pietro whispered murderously

"Meaning," growled Lance, eyes flashing darkly, "that you spend your life bitching and whining about the guy, you avoid his calls and pretend that he doesn't exist except as some excuse for all your fuck-ups. But if somebody even tries to get close to him, you get all jealous and act like you know best when really, you haven't got a clue. You've got no interest in him apart from where it concerns you. Seriously, do you know how fucking lucky you are to have a father?"

Ah. That was the reason. Lance breathed deeply, acknowledging the overwhelming rage of a wound still raw from his childhood. Must be why he couldn't stop thinking about Erik, the dad he'd never had.

Pietro laughed softly, clapping Lance on the shoulder in a sardonic 'well done.' "You know, that analysis wasn't half bad, Alvers. I liked the bit about him being an excuse for my fuck-ups, that was… interesting," he purred, pulling an arrogant smirk. "And if you're so desperate to have a father, go ahead, take mine. I won't be there to pick up the pieces when he drops you from a great height."

"What is your problem?" exploded Lance, using every inch of his self-control not to pick Pietro up and shake all the irritating little jerk out of him. "Before I met him, I believed everything you said. But all I saw was a nice, intelligent guy who wanted to help."

"Turning on the charm," scoffed Pietro.

"No," insisted Lance. "And you know what? When I told him that you weren't there, he looked hurt. He said that he couldn't track you down anymore. Maybe, if you gave him a chance, he'd actually be a father to you."

In an almost uncanny resemblance to the way Erik had looked, Pietro's eyes dropped and he sucked in his cheeks pensively. This wasn't all his fault. And anyway, why would his father want to build bridges just to burn them down again before he could cross?

As if on cue, Pietro's phone rang. He took it out of his pocket, mumbled something about speak of the devil and answered peevishly.

"Pietro speaking."

Lance backed into his bed and sat down, watching the constant nuances in Pietro's expression.

"Sorry, I was at the mall. I hear you met Lance."

It was funny how cold and distant Pietro sounded when his face was doing emotional aerobics.

"Today? What's so special about June the sixteenth?"

"It's July," Lance announced from the opposite end of the room. Obviously hearing the same thing over the phone, Pietro's eyes practically rolled out of his skull and his mouth contorted in a series of silent swear words.

'What's wrong?' mouthed Lance.

"No… I didn't know, I got the date wrong, I'm sorry, father. Look, if I'd realised, you know I'd be the first person to -"

But the line had gone dead. Pietro brought his hands to his hair, clenching handfuls. "Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. Shit," he said, as if the word was a sudden revelation.

"What did you do?" asked Lance to the ceiling, reclining with his hands behind his head. This was just proving his theory right – Pietro was a useless son. "Or not do?"

"I got the date wrong!" moaned Pietro, pacing with all the unspent energy of a caged kangaroo. "By an entire month. Shit."

This was not unusual for Pietro. Life passed so quickly for him that he found calendars and clocks irrelevant, except for the benefit of ordinary slow folk.

"I'd better go," he mumbled to himself, sweeping back the hair that he had made stand on end with his panicked clutching.

"What? Wait. Where?" Lance started to get up, but Pietro had all but zoomed down the stairs in a silvery blur.

What a strange day. Confused, Lance shook his head and lay back, closing his eyes. The face that floated into mind was Erik's.

…

In ten minutes, Pietro was at the stark red door of his father's unnervingly immaculate 1930s house. The house was associated with cold, hard glares and being told what a disappointment he was and this ridiculous annual ritual where they had to pretend that they were family.

Erik opened the door, wearing the same creaseless linen shirt. He looked at his son, expressionless.

"Hello. I really did get the date wrong; I'm so sorry, I never -"

"You're losing control," Erik said coolly. Pietro's heart sank. His father had always thought that his super-speed would ruin him. "Well, come in."

With leaden legs, Pietro followed his father wordlessly down a hallway of endless magnolia wall. There were no paintings, and the floor was a dull stone tile which gave a minimalist, echoey feel to the place.

