Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter Maximoff is many things.

Everyone tends to be a lot of things. The thing is though that some of those things tend to often dominate others. People like having easy ways to label others. So if someone is smart it’s easy for that to be the main quality people see. If someone’s hot and flirtatious they may be written off as an airhead. If someone’s strong they may be seen as the “muscle.”

And if you’re an energy-filled, speedster, people tend to focus on that. On the “speed” part. On the “energy” part. On the part where Peter lived in his mom’s basement without wondering why that was.

If you need someone to run across the country, Peter’s your guy. Need him to deliver a letter to someone? Need him to do some surveillance? He’s got you. Provided you don’t need it too covert because of course someone like Peter isn’t capable of stealth. It’s not like he’s a speedster who processes things at the speed of sound.

If you need someone to speak to a scared kid though? Get Kurt. If you need someone to think of a plan? Get Hank. If you need someone who can speak multiple languages? Get Erik. If you need someone to empathize with someone going through the horrors? Well why would you get Peter? It’s not like anything bad has ever happened to Peter.

Right?

At this point in his life Peter has given up on the idea of making other people see him a certain way. He’s the burn-out disappointment, sure, but at least they see him as a man. At least they don’t see him as a freak. At least they view him as someone who’s actually capable of doing some things (even if it isn’t a lot.)

It’s the bare minimum. Hell, Wanda would argue it’s below the bare minimum, but it’s something he didn’t always have. There was a time he was seen as a girl. Or as the “weird foreign deaf kid.” Or as the “white haired freak.”

Being the irresponsible wash up is just another moniker to add to the long list of monikers he has. And unlike the previous times Peter can at least see where they’re coming from. Them focusing on him being trans or Sokovian or hard of hearing or a mutant was out of his control, that’s just them being bigots.

But maybe part of Peter thinks it’s okay for people to judge him for his personality? For the front he puts up? He may be an impulsive idiot but that’s because he chooses to be. Because at least then if he’s disliked it’s for something he can control.

Plus, if he was to go around correcting people on every misconception they have about him, he’d be here all day. And if there is one thing people got right is that he hates being in one place for too long.

It isn’t really an issue anyways! So what if the only person he truly knew him is forever gone? So what if the things people say don’t cut a little deep sometimes? So what if people are unaware of his boundaries because he finds it easiest to pretend he doesn't have them?

It’s fine. He’s fine. Because he’s Peter Maximoff, he’s Quicksilver. And if there is one thing people expect him to be it’s fine. Maybe a little emotionally dead inside like anyone in their twenties is, but in terms of trauma there is no way Peter has a bucket load of that.

Because he obviously came from a totally all-American family with a father who isn’t a terrorist and guardians who didn’t get killed in a war right in front of his face. Peter totally didn’t have an abusive ex-stepfather. Totally didn’t have his other half get consumed by her powers right in front of him. He totally didn’t constantly feel like a burden to his mother despite her efforts and reassurances.

Totally not! Because Peter Maximoff is a happy, silly, little fella. And do happy, silly, little fellas have bucket loads of trauma? Of course not!

So what if everyone around him seems to have an incomplete idea of who he is? That’s just par for the course at this point. They’ll either figure it out eventually and judge him for something else, or they never will and he’ll continue being seen as some one-dimensional clown. What’s it matter? They’ll figure it out or they won’t.

(It doesn’t change the fact that people always seem to be disappointed in him. That he never seems to be seen as an actual person.)

It’s not a problem.

It is a problem. It’s definitely a problem. It’s a problem that problemed so hard it no longer understands what a “problem” is.

It’s a problem being Peter is stuck in a box and can’t. Fucking. Move. He isn’t even being poetic or metaphorical. Or maybe he kind of is. Maybe him being stuck in a box is representative of how he’s been forced into them throughout his life, but it doesn’t stop the fact that he genuinely is IN A BOX RIGHT NOW.

He’d regret things. But he doesn’t even know what to regret. Because it’s a box and he can’t move and it’s fucking metal and does he hear bombs? Is there screaming? Is there screaming and he can’t hear it because another bomb went out and fucked with his hearing?

Part of him knows he’s not in Novi Grad. But that part is greatly overwhelmed by the part of him that is freaking the fuck out because he’s stuck and can’t move.

