So long as we love, we serve.
So long as we are loved by others, I would almost say that we are indispensable.
And no-one is useless while they have a friend.
--Robert Louis Stevenson
There was something to be said about shoppers on the night of the 24th, and it concerned a lot of curse words; several of them that were in a decidedly Mediterranean tongue. Lounging next to a display of dog-food in the front of the store, Pietro was watching Dominic, still seven people behind in the line at Walco, try to keep his rising temper in check.
They wouldn't even be out here except for the dire need of toilet paper, coffee creamer, windshield de-icer, and a few other items of a more feminine persuasion (Hint: one of these was chocolate, and it was the one item neither Brotherhood member would dare return without).
No, both he and Pietro were well-finished with their Christmas shopping. They were merely fortunate enough to require such emergency supplies on the exact hour that several hundred morons realized they'd forgotten scotch tape and wrapping paper. Some seem to have forgotten altogether that Christmas was tomorrow and had loaded up their carts with the laziest presents known to mankind. (Scented hand lotion and Snuggies?TM Really, people?)
Slowly, the line shuffled forward.
A wailing filled the air; apparently the child in front of Dominic wasn't getting the Transformers toy he wanted the second he laid his eyes on it. The poor abused little tot. Pietro smirked and shook his head as Dominic rolled his eyes and looked at him plaintively. Before Petrakis could finish his long-suffering sigh, Pietro's shoulder was pressing comfortingly against his.
"Yes, I still hate lines with a passion," Pietro assured Dominic's questioning gaze. "But you hate crying brats worse. I just had to see the vein in your temple throbbing up close to fully enjoy it."
Dom grinned back at him. "How touching. I'm thinking maybe I should let three more people cut in front of me, just so you can enjoy it longer," he threatened mildly.
"No thanks. Poor Mort will be frozen solid by the time we get out of here." Pietro's gaze went to the frosted store windows, trying to see the Jeep parked outside, lost in a troubled sea of SUVs and family cars.
"Good. I always thought he'd make an intriguing ice sculpture. A frozen amphibian is a quiet amphibian."
Pietro snorted. "Quiet? He's barely said three words since we left for the store."
"I don't even know why he wanted to come in the first place. He knows he cannot come inside."
"Well, Neena is pretty terrifying right now, you have to admit -"
"Yes, perhaps I agree," Dominic relented crossly, as the child's crying for his toy reached new levels of annoying volume. His mother was doing her level best to simply ignore it, writing out her check. "Nevertheless if he catches cold, then it is on his own head . . . " The earth-shaker trailed off to stare incredulously at the kid in front of him.
The little idiot was actually choking on his own spit as he beat the side of the register conveyor belt in his tantrum. "BUT-I -WANT-IIIIIIIT!" The air nearly split with his shrieking. The pulsing vein in Petrakis' head was a beauty to behold. Pietro eyed the tack strip of disposable cameras hanging up next to all the bubblegum, sorely tempted.
"Excuse me, small child!" Dominic barked. "You want the toy, yes?"
Breaking off his screeching mantra with a loud hiccough, the kid looked up at him, eyes wide with hopeful tears.
"Then GET A JOB!" The Grecian snapped, dumping the contents of his basket onto the belt.
The boy's mouth dropped open, and so did his mother's. "That was totally unnecessary!" she started to say, but she was drowned out by applause from the surrounding people in line (including more than a few cashiers). Pietro however, did not applaud. He was too busy laughing his ass off.
Mortified, the woman grabbed her bags and her stupefied child by the hand, storming out through the doors.
"And you said you were terrible with children," Pietro chuckled, wiping at his eyes. Dom only scowled and paid in cash for their purchases. Watching the man fondly, Pietro barely waited until they'd cleared the security doors before linking his arm with Dominic's.
"The hell?" Petrakis snorted incredulously.
"What?"
"If I yell at Toynbee, it makes you the opposite of romantic. But if I should yell at random small children . . . ?"
"Sex," Pietro promised, "Lots of sex."
Dominic started humming the theme to Twilight Zone, though he was smiling in amusement. Until he saw that the jeep's tail-lights were on, illuminating the clouds of steam billowing from its back-end. His eyes narrowed and Pietro groaned inwardly.
Mort guiltily turned off the heat as soon as the passenger door opened. "What did I tell you about wasting gas?" Dom asked flatly.