They turned into the garden. It was just starting to get dark and the neat rows of flowers were giving off an intense, almost sickly fragrance. At the end of the garden, Erik had set up a small, rectangular table. Draped over it was a silky black cloth, and he had made a display of a tall white lily in a plain glass vase flanked by two tall candles.

Pietro wrung his hands. His eyes had skipped the display completely to fall immediately on the framed photograph at the corner of the table. The dark haired woman in the picture looked back at him with calm innocence. Her hair fell around her face in soft waves; she was sweetly pretty and had the look of somebody who'd never experienced any evil in her life. Unfortunately this was not true.

He didn't remember her as well as he wanted to. She died when he was six, held at gunpoint in a bank robbery. Everything went a bit wrong after that. He often thought how different his life would have been if she'd lived, how different his father would be if she'd lived.

Erik was looking at her too, brow creased and mouth tight. Too many innocent people in his life had been killed – it was if they were being punished for their sweetness and goodness. This woman – Magda, his wife, their mother – did not know how to hurt people. She had soothed all his rage with love, but her death irreparably damaged him. He was unable to keep hold of the children, indeed he didn't want to. Wanda's rage was inconsolable and dangerous, and at eight, he had to admit her to a mental hospital. Then he put Pietro, her twin, into care. Without the children, he could focus on making the world better, safer for people like him. He was consumed by ugly, terrible anger that still burned at the pit of his stomach.

The routine was the same as ever. Erik handed Pietro a box of matches, and he lit the candle on the right. Then Erik took the matches and lit the candle on the left. Pietro had never asked if the second candle was for Wanda, but he always thought of her as he stared into the flickering flames.

"Magda, we remember you," Erik said in Polish. "We always shall."

"Always in my thoughts, Mama," murmured Pietro, also in Polish.

They drank a small cup of wine and said a prayer although neither of them were particularly religious. Erik recounted the story of her death; every year he told Pietro a little bit more and it sickened him. Pietro understood the anger and the grudge against the human race, but how could his father give up on his own children?

"Not so hot now," announced Erik in the overly transparent tone that dysfunctional parents use when trying to be civil. He gestured for Pietro to sit next to him on a low wooden bench, where he perched regally with a straight back. Pietro found himself obeying automatically.

"I hope you stayed out of the sun today, Pietro."

Pietro pouted and shrugged at this pathetic attempt to enquire about his welfare.

"You will dehydrate very quickly in this heat."

"That's okay, I drink plenty of beer," quipped Pietro, quite forgetting whose company he was in. When he was met with a stern look that could have melted the Grand Canyon, he smiled in a way that he hoped would be mildly angelic.

"Honestly, father, I'm fine. I know how to look after myself."

Erik ground his teeth in response. "Now I have seen where you live, I'm not entirely sure you can."

"It's a sh -" Here, Pietro managed to catch himself before he uttered 'shitheap' in front of his father. "… Shocking mess, isn't it? And it was bad before four adolescent boys moved in. Anyway, you can hardly blame me for where I live – blame Mystique."

"I may have to," muttered Erik, and the thought of Bitchy Blue getting her ass kicked secretly delighted Pietro.

"So…" Pietro glanced around the garden, knowing full well that he couldn't leave yet. "You met Lance today. Are you going to put him in your super-team?" (He could barely disguise the venom.)

Noting Pietro's jealousy, Erik chose to tread carefully. "I wouldn't say that. Lance is a very able mutant, but his power is lacks sophistication. I merely offered to help him - the same offer I have made to you many times," he added with a meaningful nod in Pietro's direction.

That veiled offer. Pietro had refused it because he knew deep down that he would get sucked in by his father. He would get the relationship with his dad that he'd always wanted, and in return Erik would get a brainwashed soldier. It was simple; he wouldn't get close enough to Erik to get hurt just as he wouldn't cut up a carrot with a meat cleaver in case he chopped off a finger.

"Maybe one day," Pietro said, finding that answer preferable to 'go fuck yourself.' "Are you honestly not planning to recruit Lance?"

'Honestly' being the operative word.