He wonders if his eyes are shut. If his aunt and uncle are bleeding out in front of him. If he shut his eyes because with his hearing gone from the bomb now he can truly block it out. Pretend he’s somewhere else. Because he’s a coward.

He’s a coward. A coward. A coward. And he knows he’s a coward. He’s known it for years. But he doesn’t want to be anymore but apparently it doesn’t even matter because everything is still dark and he can’t open his eyes.

He can't breathe either. And he wonders how long he's had his binder on for. Then he wonders how he even got a binder in the middle of a warzone. His breaths are coming out in huffs, and he's suddenly aware that it is something he can actually hear.

The fact he can hear his breaths should make him feel better. But honestly it just makes it worse. Because that could easily be an auditory hallucination. Because the only breaths he can hear seem to be his own when there should be others. Other noise. Unless everyone is gone.

Because this could simply all not be real.

Please let it not be real. Please let it not be real. Let none of this be real.

The darkness around him keeps flickering with some light, a small hole that even a small child couldn’t crawl out of but gives visual access to the outside. To the horrors beyond the debris he and his twin are trapped under.

His twin.

His twin.

Where’s Wanda?!

She should be here. But she’s not. And she can’t be gone again. But she can’t not be here because if she’s not here then she’s Out There and nobody seems to survive the Out There.

Where’s Wanda?

Where’s Wanda?

Where the fuck is Wanda?

Pietro screams. And part of him is suddenly shocked by the fact he can hear it. At the sudden shock in noise.

He keeps screaming. Because he needs to find Wanda. Needs to get her. To his aunt and uncle. Because he was already useless when they died once.

(But that hasn’t happened yet, right? So they can’t be dead.)

He screams. And there is a crunching of the metal around him, reminding him almost of a coke can getting stepped on by someone.

The space is getting smaller. And part of him wants to stop. But another part of him says that this is good. That this will help. And he doesn’t know how it will help but he doesn’t even care.

He screams and all of a sudden the box tears open around him. Acting like it was nothing more than a bunch of tissue paper as opposed to a metal coffin he’d already come close to dying in once already.

It pops open and for a second he is blinded by the sudden light. And when he shuts his eyes to readjust he’s terrified of what he’ll find. Of what he’ll see. Again.

The memories of carnage and destruction of his hometown flash through his mind. Part of him doesn’t even want to open his eyes because maybe he can stay in denial a bit longer. Continue being a coward. It’s all he’s good for anyway.

He can’t hide forever though. And he needs to find Wanda. Needs to make sure she’s okay. Needs to actually do something.

He prepares himself for the worst. For his sister’s body in front of him. For the complete lack of her body like last time. For something. For anything.

He opens his eyes and it’s somehow almost worse.

(Almost, because nothing is worse than what happened nine years ago.)

Still, it’s close. Because standing around him now are some of the younger X-Men. And standing further back by the door are Kurt, Charles, and Erik.

And Pietro becomes aware of the fact he’s crying. That he’s shaking. And it would almost resemble him using his powers if it weren’t for the fact he lacks any control.

Everyone looks shocked and he doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know what to do. His script of being “Peter Maximoff” has completely abandoned him. He’s on stage with no idea what his lines are and tickets have sold out. The audience is full with people to watch his pathetic stumbling.

Everyone continues staring at him and he doesn’t want to look. But he can’t stop. And it almost reminds him of that need to stare when passing a car accident (or when walking through a demolished city.)

He can’t stop. And neither can they. And he doesn’t know if it’s his powers making time slow down or what because nobody is moving.

Then all of a sudden Charles starts from the door:

“Pet–”

And Pietro does what he does best.

He runs away.

Chapter Text

Scott knows he fucked up.

He doesn’t need to be a mind reader or a genius to know this. It’s obvious.

He fucked up.

And he’s kicking himself for ever thinking this could be a good idea.

Raven is priming him to be the leader. And he knows he should be more mature. And he’s heard enough times that he doesn’t need to go down to other people’s levels.

But that doesn’t stop the fact that the speedster has a way of making Scott so mad.

He doesn’t even know if it’s anything specific as much as a bunch of little things compounding together. Maybe it has something to do with the fact the first time the older was introduced was after he failed to save Scott’s brother. Maybe it has something to do with the fact Peter never seems to follow orders in training, which makes learning to lead a team difficult. Maybe it’s the fact that he can’t seem to take anything seriously.