"I only had it on for five minutes!" Mortimer protested, scrambling into the backseat. Pietro sat in the driver's side, closing the door after him. They had of course raised the jeep's cover, which did little except break the wind while they drove. He didn't blame Mort for blasting the heater, but he knew better than to take sides. So long as he didn't get in the middle of it, whatever stupid argument either of them started (and most of them were stupid) would run its course to the end and then gratefully die.
"You are the one who wanted to come with us despite having to wait out in the cold."
"So that means I don't have the right to keep warm? Come on, man, what the hell!"
"It is not my fault you did not have the sense to bring blankets or a bigger jacket!" Dom sniped.
"Uh, hello? You refused to wait for me to get some!" Mort shot back. "You threatened to leave me behind if-"
"Can you never just shut up?" Dominic cut him off, exasperated. Pietro merely sighed, pulling out of the parking space. Now there was sure to be bickering all the way home.
Surprisingly, Mortimer conceded, settling his back against the door and pulling his sweatshirt over his knees. Usually the kid didn't know when to quit, always trying to get in the last word. Tonight he must be simply too frozen and weary to care.
Pietro frowned to himself as he drove out of the Walco lot, taking the least congested exit. He was looking forward to getting home. Once everyone was inside and warming up, (once Domino had her pain killers and chocolates), everything would be so much better. All he had to do was avoid the holiday traffic. Piece of cake.
About five minutes later, Pietro was glowering at the train crossing light as the black behemoth roared across the tracks. Drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, he had to wonder if every spare car in the train yard had been attached to this particular engine, with the sole intent of pissing him off. He heard Mort shifting in the backseat, probably trying to curl up for warmth.
Outside there was a commotion. Pietro idly glanced out the window to see that a group of thugs had surrounded an older man just down the alley. One lucky hit and a bag of groceries went flying.
"Unbelievable. Christmas Eve, and these stupid flatscanners are tearing each other apart for spare change," he muttered, mostly to himself. He wasn't really expecting either of his traveling companions to care.
From behind, there was a sharp intake of breath and the sudden jolt of the backseat door opening. Pietro watched in stunned disbelief as Mort ran across the street and down the alley – towards the fight.
"He's lost it," Dominic remarked, and though the words were laid back Pietro could feel the tension in the man's body. What the hell was Mort doing?
With a string of curses and a squeal of tires on asphalt, Pietro made an illegal u-turn and parked the jeep against the curb, nearly hitting it. He didn't wait for Dominic before jumping out of the driver's seat and racing after Toynbee. The gust of wind he created sent snow flying up the sides of the alley and he skidded to a halt at the end of it, staring.
Mortimer was not what one would call a good fighter. If he could be called a fighter at all; usually his favorite part of any battle was the retreat. But against a group of inexperienced kids who clearly had not been expecting a mutant to literally jump into their midst, he could hold his own fairly well.
Their organized attack went to pieces as a tongue lashed out, wrapping around one thug's arm and sending him crashing into two of his fellows. A thick gob of slime cemented a switchblade knife to its owners hand, rendering it useless,
Pietro watched in utter bewilderment, wondering what in the hell had prompted the frog-boy's sudden chivalry.
"Clearly, one of the X-men has bitten him in the night. Best check for marks." Dominic remarked dryly. He was watching the show as well, leaning against the alley wall. Like Pietro, he made no move to aid Mortimer – since it was apparent that the kid was handling things just fine without them.
Toynbee landed in front of the gang leader, who had been circling back for their prey, intent on getting the fallen man's wallet. Hissing, Mort bared his sharp teeth and stalked forward. To several already unnerved teenagers, it worked wonders. They bolted as swiftly as they had come, leaving their semi-conscious victim and three mutants in the alley.
Mort let himself relax out of battle stance, panting slightly. He pulled his hood up before turning back to the bewildered gentleman who was spluttering now and trying to get up. Slowly, Mort knelt, bracing a hand on the man's back to help push him into a sitting position. And that was where Pietro's patience wore out.
"Great job. Now let's get out of here before you give the geezer a heart attack." Pietro gripped Mort's upper arm, yanking him to his feet. He started to drag him back to the jeep.
"No - Pietro wait!"
"For what? You saved his life – what else is there? Congratulations, you've earned your wings. Get your ass in the car."
