Hello, hello, my reviewers and readers!

Lavvy, my love, that was a blinding review. Thank you! And as for the Pietro/Dr. McCoy pairing... I'm a little tempted to write that. Pietrank, anyone? It could work.. Anyway, my dearie, I'm glad you like this ficcie so much... Don't worry, it won't be too sad.

And Eddiechoselife- I loved your reviews. So long have I wanted to be called 'me hearty'!! Ah.... Pirate fantasies. Also glad you like it... I'm waiting for that cookie, however.

I promise this chapter will be the last of the Lance angst for a while. I've put that poor laddie through hell. Actually, I'll try and make the next chapter angst-free. Balloons, cake, Cyclops voodoo- you name it!

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"Look, Avalanche, could you just-"

"My name's Lance, ass-wad."

Scott's lips thinned into a small worm of disapproval. Although Lance couldn't be sure, he made a good guess that behind those damn shades, Cyke was looking down his too-chiselled-to-be-true nose.

"The fact is, Alvers, these are our grounds. And," he raised a hand like a smarmy politician in full flow, "if I may be so bold to say so, you have hardly made yourself welcome by running riot all over the place and screaming bloody murder. So kindly get up from under that tree and-"

"Piss off?" Pietro offered, a sneer curling his lip.

"Don't mind if you do, douche-bag!" Lance interjected, staring expectantly at Scott. The X-Bore merely blinked.

"You've been sitting here for an hour," Scott went on, blowing a tendril of hair out of his eyes that had run amok from the others in his flustered state. The offending strand returned to its rightful home, and then fell back to where it was. Brushing it away with visible irritation, he folded his arms across his chest and tapped his foot in a theatrical display of waiting.

Pietro seized this moment to take a good look at Lance. Since he'd made his confession, all Lance had done was sit and stare down at his folded hands. If Pietro tried to speak, Lance would wince as if the words were the most insulting things he had ever heard in his life. Perhaps he was trying not to cry. It was hard to tell- Lance had responded so dumbly, with such apathy that he wasn't sure what the boy was feeling.

"Yes, that rather does happen when one gives one's boyfriend jaw-dropping, life-altering news," Pietro informed Scott, now joined by Jean who was whispering fiercely into his ear.

The blood drained from Scott's face. Pietro knew Jean must have told him. In a deliciously morbid way, this made Pietro felt like dancing.

"Now, if you don't mind, Lance and I will be leaving now. Goodbye, Scotty," Pietro crooned, waving at the dumbstruck X-Prick. "Let's hope this is the last time!"

But as Pietro was rocking with laughter and gasping for breath, Lance felt like curling up into a ball and shutting the world out.

"Would you just fucking speak, Lance?"

"Can't," the boy muttered, staring fixedly ahead. "I'm watching the road."

"Ooh yes, Lance, some invisible vehicle might hit us any time now. Or perhaps a transparent old lady is crossing right now- hell; maybe we've already run over an undetectable doggie!"

Lance didn't even so much as smirk.

"The road's empty," Pietro said forcefully, reaching out to cup Lance's cheek in his hand. He stiffened in response. "Pull over. Talk to me."

Lance shook his head. "I can't."

"Please."

"Pietro, no! Not now."

Blue eyes glittered desperately. "When, then?"

"I dunno."

They drove without a word for the rest of the journey. When they got out of the jeep, an even thicker silence descended between them. As they entered the house, Pietro felt his heart drop to the bottom of his stomach in regret. Why had he told Lance? Why? Now everything was as good as over.

"Where've you been?" asked the whale-like form of Freddie from his usual post by the TV. "Todd was freakin' out."

"Was not," hissed the amphibious one.

Lance remained silent, still and staring at the floor. Pietro bit his lip and watched Lance like he might shatter into pieces at any second.

Todd got up, looking shaky and pale. "Something's wrong, yo. You two are actin' funny. What's wrong? What's happened?"

Pietro looked at Lance helplessly, but their eyes didn't meet. He would have to tell them all now. After all, the Brotherhood was all he had. They had a right to know he was liable to keel over and die at any given second.