He gets why Quicksilver is such an asset, truly, he’s been on enough missions to experience a fast, unseen force pushing things around, taking down opponents in a way that would only be possible with his abilities. But that doesn’t stop the fact that the guy is not a team player, and seems more willing to play by his own rules at his own speed than listen to anyone else.

And truly Scott gets it, he wasn’t always a team player either, but at least he tries.

That seems to be the common theme with the Maximoff boy, that he doesn’t try. He floats through left effortlessly, without a care. And Scott sometimes wonders if part of it has to do with his powers, if he doesn’t have to worry about the consequences of his actions because he’s fast enough to evade them.

(It’s times like that make Scott wonder if Peter really tried to save his brother, or if he was too busy goofing off to notice Alex being engulfed by the flames. Because it’s easier to blame Peter than it is to blame himself. Because Alex wouldn’t have even been at the school if it wasn’t for him, and Scott wasn’t even there in the end.)

So he and Peter tend to butt heads a lot, and the thing with butting heads with someone who doesn’t seem to care about consequences is that it’s easy to go down to their level. To forget consequences exist. Especially when the other person has never shown an indication of being vulnerable before. Quicksilver is an unstoppable force, and all the others seem to be able to do is sit around as he speeds by.

All of this doesn’t negate the fact that Scott Summers is, as he’s been told many times before, a dick. A bad teammate. A bad leader. Because no good leader would talk the others into programming a box to drop on someone in the middle of training.

The others had agreed, yes, especially after Scott reminded them of the fact that in the past week alone Peter has: somehow taken a screwdriver and removed every door in the mansion, throwing them all into a pool which he then proceeded to try and surf on them; filled every single bathroom in the mansion up with rubber ducks, not helping Kurt’s rubber-duck phobia; photo bombed every single photo Scott has tried to be in by sticking a dumb fake mustache to his face; wrapped Scott’s whole room in tin foil; and replaced every single photo in the mansion with that horrible candid photos he must have taken when the others weren’t looking.

The last one in particular had gotten Scott worked up, especially after a portrait in front of Jean’s room was replaced by one of Scott drooling in his sleep.

Peter and Scott’s whole relationship tends to be to push and push back. He doesn’t know why it is (the only other person he’s ever done this to is Alex, and Peter is not Alex, he knows this) but that's just become their dynamic. Peter says something to annoy Scott, so Scott responds, so Peter pranks him, so Scott retaliates.

But the thing with pushing each other is that eventually someone gets pushed too far. You get so used to the routine that you stop seeing the edge of the cliff, and push them right off.

He and Alex used to go too far in arguments. In pranks. With siblings there is a fine line to walk between playing around and genuinely hurting them. And somewhere along the way Scott’s dumb brain forgot that Peter is not Alex. Because he may know Alex’s limits but he’s never pushed far enough to see Peter’s.

Until now.

Scott's growing theory that the box was actually soundproof given the lack of response heard from the speedster was quickly proven wrong by the screams. Screams that jolted through the whole room before completely blowing all the fuses in the Danger Room. Screams that had Kurt teleporting to get Charles and Erik because some stuff in the room had been specifically made to be telekinetic-proof. Screams that were so heart-wrenching that Scott started to wonder if it was even Peter in the box, because he had never heard Peter sound even remotely like this.

It didn’t last long, although it felt like an eternity, before the walls of the box began to crush inwards, giving everyone hope that Erik was close. Kurt poofed back with Erik and Charles at his side, and at that moment everything came to a climax, box exploding open to reveal a shaking figure, hands wrapped around his legs in a fetal position.

And Scott doesn’t think he’s ever hated himself more.

Everyone is silent, then the speedster slowly lifts his head up and opens his eyes, seeming to expect to be in a totally different place than Xavier’s mansion. And Scott just wants him to come to and realize that wherever he thinks he is he isn’t, and that he’s safe.

Further guilt fills Scott’s stomach as Peter seems to realize where he is, but the fear in his face doesn’t decrease. It actually increases, and the only thing ringing in Scott’s mind is that the mansion is supposed to be a safe place for mutants. Yet somehow he made it so it’s not one for Peter.

Silence continues to buzz in the air, and the speedster continues to look horrified. Peter’s face simultaneously reminding him of some of the traumatized children they’ve had to rescue, and that of a war-ravaged old man, with what must be a trick of the light making his hair look more silver than white.

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Peter look more like his father’s son than at that moment.