Erik frowned at his son. "I hardly think so, Pietro. He seems like a very well-rounded young man -"

He was interrupted by a snort of derision from Pietro. "You are joking. Lance was thrown out of Anger Management at school for punching the therapist!"

"Well, that's one of the reasons I'd like to help him," Erik said evenly. "Perhaps he is not academic, but I see a lot of potential in him."

Potential! "So you are working on him! You wouldn't recruit him now because he's not ready. You've got designs on him and you're going to take him away from the Brotherhood, where he belongs!"

Erik was unwillingly transported back to a conversation with an eight year old Pietro – "you're going to take her away from her family, where she belongs!" He closed his eyes for a moment, wondering…

Pietro was surprised by his own words. He had thought this was all about wanting to be in Lance's position, but he'd come to an unwelcome revelation. He was afraid of losing Lance, and the mere thought of it made his heart thud painfully against his chest.

"Pietro, where is all this coming from? You're overexcited; I told you the sun would affect you. Come inside and drink some iced water."

And like an obedient little sheep, Pietro went. Perhaps Erik was right; he did feel a bit strange. He'd have to mull it over later, when of course, he'd be thinking more sensibly.

…

Somehow, Erik had predicted Pietro's illness. Either that or he had put something in the wine. Pietro couldn't think straight, his skin was sticky-clammy and he couldn't stop shivering although he was positively roasting inside. He had woken up in a bed – at first he thought it was his childhood bed and that he was a child as his father looked so enormous looming over him with a thermometer.

"What? Why am I -?"

His voice was pathetic. It sounded like it was floating in from another dimension.

"You fainted," Erik said matter-of-factly. "I suspect you have sunstroke."

"Sunstroke," Pietro moaned drowsily. "Is this hospital?"

"No, no, you are still at my house. Although the bed probably does feel like a paltry hospital bed – I'm afraid my guest room is rather basic."

"Your house," parroted Pietro. Suddenly an emotion pierced his heart. "Lance!"

Erik's dark shape overwhelmed him and something cold and wet was dabbed over his face. "Yes, I thought of phoning him. Tell me the number, if you can."

Reeling off the familiar number was like swimming through an ocean of treacle. Erik had to prompt him several times, frequently dabbing that stupid wet towel across his brow even though the towel wasn't cold anymore.

The dark shape went away – the high-pitched beeping of a dialling tone stabbed needles into Pietro's eyes. He was vaguely aware that his father was actually being a dad by looking after him, but his spinning mind confused the thought by believing that Erik was his first foster parent, a fat businessman who spoiled him but barely said a word to him. So he must be nine, or was he back in care, or did he have nine fathers who didn't care? Who was sitting inside his head playing his eyeballs like gongs?

He closed his eyes, drifting.

…

When Erik phoned, Lance almost dropped the phone into the garbage disposal with excitement. Something was going to happen here – something dangerously thrilling.

He was worried about descending into awkward jabber over the phone, but Erik gave him no chance to speak.

"Lance? It's Erik. I need you to come over straightaway, here's my address -"

Whoa. That was more than Lance was expecting. His hand shook with jittery anticipation as he took down the address.

"I don't want to alarm you," Erik was saying. "But Pietro was taken ill this evening."

Taken ill. There was no phrase more frightening to Lance. That was what the Principal had said, years ago, when his mother had been rushed to hospital after an overdose and died completely undignified on a trolley in a corridor.

"God, like, seriously ill?"

"He'll need close monitoring, but it looks like he has sunstroke and fatigue."

Lance breathed again.

"I would suggest, Lance, that until he is better, he stays with me. I have good medical supplies and I feel that this environment would be more…" Clean. "…Healing."

Well, Lance had no problem with that. With a phobia of all bodily fluids and the tolerance of firework on a short fuse, he would make a terrible nurse. Todd's dreadful hygiene made him unsuitable for the role, and while Freddie had the patience and the caring attitude, he lacked any sort of common sense.

"Can I see you – er, him?" Lance blurted, hoping that Erik would interpret that slip as nervous concern for his friend."