"Sit down, you two," Pietro sighed, referring to Fred's supine form more for politeness than anything. Todd drew in a hesitant breath. Lance hung his head and shoved his hands in his pockets, looking sullen and withdrawn.

"I've been away a lot lately," started Pietro, suddenly aware of how loudly the old grandfather clock was ticking. "I've been visiting the X-Institute. Baldy picked up some weird shit from me on Cerebro and called me in for.... Y'know. Tests."

Todd was already looking beside himself. He hated bad news, and often found the build-up worse than the actual news itself. Freddie simply looked on, piggy face giving away no hint of understanding or response.

"So Doctor McCoy did lots of tests, examinations, that kinda stuff. You know bloods, swabs, he had me on a treadmill..." Pietro trailed off. He was drawing this out deliberately and wasn't sure he could do it now. Lance shook his head and slowly left the room, not even stopping to look back.

Without Lance, Pietro felt even weaker. Abandoned.

"You're.... You're not?" Todd asked twitchily, his lower lip trembling slightly. Freddie leaned forward in his chair with an almighty creak.

Pietro's eyes closed for a second as he composed himself. "If you mean dying, Todd, then yes, I damn well could be."

"No," Todd shook his head. "No, this is another fuckin' joke, it's not true. Piet... Tell me this is a joke. I won't get mad. I won't freak. Please, yo, say it's a joke....?"

"It's not a joke."

Todd was already crying. And as Pietro began to explain himself, the Toad's sobs became more and more increased until they were practically howls. Pietro couldn't help but become angry at the boy- after all, he wasn't dying yet. Jesus, for all anyone knew he might not be dying at all. A cure was probably on its way right now!

"FOR FUCK'S SAKE, TODD! How 'bout some support, huh?"

Life had always gone Pietro Maximoff's way, after all.

Hadn't it?

............................................................

In the kitchen, Lance took a deep breath and opened the envelope he'd long kept closed.

Was it selfish to be thinking of himself after Pietro's horrible confession? Or was this just a way of putting off facing the truth? Since Pietro had told him, he'd felt.... Numb. Couldn't cry, couldn't be angry. To be honest, it was near impossible to imagine a life without him- not that he could bring himself to try. Not yet, not when there was still hope.

They could find a cure tomorrow.

And Summers would join a metal band called Satan's Cum, Lance smirked to himself. Despite the sad situation, he couldn't help feeling rather satisfied with that one.

The minute Pietro mentioned he might die, Lance had thought of his mother. He tried to remember how it had felt to lose her, but he had been too young or too traumatised to recall the emotions accurately. This made him afraid. Suppose he did lose Pietro- how would that feel? If he prepared himself, he was sure that would make it easier to cope. He knew there would be sadness and tears, remembering his mother still brought that about occasionally. But that wouldn't be all, would it? What about the emptiness, loneliness, anger, regret, bitterness, constant pain?

And that was about the moment Lance realised that he couldn't cope with a possible loss until he buried something from his own past. Which is how he came to be holding an envelope he last opened three years ago. He had almost thrown it away, but a gut feeling had told him to keep it. So, for three years, said envelope had been kept under his mattress between a particularly stagnant pair of boxers and a copy of 'Hott Chix' and shoved to the back of his mind. But now, the name 'Michael Alvers' flashed persuasively from the sickly brown paper, and Lance made his decision.

He would tell Daddy everything he had wanted to say since he went into care.

It hadn't been a long drive. Michael Alvers lived under an hour away, in a sleepy little cul de sac called Moorside. Lance didn't think he had ever seen such a dull, dead place. Even the trees in Moorside looked tired, like they couldn't stand quite upright. All the gardens were too neat, all the flowers too perfect to be real.

There didn't seem to be a single person in Moorside.

As Lance pulled up at number 18, a sudden fear gripped him that Michael wouldn't live there anymore. Then what?

No. That wouldn't happen. Daddy wasn't the moving type. Michael Alvers was the kind of man who detested change. He probably hadn't even changed jobs. Lance suspected he would even have the same boring, rigid haircut. That moustache, so impeccably trimmed. And oh god, the perfectly polished brown leather shoes with the briefcase to match...

Lance had expected to be afraid, or regretful. It was easy, however, to take those few steps to the door and ring the bell. Any nervousness faded away, replaced by a building sense of rage at the man who had ruined two lives.