Suddenly, the silence must get too much because Charles, still at the door with Kurt and Erik, finally moves to say something.

“Pet–”

There’s pure fear that flashes in the other’s eyes before he’s gone, rushing past everyone in the room like he can’t get away from them faster. Which, honestly, is fair.

Scott doesn’t want to be around himself much either.

More silence, and then:

“Does someone want to explain to me what just happened?” Came a tense voice from the professor, face hardened and completely absent of any sign of joviality. Sitting next to Erik they look like a set of parents scolding their kids, which in a way they kind of are.

…shit.

The others look at him to explain, and while such an act would usually fill him with joy as being recognized as the leader, the glances are more full of blame. Which is fair. He seriously fucked up.

And that only becomes more clear when Scott has to actually explain what happened. How his response to some, which he now realizes, relatively harmless pranks was to respond with a poorly thought out prank that clearly didn’t work as intended.

“I see… okay, I think everyone should give Peter some space for a bit. We’ll have a discussion about this later.”

Oh, yeah. Sure. Yeah… as much as they probably all want to apologize it makes sense Peter would need space. Scott wouldn’t want to accidentally hurt him anymore than he already has.

“Yeah… uh… I’m really sorry,” the professor just nods at him like he knows how guilty he feels, which given the man is a telepath he likely does, “and… thanks Erik, for getting him out of there.” Because if Erik hadn’t forced that box open there is no way of knowing how much worse it all could have been.

Magneto just blinks at him, before responding: “Indeed.” Shoot, is Peter sure that Erik doesn’t know about Peter’s parentage? Then again… if he did know Scott would likely be dead already.

“You’re all good to go now, but I expect an apology later. And I’m going to talk to everyone about stopping these pranks.” The professor says, and all the X-Men take that as an instruction to leave the room, exiting the Danger Room and the remains of this catastrophe as quickly as they can.

Charles’ head is swimming right now. Kurt popping in while he was meeting with Erik wasn’t an anomaly, but Kurt popping in to say something is wrong with Peter and they needed to go to the Danger Room is a whole different story. A story only made worse by the fact that rather than being in his office like usual, he and Erik had decided to take a walk around the gardens, meaning it took longer for Kurt to find him.

And, judging by the thoughts and emotions felt when he was transported to the training room, that amount of time was far too much. The worries and guilt among everyone in the room immediately seized Charles’ attention, and this was without the undercurrent of Peter’s own panic. The speedster’s thoughts tend to move too quickly for Charles to read them, and otherwise just causes a headache, so he tends to block them out, reducing them to white noise. But when the boy tends to get excited or, apparently, scared they get louder. Much louder. Charles still can’t decipher what they say, but the feeling is there and they are loud.

Too loud.

And the feelings remind him distinctly of one other person Charles knows.

“Erik–”

“It wasn’t me.”

What?

“I know, it was the kids–”

“No Charles, the box. All this,” he says, motioning around to the room to the now exposed wires and warped metal, “it wasn’t me.”

Oh. Well. That’s… surprising. Maybe it really shouldn’t be though.

“Peter?”

“Think so.”

“How can you tell?”

“Magnetic field.”

Ah, of course. Charles still wonders how Erik's exact perception of that works.

“I really think someone should talk to him.”

“...thought you wanted them to give him space.”

“From them, yes, even though I’m sure they’d mean no harm. But if what you’re saying is true then there’s even more reason for why he shouldn’t be alone right now.”

He waits for Erik to pick up on what he’s implying, he can tell he does when he hears the tired sigh.

“You want me to?”

“That would be nice, yes.”

Charles is usually the people person, yes, but in terms of comforting Erik tends to be the better person for it. As harsh as the man can be, he can be empathetic with those who need it. Plus, as horrible as it is, he has a lot more experience with traumatizing scenarios, so in that way he can connect. Charles has been told multiple times before from Erik himself that his advice tends to be too “prescriptive” and borderline “toxic positive,” despite his efforts to work on it, and sometimes what a person really needs is someone to cry and be mad with.

Some silence, he can hear Erik contemplating. And he doesn’t even know why the man tries to put up an illusion of resistance when they both know he’ll go, but they have a routine and he knows it brings the other comfort.

“...fine. Where–”

“Roof.” Charles says, tracking down the distant white noise of Peter Maximoff. Which has albeitly calmed down a bit but is still pained and warped.