Dominic caught Pietro's eye over Mort's shoulder and tapped his own jugular meaningfully. Pietro scowled, not really in the mood for jokes. The train would be gone by now and he was in favor of avoiding any further trouble and taking his leave of the neighborhood.
Really, what the hell had Toynbee been thinking? He could have gotten knifed or shot. Pietro shook his head, firmly. It was no use playing the what if game – they needed to get home. "The cops are probably on the way already. They'll take a statement and he'll be fine."
"Pietro -" The kid was struggling against him, dragging his feet."Dammit – Pietro, let go of me!" Mort yelped, desperate.
Maximoff wheeled around to face him. "Why? What the hell is so important about some old decrepit flatscanner that you would completely lose your mind and go charging off like some kind of lunatic?"
"I – because he's my Dad, okay?" Mortimer hissed, looking pale and exhausted and oddly vulnerable. At Pietro's shocked stare, he looked away, wretchedly.
No other words could have gotten Pietro to let go of Mortimer's arm. As it was, Pietro hesitated for too long a moment before doing so. "Oh," he said flatly. Mort did not reply, looking anywhere but directly at his leader. With trembling fingers, he made sure his hood was still up and went back to the man, who had yet to move from his spot on the ground.
Bright drops of red were gathering in the snow and the man was trying to staunch his bleeding nose with a gloved hand – without much success. "Bastards came outta nowhere," he grated. "Swear, its like the streets are getting worse every year."
"Yeah," Toynbee muttered, kneeling next to him again. His hand went under the hood after a moment and pulled off his red bandanna, holding it out to the man, who murmured his thanks and took it. "You alright?"
"Yeah. Thanks to you coming along when you did. I didn't see much but stars for a few moments, but I'm guessin' you scared them off," The man said warmly. He held out his hand. "My name's Gareth."
A low strangled noise came from Mort, possibly an abortive attempt at a chuckle. He reached up and pulled down his hood. "Hey. Don't be a stranger," he joked weakly.
Gareth recoiled, and Pietro honestly could have hit him. The only thing actually stopping him was Dominic's hand on his shoulder. Eventually, Pietro had to look away; the resigned lack of surprise in the green mutant's expression hurt like hell to look at. Mortimer swallowed and dropped his gaze to the ground. After a moment, he got up and began to pick up the spilled cans and assorted food items that his father had been forced to drop.
"Don't bother. I'll get it myself," Gareth muttered, but his son didn't appear to hear him. With a low sigh and considerable effort, he got to his feet and picked up the plastic bags, not looking at Mort as he put the gathered items into them.
They were bachelor groceries at best; a few cans of vegetables, beans and chili, a bottle of sherry, sliced bread and a half-gallon of milk. Mort handed the spirits over with a blank expression, then froze when he found a carton of eggs in the snow. He picked up the cardboard parcel and flipped it open, checking to see if any were unbroken. Four out of a dozen were miraculously whole – a fifth had a tiny crack in the top but it would probably be fine. Mort tossed the broken ones into the dumpster and offered the carton to his father. Gareth did not take it.
"No, forget those. All they do is go bad in the fridge. Don't even know why I picked them up in the first place."
Mort looked crestfallen for a moment, but held them out again. "I know why," he said quietly. "You should take them. She only ever needed three anyway."
His father's eyes softened for a moment. Relenting, he reached out and took the eggs, placing them in one of the bags. Mortimer looked strangely relieved. The silence stretched and suddenly Gareth couldn't look at him any longer.
"Well, you . . . you take care of yourself," he said, lamely. Mortimer's shoulders slumped, but he nodded.
Pietro must have started forward again because Dom's fingers were digging into his shoulder a little. He couldn't believe it. Mort had just stuck his neck out for this man and he couldn't even give his son more than a cursory nod? Though internally he was raging, Pietro was careful to keep his lips sealed. Because really, what could he do to make anything hurt less?
Gareth handed the bandanna back and Mort put a hand up, refusing it. "I got more back at home. You take care of yourself too, Da-" Mort caught himself in time, and swallowed the word painfully.
He lowered his head. His father nodded at him once again, stiffly, and began to walk away – toward his own home. After a long moment, Pietro stepped forward, feeling Dominic's hand reluctantly slide away.
He almost touched Mort's shoulder but the kid pulled his hood up abruptly, stopping his action.
"We should get out of here," Mortimer said lowly, still watching the figure of his father putting distance between them. "It's freezing."
