I finally had the inspiration to finish the series! I needed a final oneshot involving the Magneto family, and this sort of happened overnight. (Poor Erik is never going to have a moment's peace from now on.)

Disclaimer: Thankfully Neocolai doesn't own the rights to the X-Men franchise, or else the plot would have dissolved into humorous drivels after Apocalypse came out.

"It doesn't go there."

"I can read the directions, Erik."

"It's written in Swedish."

"Yes, well I've had plenty of time to focus on linguistics. You realize that not all of my students were raised in America."

"Your Polish is still misconstrued."

"This isn't Polish, Erik! I know what I'm doing!"

"I'm telling you, it doesn't go there," Erik snapped, snatching the tiny cog out of Charles' hand. He jammed it firmly into the top of the mechanism, nodding satisfactorily when it snicked into place. Typical. One year of hovering around Charles' motley band, and still no one bothered to listen to the metal expert. It was a wonder the very building hadn't collapsed around their ears by now.

"That's not how it's drawn here," Charles argued, indicating the instruction manual that had been included with the spare parts. "It clearly states that the mainspring is supposed to go - wait, now it's written in Mandarin? Hold on…."

Heaving a sigh, Erik brushed aside a pile of levers and mainwheels as Charles unfolded the manual. He could have finished the clock interface in ten minutes, but Charles had insisted on learning how to assemble it himself. Just in case someone bowled over the battlescarred timepiece while Erik was plotting a revolution in Amsterdam. As if he had time to assemble jaundiced mutants while his children were committing mayhem in Westchester.

"Dad. Dad! Dad! Dad!"

Speaking of the little devils….

"Dad, Wanda won't give me back that stuff I bought - not illegal stuff, I swear, Hank can't prohibit it if they sell it for a dollar in the kid's section - and she's being really, really annoying. Like, really annoying!"

"What do you want me to do, Peter?" Erik droned, rubbing at a sudden headache. If Charles didn't muffle that snicker, Erik was going to plant a case of that illegal stuff in the library and tell Peter and Kurt to have at it.

Luminous brown eyes latched onto him, making a passable impression of the ridiculous birdlike creatures in the latest force film that Lorna had dragged him to watch. (Ironically, the invention of the floppy, warbling creatures had dampened the effectiveness of Peter's 'abandoned puppy eyes' in Erik's mind. He owed Lorna a trip to Paris for that.)

"Wanda won't give me my stuff back," Peter said petulantly.

Charles sighed. "I said no silly string in the study hall, Peter."

"Kurt started it!" the speedster protested. "Mom already lectured me, anyways. For five whole minutes! She even held my hand so I couldn't go back to my room before Wanda stole my stash!"

No matter how bright and alluring the colors were to children, no business with any common sense would sell pressurized cans of stringy chemical foam to five-year-olds. Erik had one qualm about Wanda possessing her brother's arsenal: an energy manipulator armed with fourteen cans of ammunition was a force to be reckoned with. With Nightcrawler doting on her every whim, it was only a matter of time before war was declared in the student dorms. Quicksilver versus Scarlet Witch and Allies? Preserving the clock would be the least of Charles' worries.

"Wanda, give your brother's string collection to Magda," Erik called out. "He's not supposed to have it in his room anyways."

"But I bought it with my allowance!" Peter squeaked, dark eyes widening in horror. "Charles, tell him I earned it! I delivered so many letters for that stash!"

"Peter, I did advise you to put it towards a savings fund," Charles said resignedly.

Erik raised an eyebrow, bemused. "Postal stamps are … thirty-five cents apiece?"

"He can earn five dollars in ten minutes, and my correspondence time is accelerated by one-hundred times the usual shipping process," Charles said shortly. "I let him keep whatever I save on postage."

"I thought you were going to find him a real job," Erik drawled.

"I can send a letter to Egypt in two minutes," Charles retorted. "Swift correspondence is crucial to international diplomacy."

"Look, can we discuss this later?" Peter implored. "Please? Wanda still has my silly string."

"Go talk to your mother," Erik said gruffly.

"Mom said to ask you."

Erik breathed out deliberately, resting his forehead on his folded hands. "Charles."

"I had nothing to do with this," Charles evaded smoothly. "Wanda is your trainee."

"You're the telepath," Erik argued. "She's within range; why not diffuse the situation before she retaliates?"

"Oh, she's much closer than that," Charles said innocuously.

Erik had seconds to realize the implication before he flung himself to the side, sensing at the last moment the cascade of crimson metallic moisture that flooded the air and coated the wall where Peter had been standing a second before. Flickering behind Scarlet Witch, Peter grabbed at the can of spray paint and yelped as a dark blue flash materialized behind him, plastering him with with fluorescent blue sheen.

"That's not fair! Mom said no paint in the house!"

"Erik!" Charles hollered, flinging out a hand too late to prevent electric blue particles from spattering the disconnected clock face.

"I didn't invite them to live here!" Erik retorted. He ducked in time to avoid a spray of neon green as - can rattling ominously - Polaris enthusiastically joined the brigade in pelting her brother. Shoving cogs and springs into the bag of parts, Charles hunched over the clock interface and nodded towards the door.

"Honorable retreat?"

"They're your students," Erik assented, retrieving the now polka-dotted clock frame. He recurved a stream of scarlet paint, swooshing it back into Wanda's hair, and skittered aside as Ororo joined the incursion. Charles was scant feet behind him, mentally urging Polaris and Quicksilver to form an alliance long enough for the adults to leave the room unscathed. The instant the telepath's chair cleared the door, Erik slammed it shut and melded the hinges.

"They're going to repaint that room," Charles said coldly.

Inscrutable, Erik nodded.

"And they're replacing the furniture."

"How much postage is that going to cost Peter?" Erik wondered dryly.

"I'm holding him under contract for the next ten years," Charles said coldly. Stiffly, retaining what was left of his dignity, he wheeled himself to the door. "I'm going to buy a new clock."

"Oh, I don't know," Erik contemplated. "I think I like the paint job. It suits the establishment." He smirked, unable to resist one more dig. "And it matches the back of your head."