Charles starts to leave for the door, knowing it will prompt Erik into exiting the room. They go down the hallway together and up the elevator before splitting off, Charles heading to check on the others while Erik goes to check up on the speedster, looking hesitant.

But Charles knows, if anyone can help Peter, it would be Erik. His father. Even if the man doesn’t know it.

Chapter Text

He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s fine.

He’s fine. He isn’t surrounded by war. Isn’t surrounded by destruction.

Then why can’t he breathe?!

When he first bolts out of the room he thinks it might be the binder. Maybe he’s been wearing it for too long. He can’t get it off though. And he knows he’s panicking and panicking makes it worse but he can’t do anything.

He never seems to be able to do anything. That’s his problem.

The gasps keep coming and they hurt. The world seems all jumbled around Pietro and he doesn’t know if it’s because of his panic, his superspeed, his hearing, or if the world really is falling apart around him. He’s usually able to tell but right now the energy it takes to filter everything is energy he doesn’t have. He doesn’t know if the ringing he’s hearing is coming from his ears or head and he can’t truly bring himself to care.

Maybe he’s stuck in hyperspeed. Maybe he’s dying. Either way it doesn’t matter, he just wishes everything would stop. But the thought of moving on after this scares him. Because it can’t be real. He can’t–

He can’t deal with them all looking at him like that again.

Typical Peter, isn’t it? Causing a mess and being too scared to deal with the consequences? His teachers have said that to him before. The cops have. Fuck, even Scott has. How pathetic is it that someone nearly ten years younger than him has to tell him shit like that?

This isn’t like those times though. This isn’t him avoiding punishment for goofing off or stealing. This is him wanting to avoid punishment for something far more serious: being himself.

Because, news flash: Pietro Maximoff is a coward, regardless of what Peter may otherwise claim.

And it just became very clear to everyone else.

He’d spend years crafting the mask of a careless, reckless Peter Maximoff. Because it’s easier to do stuff because you’re impulsive and don’t care about the consequences rather than when you truly are trying your best and care too much about the consequences but always fail.

That’s all Pietro is: a failure. His old stepfather knew it and his teachers knew and he’s sure his mom knows it.

Wanda probably knew it.

Hell, maybe Erik knows it. Maybe it’s just easier for him to go on without claiming Peter as a son because he knows what a disappointment he’ll be. Maybe it’s better for Erik to pretend they aren’t related because then he isn’t mistakenly blamed for Peter’s mess-ups (for Pietro’s mess ups.) Just like his mom was and still often is.

Because it isn’t any of their faults.

It’s his.

It’s his. It’s his. It’s his. And that’s what keeps repeating in his brain as his breathing starts to pick up and he feels himself drifting further away. That’s all he hears beyond the ringing in his ears as he grabs his hair (does he need to get a haircut? Maybe he should get a haircut? Didn’t someone call it “girly” recently?) and pulled.

He pulled. Trying to find any way to ground himself. To punish himself. Then he stopped. Because something is wrong.

(No shit.)

Why- why does his hair look like that?

He’d grown used to the shocking white hair with nearly blue undertones, it was such a huge departure from his natural hair color: from the dark auburn that he shared with his twin.

But this- this isn’t white. It’s…

Silver?

Ha! Guess his superhero name really is literal now!

But why–

Some previously repressed part of his mind starts recalling warped metal on the playground when Wanda got hurt. A bent pan when that asshole tried to hit his mom with it. The car coming to a sudden halt when Lorna was in the street and he couldn’t get there fast enough.

The destroyed room when Wanda died, which everyone just assumed was part of the damage her powers inflicted.

The horrible, metal, warping sound that’s still clawing in his brain from the events of earlier.

The nausea filling his stomach reminds him that some things are repressed for a reason.

He can’t think about this right now. He never wants to think about it. Why can’t he just–

“-eter?” A voice says, cutting his thoughts off and shocking him back into reality. He realizes now just how hard he was pulling on his hair. His scalp having started to hurt at some point.

He turns his head. After waving out a bout of dizziness that comes with the motion he sees just who it is.

Magneto.

Erik.

His father.

Shit.

“H-hey Magnets,” he says, trying to force a smile onto his face. He feels like it isn’t convincing anyone though. The idea that he could fool Erik at all is laughable. He had mostly been coursing on the fact that Erik didn’t seem to care enough to give him a second glance. You don’t need an impressive mask when nobody gives it a second look.