Pietro took his hand back, clenching it into a fist at his side. He said nothing as Mort walked past him out of the alley. He couldn't find the words.
* * *
As far as being lucky went, Neena Thurman had it pretty good. She could hit any mark, moving or otherwise, with any weapon. She could dodge bullets by the skin of her teeth without even breaking a sweat. She could kick ass in several styles of martial art.
However, like most women, she could not avoid the ticking of her biological clock. And thus Auntie Flo had come for a visit on the morning Christmas Eve. There had been a raging cat fight and subsequently Neena had been laid out on the couch. Thurman was a little sketchy on the details, but she suspected the old bat had jumped up and down on her stomach a few times while she was napping.
Needless to say, all of this had made her very Cranky.
On the plus side, the men were now all terrified of her and she was using it to her advantage. Mort had escaped her slavery at the last minute, but Fred had not been so lucky. She'd had him make her tea and was resting with a hot water bottle that rested over her abdomen under several layers of blanket. She sipped at the hot beverage, content for the moment to wait for Pietro's return.
Fred grumbled at the crocheting needles. Since the house they were currently renting free of charge was a vacationing little old lady's, there was a distinct lack of cable television and a horrifying surplus of yarn. Neena had taken it upon herself to forcibly teach Freddy how to crochet, much to the latter's consternation and woe.
When asked why she wasn't crocheting, Neena's answer was simple. The image of herself lying on her back with a swollen belly was inhibiting enough to her reputation. In such a position, crocheting something would make the others jump to Certain Conclusions and then Neena would be obliged to get up and kill them all. She just wasn't in the mood (or peak physical condition) for manslaughter.
Also, watching Fred crochet was funny as hell. He was making what appeared to be the ugliest potholder on the planet, but his grumbling made it all worthwhile. The door opened and Freddy was quick to drop his yarn work into the old lady's craft basket, looking relieved.
Neena smirked, sipping at her tea.
"We have your chocolates, oh Ailing One," Pietro said, placing the bag of Midol and Lindor truffles within her reach. "Are you feeling less bitchy yet?"
She arched an eyebrow. "Hardly a safe way to ask, but yes. Moderately. Fred was a dear."
"She made me knit," Fred grumbled, unable to help himself. Pietro turned to stare at him.
"Okay. I wouldn't have admitted that, but since you have brought it to my attention . . . Neena, how could you? On Christmas Eve no less."
Pietro's teasing grin faded as Mort shuffled into the living room, brushing snow off his coat. The kid's eyes looked glassy and unfocused.
"Hey, Toad. You need to wrap anything for tomorrow?" Fred asked. "I found some Scotch tape and paper and put it in your room."
"Right. Thanks." Mortimer looked glad for the excuse to disappear into his room.
Pietro felt helpless and ashamed at his own uselessness. Maybe if he gave the kid some time alone, he could think of something to say. Something better than a speech about how much fathers could screw their sons over; how deeply they could cut without even thinking.
"I'm bored as hell," Fred grumbled.
Neena made mildly threatening crocheting motions at him.
"No! Anything but that!"
"Well, we have no cable and I doubt that set could play anything that's not in black and white even if we did," Pietro sighed. "So it's either stare at the wall or Arts 'n Crafts Time with Granny Thurman."
Neena's glare could have made a roomful of hardened criminals break into a cold sweat.
"Sorry," Pietro gulped. "So, anyone up for coffee?"
He ended up sitting on the floor with his mug, being too smart to ask Neena to make room on the couch. Dominic had claimed the ottoman while Freddy remained solidly in his armchair.
Mortimer did not come out and join them, not even when one of Fred's stories sent tears of laughter rolling down their faces. He had to be able to hear all this. For the eighth time in as many minutes, Pietro glanced down the hallway toward Toynbee's room.
Eventually Dominic got up to use the restroom and Pietro shamelessly stole the man's seat. Fred had found a set of Phase 10 playing cards in the cupboard – obviously left by visiting grandchildren. It wasn't a difficult game, but it was one Pietro had never played before and he couldn't seem to focus. When Dominic had not returned by the time he was on phase five of the 'practice' round, he excused himself to go find him.
There were voices coming from Mortimer's room, and they stopped Pietro in his tracks. He leaned close to the door, listening.
"That is bullshit," Dominic's gruff voice was saying. "It is nobody's fault that she is dead."