He could see a dark shape through the frosted glass, and prepared himself. What would he say first? The door clicked open, and he took a deep breath, faced with the unmistakeable shape of....

A teenage girl. Maybe Todd's age, with long dark hair in plaits.

"Yeah?" she asked, shooing a golden retriever back into the house with her foot.

Momentarily thrown, Lance just stared. Who on earth was this kid, and what was she doing in his Daddy's house? He cleared his throat, with the tiniest hint of a glare in her direction.

"Does Michael Alvers live here?"

She gave him a suspicious look. A woman in the background called for Molly- that must've been the girl's name. Molly sighed and opened the catch on the door.

"I'll get him for you," she told Lance. Then, without moving or even turning her head, she monotonously shouted a male name that made Lance's blood run cold.

"DAD!"

An all-too familiar voice called back. "Coming!"

Lance thought this rather an inappropriate time for a panic-attack, but his lungs seemed to think otherwise. Banging on his chest with a fist to make his breath come, Lance listened to the slowly advancing slippered footsteps.

And then, there he was.

Man to man, they simply stared for a few seconds.

"Shit," Michael breathed, taking in the boy that stood before him. "Can it be...?"

"Dad," Lance confirmed, noticing the changes, though they were minor. Michael's hair had thinned a little, and was greying at the sides. He was still an attractive man, and had kept his figure through a meticulous exercise regime. The large brown eyes, identical to Lance's, were now lined and seemed to droop at the sides, giving the man a look of perpetual sadness. Good, Lance thought. He deserved to be sad.

"Come in, Lance," nodded the man. Lance noticed how the power had gone in his voice. It was softer now, almost feeble. "No doubt we have a lot to catch up on. I'll get you some tea- you want some tea? Or a beer- you old enough to drink beer?"

"Er," was all Lance could reply as he was placed into a brown leather armchair. He took in the surroundings of a family home, hating that there were no hints of himself or his mother. Daddy had moved on, erased him.

"That's Georgie," Michael replied, returning with two bottles of beer. He pointed to a blonde woman in the biggest family portrait. "We married a couple of years after you... Well, you know. This here's Molly," he said, pointing to the dark-haired girl who had answered the door. Lance got the impression that Molly hated her father from the sullen half-smile she gave in the portrait as his big paw clasped her shoulder, and decided he liked her a little more. "And the boy? That's Simon. He's ten now."

Ugh, Lance thought, hating Simon already. He looked as perfect as Daddy did.

"I bet they'd like to get to know their half-brother," Lance muttered bitterly, unable to help himself. "Or don't they know?"

Michael let out a long sigh, running his hands through his hair. They trembled a little.

"Lance, you had to go into care. You know that I couldn't look after you, I had my work."

"You had your work," Lance jeered.

"Let's not make this difficult."

"I'm sorry, did you think this would be easy?" Lance slammed his beer down on the table, staring straight into his father's eyes. "Why'd you do it?"

Michael blinked, then sat straight upright as he heard footprints coming down the stairs. He breathed a sigh of relief as they passed, and Lance realised he was obviously ashamed of his secret son. "Do what?"

"Everything," replied Lance. "Where do I start? Why didn't let Mom have any freedom, why couldn't you let her sing? Why didn't you let her be happy? You know how lonely she was?"

Lance watched his father stiffen. "I don't want to talk about your Mom."

"Because you killed her!" shouted Lance. Michael shushed him desperately. "It was you, you fucking lunatic- that's why she killed herself! You controlled her and stopped her from doing everything she loved. You denied her a life. You killed my mother!" he screamed, not caring if he was losing it. He wanted Georgie, Molly and stupid fucking Simon to hear this. They ought to know what a bastard Michael Alvers was.

But Michael didn't seem to care if they heard either anymore. "Don't you think I know that?" he bellowed, grabbing his hair in frustration. "Do you really think a day goes by when I don't regret it? I loved Patricia, I was just so damn scared of losing her. She was so beautiful, Lance fucked up my life, Lance. You don't forget that, you don't move on! For fuck's sake..... If I let her go into showbiz, they'd've been all over her. She'd've thought twice about a life with plain ole me. And she was a mom, for god's sake! What kind of life would you have with a mother always away, huh? When Pat had you, I made her promise to let her dreams go." He turned to face his son. "We both had to make sacrifices for you."

