Hellooooo... Thanks as usual to the beautiful reviewers.
Pyro Dragon, I am scared of you and do not wish to die so please forgive me- I have updated! Your humble servant... I bow to you.
Zenah- thanks for your comments. Don't worry your pretty little head; there will be juicy sex scenes in the near future!
As for you, Lyra- glad you're still enjoying it! Hope you like this daddy Magneto- I didn't have the heart to make him cruel!
Aaaand... Kickassangel! Sacre bleu luv, I thought I'd lost you! I will read your Pirates fic indeed. You're a goddess too and I love you abundantly, even if it doesn't make sense! Heh...
As for anyone else.... Hello, have a read. You'll like it. Promise!
On with the show.............
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His very own key.
Pietro stared at it as it dangled from a chain complete with the Boarding House's rickety skeleton key, the key to a padlock on some forgotten item and, bizarrely, a key ring in the shape of a haggis from Aberdeen. Including himself, he didn't know anybody who had even been to Scotland let alone felt the need to buy a dangling sweetmeat.
Back to this special key- his father had given it to him almost a year ago when things with the Brotherhood were somewhat unstable. In this period of constant arguments and serious fisticuffs, Pietro would come so constantly to Erik that for a while it looked like he might be leaving the Boarding House for good. It just so happened that Erik too was going through a shaky phase, feeling particularly vulnerable and thrown off course by a growing lack of support. Whether he sought comfort and company in the companionship of his son or believed that in adopting Pietro he could develop a perfect little soldier was unclear, but Erik was not too proud to beg him to come and live at Casa Magneto. Pietro had declined the offer, fearing his freedom would go straight out of the window but when Erik later slipped the tiny silver key into his palm, an unspoken agreement was made. Here was a place Pietro could always return, should the need arise.
And now it had. For the first time, Pietro slid the key into the lock and hoped with all his heart that his father would be home and not off playing bingo or whatever it was 'older men' did on Friday nights. One turn of the key and he would be sealing that pact between father and son, promising trust and acceptance. Hadn't that been what he'd wanted all along?
And yet here was Pietro, frozen at the door with his key in the lock like a mime artist gripped by sudden death. Why on earth was he afraid to use the key his father had willingly given him? It wasn't like he'd burst in on Erik doing something unpleasant, like naked barn dancing with the X-Sycophants for example. There was no risk of him being angry at the sudden arrival, since giving the key was preparation enough for expecting a surprise visit at any hour. So why so nervous?
Pietro sighed in defeat and slipped the key into his pocket, ringing the bell instead. He was such a terrible coward. No wonder whenever it came to fist-fighting he would go straight for the hair, or failing that disappear faster than a misplaced cheesecake at a Weight Watchers meeting.
The shuffling of feet from within confirmed that Erik was in. Pietro watched as his blurred shape moved towards him through the frosted glass, noticing how he stopped before to check his reflection in a mirror and tease his hair into place before carrying on. He smiled wryly- like father, like son.
Erik opened the door looking not at all surprised; possibly because Pietro was the only person he would ever dream of giving a key to his dwellings. His fabulous posture and piercing eyes had not changed, giving off that aura of vast superiority, but something was amiss. It wasn't a misplaced strand of hair- that as usual was perfect, and neither was it a noticeable tremble. Pallor, perhaps? Pietro couldn't put his finger on it, but his father seemed rather more subtle than usual. Withdrawn.
"Come in, Pietro," Erik said, gesturing gracefully towards the house. "I thought you might use your key. You are very welcome to."
"Sorry, I must've forgotten it," Pietro replied, taking in the glorious aroma of basil and ripe tomatoes. Not many people knew, but Magneto was an exceptional chef. It was something he liked to practice between gross human experimentation and schemes for world domination.
"I'm just making my dinner," Erik continued as they walked down the long, wide hall. The walls were a simple cream and adorned here and there with sophisticated geometric paintings. "There's enough for you if you would like."
Not wanting to be any trouble, Pietro opened his mouth to answer but found his stomach replied instead. "Thank you, that'd be great. If you've really got enough, I mean, I don't want to be a-"
Now Erik was in the kitchen, dishing out one large portion of pasta and a very small one. Without a word, he placed the large bowl in front of his son in a timeless ritual they had come to accept long ago. Pietro had never considered it before, supposing that his father had a comparably smaller appetite to his, which was Freddie-sized at the best of times. Whilst this was probably true, he couldn't help wondering now if Erik was also doing this out of a father's love- a sacrifice of his own delicious dinner to nourish his flesh and blood. Was it possible for Ole Bucket-Head to put anybody first?