And the way Erik is looking at him right now tells him that his mask is very much being looked at. Maybe one would expect Peter to be happy about Erik actually looking at him closely for once. But he hasn’t had anyone look at him this closely in a long time. And the fact it’s Erik isn’t helping matters.

Being in the same room with Erik as Peter is anxiety inducing enough, but to do it as Pietro?

Yeah… no thank you.

Although, it’s not a room he supposes, coming more into himself to realize that he’s actual sitting on the roof.

Huh, when did he get up here?

He usually skips by time. Not the other way around.

Maybe Pietro really is losing his touch on being Peter.

And just when he thought he was good at something…

“Peter?” The man, his father, says, coming closer.

Oh right, get it together Maximoff, that’s supposed to be you.

“Sorry? What did you say?” Stop spacing out and focus. Focus on the man in front of you and not how much you hate your voice right now. Or how you can hear your accent slipping. Or how you are clearly failing at this.

Focus!

The man hasn’t said anything else yet, at least not that the speedster can recall, and instead slowly moves over to sit by him.

The silence between them is almost enough to drown out the ringing and screams in Pietro’s ears. Almost.

He doesn’t know why he expects Erik to break the silence. He’s Erik. And honestly he doesn’t even know why Erik is here.

“Why–” he starts to force out, wincing at the pitchiness of it. The act of talking alone is making him feel sick and hearing what his voice sounds like is not helping matters.

“You don’t have to talk.” The man sitting next to him says. Maybe Erik is able to see through him better than he thought. Maybe his mask is slipping more than he realized. Or maybe he just finds Peter, finds Pietro, that annoying. Regardless, he’s grateful.

The silence continues to sift between them, only broken by the muffled sounds of young mutants playing outside. There probably is more background noise than that, chirping of birds or rustling of leaves in the wind, but it’s too soft to pick up and is outside of his hearing range.

It’s almost nice. Domestic.

Pietro hates it. It’s what he and Wanda were supposed to have. What he somehow expected to have. What Wanda could have had.

“Do you ever get used to it?” he finally says, and for a moment it feels like he’s speaking to no one but an open field, with how quiet Erik’s being. Then he responds.

“Not really. I try to. Tried to. But… it’s hard to forget.”

Right. Well, maybe this isn’t even a fair question for Pietro to ask. He may have lived through a war. May have bombs dropped on him and his home taken from him and his family taken from him, but he’s no Erik. Erik’s lived through all of those things thrice over, Erik’s dealt with World War II. Pietro was just left to deal with the remnants of it all.

He probably doesn’t have a right to compare. Hell, he knows he doesn’t–

“You can stop thinking like that you know?” The man’s voice cuts through again, interrupting Pietro’s thoughts.

“...like what?” He scoffs, because if anything he’s trying to be respectful right now. To Erik and his past. And it feels disrespectful to do anything other than–

“Tell yourself it shouldn’t hurt so much. That it wasn’t that bad or that you deserve it. You’re wrong. And bottling it up only makes it worse. Trust me, I would know.”

Oh yeah, guess he would.

“And if you keep it all locked up for too long it’s eventually all going to come out. Pain needs a release, and if you keep it bottled up you won’t be able to control it.”

Oh…

“You saw what I did in Auschwitz, yeah?”

Pietro sat up at that, because yeah, he had. He’d seen the wreck while he was in Poland trying to chase down Erik. After being too late to save Erik’s family. Too late to save someone again.

But more importantly he remembers the silver strands he was just tugging. The wrecked Danger Room. The bent metal objects whenever he would get emotional (“Magda, why are you going to let her pretend to be a guy if she’s going to be like that? So overly emotional?!”) He remembers Cairo. Auschwitz. All the damage Peter’s done over the course of his life and all the damage Erik is saying he has the potential to do.

Erik seems to know what he’s thinking, maybe they have more in common than initially thought, as he then asks: “Did you know?”

Did you know?

Yes? No? Maybe?

“I- I think I tried not to.” He finally says, whispering it because he knows how stupid it sounds. Maybe if he says it quiet enough it won’t get picked up. He forgets how good Erik’s hearing must be though, even though he’s an old man. Or maybe everything else is just too quiet.

“You… tried–”

“I always just assumed it was my twin, or a coincidence not–” me. He stops, trying to say something that doesn’t make him sound totally inept that he forgot his own rule against bringing up Wanda.