"Yes, of course, that is why I gave you the address," replied Erik, sounding puzzled. "I did also ask you to come over straightaway, with some of Pietro's things, if you don't mind."

Crap. Lance sounded like an idiot now.

"Like, clothes and a toothbrush and shit – uh, stuff?"

"Yes," Erik sounded impatient now. "As soon as possible, please."

"I'll be right over," mumbled Lance, defeated.

"Thank you, Lance."

…

Lance closed the door of his newly fixed Jeep, drinking in the sight of Erik's house. It was not the elaborate gothic Disney villain's castle he'd imagined, although it was clear that Erik's financial position was definitely 'comfortable.'

He rang the doorbell, awkwardly swinging the gym bag that contained a random assortment of Pietro's things. Erik's tall, graceful silhouette appeared behind the glass panel and he opened the door, taking the bag from Lance without a word.

Lance followed him inside, noticing nothing but a pleasant herbal scent. The place had a serene emptiness – it was like a hospital should feel without the bustle and horror and drama.

"I do appreciate you coming," Erik said politely. "Can I fetch you a drink, Lance?"

Brandy would probably be the best option – Lance's insides were dancing an incessant nervous jig.

"No, thank you. I, uh, I packed all the things I could think of, but if I missed anything out just call me and I'll bring it over."

"That's very kind of you," said Erik, who had paused at the foot of the stairs and gave Lance a dazzling smile. The word handsome had probably been invented for Erik, although he was so much more than that – he could be powerful, he could be terrifying, he could be sly, he could be spectacular and so much more.

"If you'd like to stay a little longer, we could start working on your self-control," Erik said, and Lance initially spluttered with horrified shock before he realised that Erik was, in fact, talking about his control over his mutation.

"That'd be awesome," answered Lance, who was beginning to feel increasingly sillier in Erik's magnificent presence. "Can I see Pietro now?"

Erik nodded. "Of course. I was just going up there myself."

Lance followed him up the stairs, wishing that he could walk with such confidence. Erik moved his long limbs like he owned every inch of them; it was clearly that age had brought him happiness in his own skin. Nobody Lance's age had that, particularly not losers in serious need of a haircut who had the fashion sense of a chimpanzee with a penchant for Bon Jovi.

They came into a small room consisting of a pine single bed, a small chest of drawers and a circular mirror on the wall. In the bed was Pietro, who was feverishly trying at once to pull the covers over himself and to throw them off.

Erik held a finger up, telling Lance to wait a moment. He approached the bed softly and crouched by it, speaking in a foreign language. To Lance's surprise, he pulled a stethoscope from his pocket, Pietro obediently offered his bare chest and Erik listened, chewing on his lips in concentration.

He put the stethoscope away, mumbled something else foreign and crossed to a notepad on top of the chest of drawers where he wrote something down.

"Are you a doctor?" asked Lance, whose opinion of Erik was rising tenfold.

"Me? No," Erik said with the lid of a ballpoint pen in his mouth as he wrote. He closed the pad, clicked the lid back on the pen, and rocked back on his heels thoughtfully. "Pietro's mutation can cause his body to overwork itself – therefore, when he is unwell, monitoring his heart-rate is essential. Normally, his heart beats at twenty times the rate of ours but it is currently beating at twenty-five times the usual rate."

"Twenty-five!" announced Pietro with delirious abandon. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Lance smiled.

Erik's stethoscope and his notes and the gentle tone he used when addressing his sick son were almost certainly testimonies to the fact that he was a good person. If he really didn't care about Pietro, would he have put him to bed and offered to nurse him through his illness?

With a little more heaviness in his gait, Erik moved towards the door. "Excuse me; I need to make some calls."

And then Lance was alone with a crazy sick person. He approached with caution as if Pietro was a ticking bomb that he needed to dismantle.

"Hey, dork."

He hazarded a glance at Pietro, who was usually mortified to have even one hair out of place. In his illness, his sweaty hair stuck in clumps to his face, his cheeks had turned almost comically red, and his eyes had the glazed appearance of a dead trout.