"You are sticking to the diet-plan we drew up for you?" Erik questioned as they sat down in hard, ebony chairs to eat. Pietro couldn't help noticing the flat dullness that occupied his father's eyes, usually alight with rage or pain or ruthless determination.
"I try," Pietro mumbled, noticing that he wasn't particularly hungry anymore and the pasta stuck in his throat. A possible telepath, Erik vacated his seat to pour two large glasses of red wine. "But it's kinda hard to get the right food. Actually, it's kinda hard to get any food. Money's tight," he shrugged, putting down his fork. "It's okay."
Erik took a long, pensive sip of wine. "I've got a little extra at the moment. How about I lend you some cash and you make it up to me?"
"No, dad- father," Pietro corrected himself, running a hand through his hair awkwardly. He always felt nervous here. Erik tried so hard to accommodate, but it only emphasised the vast distance between them. "I didn't come here for money. I- er- there's something- it's a little-"
"Eat, Pietro."
He obeyed. He couldn't bring himself to imagine what would happen if he stepped out of line with Magneto for a father, and a morbid fear had always prevented him from doing so.
"I won't lie to you, I was expecting a visit very soon," Erik began gravely. Pietro found it was impossible to look into his father's eyes and became preoccupied with his pasta instead. "Pietro, look at me."
But he couldn't meet those steely blue eyes- what was the emotion there? Disappointment? Numbness? Sadness? Suppose he looked up at his father and the torrent of emotion that had been building inside him for years came flooding out; there was no way he could cry or show weakness in front of who was, effectively, his hero. Oh god. Why think of crying? Pietro's eyes welled dangerously, and he fiercely bit down on his lip.
Crybaby. Sissy-boy. Wuss, where's your baby blankie?
"Please, just look at me a moment. Thank you. I think I ought to tell you that what you have come to tell me, I already know. Yes," he nodded as Pietro's mouth dropped open. "Charles wrote me. Pietro....." He trailed off, which was a very uncommon thing for him to do. Erik was normally so articulate that people suspected he pre-planned all speech months before with the aid of a dictionary, a thesaurus and a golden tongue. Now he looked haggard and afraid; his face had fallen and his pasta remained untouched. Like Pietro he brushed back his snowy hair with a hesitant hand, only for it to fall straight back into his eyes again. "Pietro...."
Behold, the great Master of Magnetism, struggling for words! Observe the Speed Demon, faster than lightning itself, as he strives desperately not to break into loud bawling tears!
"Shit happens." Pietro forced the words, sitting up straight in his chair and trying to look for all the world like the invincible young man his father thought he had bred.
"You do not need to be strong this time," Erik told him, boring straight into the centre of his eyes. "I fear I have made a grave mistake in raising you."
"What?" Pietro stood up, shaking his head violently in denial. "No, father. It is only through making me what I am today that I am able to cope with this bullshit. Sorry," he apologised, knowing that his father would frown upon coarse language. Erik even cringed at euphemisms! "I have so much to thank you for. My strength. My powers. My-"
"Pietro!" Erik intervened, gripping his son by the shoulders. They had only touched a few times before, never positively. "It is your strength and your powers that have resulted in this terrible sickness! I have always made you think that you and I are indestructible, and until I heard this news I believed it myself. But Pietro- my son- this is just a security blanket! It isn't true- isn't real! You are at risk of dying, and I am at risk of losing you and it is all for my own selfishness!"
This extraordinary outburst left Pietro stunned. He laid his hands on top of his father's on his shoulders as if to remove them, but simply kept them there as Erik continued.
"I thought if we had enough power we could transcend ordinary mortality. Do you understand that? I mean, if I trained us enough to be super-powerful mutants we might survive and out-live all the other pathetic humans. You see, Pietro, I am very weak. Don't look at me like that. You have been in awe of me all your life, and in my gross arrogance I have allowed it. But your role model is a deluded fool!" Pietro shook his head defiantly, not wanting to believe the words his previously godlike father was stating. Erik closed his eyes in frustration and took a deep breath before continuing. "What I did to you- when I started your mutation process at the age of six and indoctrinated you with my delusions, that did not strengthen you. It made you as vulnerable and irrational as I secretly am, if not more. It was not natural. Since being aware of your condition, I have not doubted that I am the cause of this. Do not object! How can it be that this is not down to me tampering with your mutation before it was ready to emerge... Manipulating your cells, corrupting your defenceless body with idiot science! Surely this is vengeance for my actions. I was your creator, and now," here he drew another breath, harsh and shuddering, "I may have to live with being your destroyer."