“I… didn’t know you were a twin.”

Ha! Yeah well…

“I’m not. Anymore.” It hurts so much to say. Because in Pietro’s heart he will always be a twin. But he does not want to talk about this. Erik should know this but he doesn’t. And Pietro doesn’t know why Erik even cares about him or his “missing twin.”

“Why are you here?” He asks. And to Erik he’s sure it sounds like he’s changing the topic from a painful subject. And maybe he is, but he doubts Erik knows how much weight this new subject has on him.

“Charles–”

Oh, yeah, that makes more sense.

“You can tell Chuck I’m fine,” he gets Peter to say, “I’ll be good for activities tomorrow. Can clean up the room too if he wants.”

“...are you fine?”

No. Clearly not.

“Yes.” Pietro snaps. Because now this is getting tiring. And he doesn’t get why Erik is prolonging this when the man clearly doesn’t want to be here.

“Peter, your powers earlier–” and Pietro snaps.

“Don’t call me that!” he yells, standing up. Any attempts of an American accent are gone. And all that can be heard in his voice now is pain. He’s too tired for this. And why can’t everything stop and why is the roof moving?

“PETER!” Erik yells, standing up and reaching out his own hands to hold the roof in place.

Why–

Oh.

Oh. Right.

Pietro crumples. And he can’t imagine how stupid all of this must look to an outsider. The great, confident Quicksilver bent over, broken down on the roof. With Magneto as his audience.

Wow. His father is actually paying attention to him for once. Actually came to one of his performances, and he’s beefing it this badly.

“...sorry.” He whispers, arms now wrapped around his knees. Hair that had begun to turn back to its pale white now a shining silver again.

He hates it. He didn’t know it was possible to hate his hair more.

“...what do you want me to call you?”

…what?

“What?” he asks, ripped out of his newfound loathing of his hair with that question.

“...your name? You told me not to ‘call you that?’”

Oh. Right. He did. Good going Pietro.

…does he really want to though? Being called Peter right now just seems wrong. But being called “Pietro” means admitting that he isn’t Peter. And he can’t– he–

“...you don’t have to be him right now, you know?”

“Who?”

“Him. Pe– Quicksilver.”

“...then who am I supposed to be?”

“Yourself.”

Yeah right, and what if he doesn’t like who that is? What if he doesn’t know who he is?

“Right. Cause you’ve always been ‘Erik’ right?” he snaps, and he doesn’t know why he’s snapping. He usually doesn’t. Even when he and Scott are going at it it’s usually Scott doing the snapping while Peter is unbothered.

…but that's the problem, isn’t it? He’s not Peter.

Shit.

“Sorry,” he rushes to add, assuming Erik’s silence for what it should be: hurt. Because it wasn’t enough for Pietro to burden the others with his problems, but now he has to throw them back in their face.

“...no. You’re right. I’m not… sometimes it’s easier to run away from it all,” ha, yeah, he’d know, he’s the expert at running, “but the thing is with running away is it all catches up to you eventually. I think that’s always been my biggest mistake. Thinking I could avoid it rather than facing things head on.”

Sounds like bullshit to Pietro. Erik has always seemed like the kind to face problems head on. He hunted Nazis. He killed the people who hurt his family. He’s always been a man of action. And Pietro says as much.

“...not always. Sometimes… sometimes I want a break. And I try to pretend none of it ever happened. It doesn’t last though.”

He remembers now. Max. Henryk. Stories of a house on fire with a child’s screams. Finding a mother and daughter together with an arrow stabbed through their chests.

“So, what?” Pietro asks, “It’s easier to be Erik than Max?”

“Not easier, just– how did you know that?” Erik’s softer tone shifts to a sharper one at the end. And Pietro can’t figure out where he messed up.

Know what?

“Huh?” He asks.

“Max.” The sharp tone responds, hardening.

Oh. That.

He’s quiet. He must be quiet for too long. Because the man next to him asks again.

“Peter.”

“It’s Pietro.” he snaps, because if Erik wants to know then fine. Let him be disappointed. “Pietro Django Maximoff.”

There’s a gasp of breath. And he immediately regrets it. But he can't take it back, because while “Pietro” may have been his chosen name, it was one he took from his uncle. His mother’s brother. And “Maximoff,” well…

The silence on the roof has long since gone from domestic to unnatural, which fits given the circumstance.