"Lance," he rasped. "Hey, Lance. Lance, I need to tell you something," he said, suddenly jerking upright and staring manically ahead. "I'm not sick. I'm not, I'm not. Get me out of here, I'm a prisoner."

"Ri-ight." Concerned that overexcitement might make Pietro's super-heart explode (why had Erik told him that?) Lance gently pushed him back down. A wave of nausea washed over Lance at the scorching, slimy feel of Pietro's skin. "You are sick, man. And you're not going to get better if you don't stay here. Your dad is looking after you really well -"

"He's making me ill so he can keep me here!" insisted Pietro, practically cross-eyed with fervour.

Lance pulled the covers back over Pietro. "Don't talk shit"

Partly because his brain could not form one coherent thought, and partly because he always listened to Lance, Pietro mumbled, "Okay."

Despite thinking that Pietro was possibly the world's most irritating person, Lance had to admit this was rather cute.

"Know what else you should do?" asked Lance with a rare tenderness in his voice. "Go to sleep. You'll feel better when you wake up."

"…. Okay."

Immediately, Pietro's eyes closed and his head lolled on the pillow. Lance watched him for a moment, supposing that actually, Pietro was just a kid really. So was he. They should have somebody to care for them when they were sick.

"Lance… Love you…"

Lance raised an eyebrow. "Sure you do."

Delirium could be hilarious sometimes.

…

When Lance came downstairs, Erik called him from the garden where he was taking apart his makeshift altar.

"How's the patient?"

"Talking nonsense, but what's new. He'll be okay, won't he?"

Erik paused, his nose in a lily. "Theoretically, yes. It is only sunstroke."

Lance frowned, leaning against the fence. "What d'you mean, theoretically?"

"Pietro's health is not predictable," Erik almost snapped, snatching up the extinguished candles.

The photo still stood, and Lance gazed at it. He understood from the lilies and candles that the lady was dead. This was the fuck-up that Pietro had made with the dates and the reason that Erik had been looking for him.

"Sorry," Lance said automatically, feeling that he was intruding on something sacred.

"My wife," Erik nodded at the picture, white hair bouncing as he did so. "Pietro's mother. It was a long time ago, but we still honour her memory."

It had never even occurred to Lance that Pietro had a mother. It was as if he was a mini-clone of Magneto, and that was that. Pietro had never mentioned her, but then, Lance had never mentioned his mother either. Did Pietro feel the same, did he miss her, and did he long for a mother's tenderness?

"My mom died too," Lance uttered dreamily, staring deep into the woman's eyes.

"I see," Erik responded with the calm detachment of a psychiatrist. "It is a terrible thing to lose somebody so important to you."

"She killed herself."

"Magda was shot dead in a bank robbery." Again, there was no sympathy or acknowledgement of Lance's feelings.

"Sorry," Lance echoed. Perhaps it wasn't appropriate, but he felt dejected. Erik had brushed aside his dead mother – anybody else would have said something, anything to acknowledge the suffering.

Erik surveyed Lance's face without emotion. "I was right about you, then. This is the epicentre of your rage, Lance. Embrace it. Become it."

Lance cringed inside. "I.. Uh.. I really don't know if I want to use my mom that way..."

"Nobody's using anybody, Lance. In fact, you are purifying the memory of her by diffusing all of this ugly hatred elsewhere. All I'm trying to teach you is to channel the anger and pain that you feel towards your power."

Once again, Erik's articulation was flowing through Lance like wine. He wasn't sure what Erik was saying, but he wanted him to keep talking. "Channel?"

Erik put a strong hand between Lance's shoulder blades. "Come inside, I'll make coffee, and we'll discuss it further."

He kept his hand there as they walked. Around that hand Lance felt a liquid warmth– he liked to be led.

…

It was late when Lance finally arrived back home at the Brotherhood's casa de crap. He headed immediately for the couch, and in one swift movement he had thrown off his shirt and pounced, bare-chested, over the back of it. His landing, although far from graceful, threw him into a comfortable sprawled position.

"You break that couch, you buy a new one, dumbass," snarled Todd, who was sitting at the table poring over an essay that he had to write by tomorrow or face permanent exclusion for having failed to hand in a single piece of work ever.