"Don't talk like that!" Pietro cried. "It wasn't your fault- it can't be- it isn't! And please don't say 'destroyer' like I'm bound to die. It doesn't have to be that way!"
"See," Erik replied, wishing that Pietro would remove his hands. They were cold, so abnormally cold and he had a strange superstition that he was feeling the hands of his dead child. "You think you're invincible. This is my doing."
Pietro sprang away, disappointment evident in his eyes as he stood and stared with his chest heaving and falling. "How can you just write me off like that? I'm not dying- not yet- nobody can say that I am! And if you're so fucking sorry for kick-starting my powers then use that damn science to save me. Please, father! I know you can do it- just stop the mutation from killing me! Please. Save me?" he added in a tiny voice, appearing to regress ten years as the tears he had never shed in front of his father burst through the barrier of so many years. Erik winced. It was so true. Underneath their rock-hard exteriors lay small, pathetic men with nothing to protect them from the world save delusions.
"I will do it," Erik promised, kneeling in front of Pietro and clasping his chilly, white hands between his own. "I will fight heaven and earth for your life if I have to."
Despite himself, Pietro found that he laughed slightly at this melodramatic choice of language. It was a bizarre situation. Here was his almighty father kneeling in front of him as he cried, promising to save his life! And he'd be damned if those weren't tears in the wrinkled corners of Magneto's eyes...
"Pietro, I cannot guarantee-"
"I know. But you're my only hope. I'm scared shitless, I don't want to die."
"I don't want you to die." Erik squeezed his son's hands.
Pietro began to feel his mood shifting. He was filled with the prospect of hope, and felt more relaxed in the presence of his father now that he had humanised himself and bared his flaws. "Get up," he urged Erik softly. "Anybody'd think we were part of Xavier's softie menagerie the way we're acting!"
Erik grinned, released Pietro's hands and rose with a grace of a former ballet dancer. Dusting off his knees, he returned to the table to fetch their glasses of wine.
"No looking back, then," he said as he raised his glass. "Only forward. What's done is done, and we'll try our best to mend it."
"I'll drink to that!"
Father and son were silent for a while after that, drinking in mutual contemplation. A large cloud had lifted over their relationship; guilty confessions had been made and true feelings revealed. Suddenly there was no need to be all-powerful, no reason to deny death. And if it was still difficult to embrace death, why not embrace each other instead?
"We'll start work tomorrow," Erik suddenly said, running through plans in his mind. If one could force a mutation into action, surely stopping one from veering out of control was no unfeasible task? "Pietro... I would like you to come and live with me."
Live with Magneto?
Pietro shook his head. "I couldn't. It's not that I don't want to; it's just... My home is with the Brotherhood. They're family- I know you are too- but um, well, there's something else there," he bit his lip, wondering how his father would react if he told him he was gay. But then common sense gave him a good kick up the back passage. Why should he have to feel shame for and Lance's relationship? There was no different between that and a straight love. In fact, he would feel far worse about telling his father he was with some dopey, fluffy female like Shitty Pryde. No, Lance was nothing to feel humiliated about. He was proud- a proud, proud lion roaming the plains of Africa and laughing at the puny antelopes that surrounded him! Love made him a hero, and this was what was making him survive.
"Lance and I are in love," he declared, chest puffed out in proud confidence.
Erik's eyes widened in surprise, but he remained cool. "I understand. What you do with your life is your choice. I am glad you are in love and, as with any relationship, you'd better pray he treats you right or he will have my wrath to face. And I am not joking," he added, as Pietro almost fell over with relief.
"What?" Erik's smile was dry. "You think they didn't have gays back in the Neanderthal days when I was growing up? Your personal life is not my concern. All I care about is your welfare, though I admit I went about it the wrong way. And Pietro," he added with a teasing sparkle in his eye, "to be frank- with the standard of young females in your life these days I can't say I blame you."
Pietro could hardly believe what he was hearing. Everything so far had been a blessing- food, wine, not having to tell his father that he might be dying, Erik's admittance that he had done wrong and the consequent fall from grace from idol to man, the shedding of long pent-up tears, the agreement to work on saving his life and Erik's very relaxed acceptance of his sexuality to name but a few. Could it honestly get any better?
"I mean," Erik continued as he began to bustle around the kitchen collecting bowls and glasses. "Those awful little Xavier girls- what's that nauseating brown-haired midget called, the one who can phase through walls? Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to rip that ponytail straight off her head..." His eyes gleamed. "I could use it to wash my car!"
A mutual hatred of Shitty Pryde?
It just got better and better.