"But I – If she hadn't been so worried about me, maybe she would have -"
Pietro winced, he could tell that Mort had been crying.
"If you hadn't changed, you mean? That doesn't mean she would have gone to the doctor. How many people go see a doctor when they are feeling fine?" Dominic asked.
"I . . . he said . . ."
"Do you know that they call pancreatic cancer the 'silent killer'? That is because there are no symptoms until it is too late. By the time you start feeling like you need to go to the doctor, there's nothing anyone can do. I am sorry, but even if you had remained unchanged, your mother still would not have had a chance."
It was a few moments before Pietro heard Mortimer speak again. His throat sounded hoarse.
"So . . . so you're saying he was wrong? It's not my fault?"
Pietro drew in a harsh breath and held it. He found himself wishing he'd followed his instincts to punch Gareth out. No; it would have done nothing but make him feel better and the kid would have felt obligated to defend the man. Mort was just as trapped by love as he was. And it wasn't fair.
"Your father . . . should not have said what he said. But unfortunately he did, and now he cannot take it back. I am telling you to not believe it any longer – because it is simply not true." Dom's voice was surprisingly gentle, considering who he was talking to. Apparently, he was getting a doubtful look, because he sighed. "You know I have better things to do than lie to make you feel better."
That actually got laughter out of Mort, even if it was frail and quiet. "Yeah. I . . . thanks."
"May I ask a question?" The earth shaker asked after a quiet moment. Mort must have nodded, for he continued. "What was so special about the eggs?"
"Oh . . . it was a Christmas tradition. Mom and I used to make the weirdest dessert we could think of."
". . . weird desserts?"
"We'd go through the cupboards to see what we had and we'd make up strange recipes. Like pistachio and peach cobbler. I know, sounds awful doesn't it? But anyway . . . she always made sure that eggs were in the fridge. She knew my favorite part was breaking the yolks apart in a bowl." Mortimer's voice was quiet and sad.
"We had a lot of fun. Sometimes Dad would even come in and watch. He'd make all kinds of horrible faces and gagging noises whenever we added something too strange. Usually the desserts turned out looking lumpy and awful, but most of the time they tasted great."
"Most of the time?"
"Uh, well . . . once we tried canned-pear and pumpkin pie? It sorta tasted exactly like it looked."
Dominic's rich laughter filled the room. "While we are staying here, maybe you should try cooking one of the desserts that turned out well? The old woman's pantry is stuffed with baking supplies. It would be funny if only just to watch Fred's expression."
"Yeah, bet he'd flip out if I made that apple and tomato pound cake."
"Eh, lets not go nuts and kill the man," Dom cautioned amiably. Mortimer laughed brightly, and Pietro smiled at the sound of it. He felt the ache in his own chest start to go away. The kid was going to be alright.
Lightly, he knocked on the door.
"Oh good, perfect timing," Dominic said loudly. "We were just about to kill each other."
He heard Mortimer laughing again, getting up to open the door. Pietro was relieved to see the kid's usual sharp grin.
"Hey, Freddy's found a new card game for me to beat everybody at. You wanna join?" Pietro asked him, completely straight-faced.
Mort rolled his eyes, but made his way to the living room, smirking. Pietro could hear him talking to Neena and Freddy. He looked at Dominic, who was getting up from his seat on Mortimer's bed. In two quick strides, his lips were pressed against Dominic's, kissing him deeply.
"Thank you," Pietro murmured, once again not knowing what else to say. He could only hope Dom understood.
"It is nothing. He is surprisingly easy to talk to when he is not trying too hard to be liked." Dominic looked at Pietro, touching his face gently. "And I was not blind to what you were going through when you watched that exchange."
Pietro closed his eyes, letting Dom stroke his thumb across his jawline. "I don't think I could have said what he needed to hear," he admitted. "Maybe I should have tried."
"Magneto has hurt you enough. He does not need to hurt you in the reflection of somebody else's father," Dominic said lowly.
Pietro fell silent, resting against Dom's chest for a moment. Not for the first time, he felt ridiculously lucky to have him.
"Hey guys, you joining us or am I going to have to get out the crocheting needles again?"
"GAH! Do not want!"
"Save us!" pleaded Blob.
"Duty calls I guess," Pietro sighed, He gave Dominic's ass a firm squeeze and raced off to rescue Mort and Fred from almost certain doom. Smirking, Dominic followed.