"What, so it's my fault?"

"No! Yes! Maybe. God, son, who can say?"

Lance sighed deeply, covering his face. "You're pathetic," he mumbled.

"She never told me I was hurting her," Michael continued. Lance got the impression he wasn't even speaking to him anymore. "How was I supposed to know she was unhappy? Your mom was so good at hiding it. Just why.... If she'd told me.... Fuck, if I'd just realised what I was doing to her! I thought it was for the best, I really honestly did. It never crossed my mind that she hated her life." He paused, concealing a sob with a sniff. Michael Alvers had always been a tough man. "I was never there for her. And yes, I know, I was never there for you either. I thought sending money and presents was enough; I kept you sweet on the dough I earned. I'm just so sorry now. I fucked up. I fucked up, and I've gotta live with it now."

Having heard enough, Lance asked the question that had been burning on his lips ever since he'd arrived. "How did you feel? How did you feel when Mom died?"

Michael turned and looked right at his son, anguish evident in those sad eyes. "When I found her on that sofa, I knew right away it was my fault. I knew she would die, and I would have to live with the fact that I had killed a woman. A beautiful, free-spirited freak like her! And then.... When she did die, I felt numb. Cold. Like nothing mattered. You know, that's the worst feeling in the world. You ever felt like that?"

Lance nodded sadly, understanding. Wasn't that exactly how he'd been feeling at the thought of Pietro dying?

"That feeling goes eventually," his father murmured, looking lost in himself. "And you cry. You cry continuously like a baby, your body hurts and there's nothing... Nothing that can fill the gap this person left behind. And the guilt... Oh jesus, I couldn't live with myself. Every time I saw you, Lance, I saw her and I knew I was a fucking murderer. I was an unfit parent, started taking it out on you. That's why you had to go into care- I'd'a gone crazy and done something bad."

"But," Lance whispered, staring at the floor. "You got over it. You forgot me, you built a new life."

"I had to! Lance, please, try and understand."

Lance shook his head. "I can't. It hurts."

"I had to let go of you and your mom!"

"You should never let go!"

"You wouldn't understand...."

"Didn't you care?"

Michael's eyes widened. "Of course I did. Lance, son, I-"

Words failed Michael Alvers, and slowly, he padded along to the chair where his son sat. Tentatively, he pulled the boy into his arms- something he wasn't sure he'd done since Lance was an infant. He was surprised how someone so angry and full of hate as his son was could be broken by a single touch. The boy cried silently into his shoulder, crying for a sad and irresolvable past.

Eventually, Lance became embarrassed and pulled away. Feeling that his demons had been cast aside, he stood and awkwardly shook his father's hand.

"Er, thanks, Dad. I needed to know that shit."

"Glad I could get it off my chest."

"Can I..." Lance paused hesitantly. "Can I come and see you again?"

Michael squirmed uneasily. He could hear his family's voices, knew they were questioning who the boy was. "Ah, son, you see, the thing is-"

He cleared his throat and looked helplessly at Lance. The boy looked so hopeful.

"Lance, that wouldn't be a very good idea. I don't think we should keep in touch."

"What?" Lance's face fell. Had this meant nothing to his father? No... Michael had just been using him to vent his emotions! He hadn't wanted to be a father in the past and he didn't now! Even when his first son had driven miles to see him after ten years, he wasn't interested.

Daddy didn't care.

"I'm glad you're okay, though," Michael nodded, becoming more and more aware of the voices in the house. They were his life now, this boy was a relic of a painful past. "Have a good life, son, be careful. All the best."

"No!" Lance fought back angry tears. "Don't do this again, don't shut me out!"

"I'm sorry, Lance," Michael shook his head. "I have to."

The door slammed shut in Lance's face, and he realised that this was an almost identical echo of the last time his father had closed the door on him.

There, in the shitty little village of Moorside, on his father's bleak doorstep, faced with the prospect of a dying boyfriend, Lance had never felt so utterly alone.