"Got your period again?" retorted Lance, idly flicking through the television channels. It was too early for horror movies and porn, but too late for goofy comedy. This was the hour of fatally boring TV dramas.

Todd balled up a piece of paper (the seventeenth piece, to be precise) and launched it at Lance's head. "Didn't you go to pick up Pietro?"

"Too sick," shrugged Lance. "Staying at his father's."

There was a predictable horrified silence. "You left him with Magneto?"

Lance yawned. Todd gawped at Lance, unable to believe that his team-mate wasn't at all concerned that Pietro was in the hands of a big crazy maniac.

"Have you ever spoken to Magneto, Todd?"

"Hell, no!" the boy replied, shaking his head firmly as if the very idea was offensive.

"Well," began Lance, becoming puffed-up with an ill-founded duty to protect this man he had only just met. "His name is Erik. He lives in a normal redbrick house, not Dracula's castle. He's got better manners than asswipes like you could ever dream of. And from what I can see, he cares about people. He certainly cares Pietro, who'd have us believe that his father drop-kicked him into the streets on his own. I saw them together, Todd, and he was looking after Pietro like a real dad, caring for him better than we could."

Todd looked at Lance like he was an alien. "Dude's got you brainwashed," he sang under his breath.

"No," insisted Lance. "He's okay, and he -" Lance stopped in his tracks. He didn't want to tell Todd about his wonderful session with Erik or the help that he was getting. That was special to him, and he wanted to keep it that way.

"You are acting strange, man. Seriously, you're freakin' me out, yo. Why do you care so much about this guy anyway?"

Care? "I don't care," bristled Lance defensively. "I'm just telling you that Pietro will be fine at his place. Besides, can you really complain about having Maximoff out of your hair?"

A cloud of dust flew into the air as Todd snapped one book shut and opened another. "Can't disagree there. So how sick was he? Was he whining like a little pussy and telling you what outfit to pick out for his funeral?"

Todd was referring to a bout of tonsillitis that Pietro had where everybody knew just how ill he was and how he thought he was on his deathbed. Both boys snickered at the memory.

Despite this, the word 'funeral' triggered a serious response in Lance's mind. He thought of Erik's face as he recorded Pietro's heartbeat.

"He's pretty bad, actually," Lance admitted. Being a boy, it was important to counter this with humour. "So bad that he didn't even realise his hair looked like shit. Seriously, man, you seen Night of the Living Dead? He was rocking the zombie look."

"No way!" cackled Todd. "You should've taken a picture – about time we had some good blackmail material, yo."

Lance smiled conspiratorially. "That's not all I've got… He was delirious, saying weird shit about being poisoned and stuff. And then, out of nowhere, when I'm leaving – get this, he says -" Lance raised the pitch of his voice to a cruel simper. "- 'Love you, Lance.'"

"WHAT?" Todd sprang off his chair and rolled on the floor with laughter, clutching his sides. "Aw man, that's embarrassing. Too fucking funny, yo, I'm gonna puke if I don't stop laughing. Oh. Oh god. Fuck, yo, I mean of all the people to say it to…"

Shaking his hair out of his face, Lance queried, "What do you mean?"

"Well, I can believe that Pietro's into guys, no problem. But the idea that he might be into you? Shit, Lance, you've gotta be the least gay person ever."

"Yeah! Yeah, I am," Lance replied quickly. If Todd was convinced, then surely he could convince himself. So he admired Erik and had enjoyed spending time with him today and was really excited about their next meeting. That was all quite innocent. And when he'd looked at Erik's full bottom lip this evening and considered how his kiss would feel, he was probably just confused. Delirious, perhaps. Maybe he had sunstroke too.

'Don't talk shit,' he'd told Pietro. Well, now he needed to follow his own advice and not think shit.

He zoned back in to hear Todd wittering on about how he was counting on Pietro to write his essay for him. "Maybe you can help me write it. Do you know anything about denial, Lance?"

Lance didn't miss a beat. "Not a thing."