“-gda?” He can barely hear the man behind him ask, and he can’t tell if Erik is truly being that quiet, if it’s his shitty hearing, or if it’s the spacing out from shock. Probably all three.

He really didn’t think he’d blow it this badly. I mean yeah, he had low expectations, but damn.

Maybe he should have expected this. That’s what Pietro’s good at, right?

“...ro?...an…r…me?”

Shit. Right. Attention.

“Huh?” he asks, still refusing to turn to Erik. Scared to look at him. Because as much as actually facing Erik may make him easier to understand, he can’t bear to see whatever look is on his face.

“Sorry,” he says again, pointing to his ear. It feels kind of like he’s using his hearing loss as a cop out for all the dissociating he’s been doing, but the point remains that the energy it takes to fill in the blanks normally is energy he doesn’t have. And the last thing he wants is Erik to think he doesn’t care enough to listen. He does care. It just… isn’t enough right now.

“...Sokovia?” Erik finally asks, now sitting down next to him. Seeming to be facing the side of Pietro’s head while Pietro continues to face forward.

He doesn’t know what Erik is asking exactly. Is Pietro from Sokovia? Is what happened down there related to Sokovia? Is his hearing because of Sokovia? Regardless, the answer is:

“Yes.”

There’s a cut off sound, and it takes Pietro a moment to place it. Once he does though, he turns to Erik in shock, is Erik…

He is. As much as the man is trying to cover it up, hand over his mouth, he’s looking at Pietro with eyes brimming in tears. Too shocked to say anything.

Oh. Right. Pietro would probably be sad too if he found out someone like him was his son.

He looks towards the ground as he starts to speak, although to say what he doesn’t know, “I–”

“I’m sorry.” A voice cuts him off, causing him to look back up at the man next to him.

…what?

“What?” he eloquently asks in a whisper, too confused by what Erik is saying. Surely he misheard…

“I’m sorry,” the man repeats, and wow, maybe Pietro should look into Hank making him hearing aids, because that’s twice he’s heard…

“You’re…sorry?” he asks, mostly expecting Erik to say he’s wrong. Then before he can clarify Pietro can throw himself off the roof, because that seems like the most favorable outcome to such a dumb misunderstanding.

“Yes.”

Damn. Did his auditory hallucinations upgrade? Is he dreaming? Is he–

He saw Erik’s lips move with his answer though, meaning he’s either also seeing things or his dream is pretty spot on or this is…

Fine. Let’s pretend this is real.

“Sorry about what, Magnets?” Peter asks, voice back at the idea that this is all a dream. Because if this is a dream then there are no consequences. And no consequences is the conditions that Peter thrives in.

“Everything- I- you don’t have to do that you know?”

“Do what?” Peter responds, already getting tired of this dream.

“Be that. Be… you can be yourself… Pietro.”

He grits his teeth at the name. A name that used to bring him so much comfort. That he dreamed of hearing this very man say, now just sounds like an accusation.

“This is me.” he snaps back.

“No, it’s not,” Erik calmly responds, which just makes Pietro angrier.

“How would you know?!” he jumps up, beginning to pace across the roof. “You were gone! You don’t know me. You’re not– I’m not–”

“Pietro–”

“You don’t have to pretend to like me all of a sudden or pretend I’m not broken! I know I am! Just… why can’t I pretend not to be sometimes?! Why can’t I just act like things don’t hurt?! I know everyone hates it and finds me annoying but why can’t I–” arms wrap around him and he breaks down sobbing. He wants to will it to stop but it won’t. And slowly the rocking and Polish singing that fills his ears make it so he doesn’t want to.

He hasn’t– when was the last time he–

The crying eventually peters (ha!) out, and all that’s left is gentle strokes in his silver-white hair as he hears the man behind him clearly say, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” he croaks, “It’s not your fault I’m like this. Not your fault I’m–” broken.

“You're not. And I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.” his father responds, before adding on something that wrecks Pietro even more, “For… both of you.”

Yep. That does it.

This time when Pietro cries it’s not just for himself. But for Wanda too. For Peter and the strong facade that he always had to put up. For Wanda and the reconnection she never got to have. Never got to choose to have.

He knows this conversation is far from over. There is so much they both have to say. So much they both have to unpack. But as he’s curled up in his father’s arms, for the first time in a while he feels seen.