Chapter Text
Kurt was halfway through his third pancake when the knock came—slow, tired, almost polite if it weren’t immediately followed by muffled cursing and something that sounded suspiciously like a head thunking into a wall.
Rogue paused mid-sip of her coffee, brow arching. “You expectin’ someone?”
Kurt shook his head. “It’s, like, 7:40. If someone’s here this early, they better be bleeding or delivering’ the mail.”
The knock came again—more urgent this time, and punctuated by a sharp, hissing whisper: “Todd, I swear to God—stop licking the ground!”
Kurt blinked. “Okay, now I’m curious.”
They both shuffled toward the foyer, slippers scuffing tile. Rogue threw the door open with a sigh that already regretted it. And there, framed in morning sun and absolute chaos, stood Mystique.
Hair a mess. Bags under her eyes. Surrounded by... children.
“What the hell—?” Rogue started, then clamped her mouth shut as the smallest of the group—a wiry little gremlin with greenish skin and wild hair—hissed at her.
Kurt stared. “Mom?” he asked cautiously. “What is—who are—?”
Mystique let out a noise that was half groan, half prayer. “Here,” she said, and thrust the squirming green child into his arms. “Hold Todd. He bit me twice already and I’m out of snacks.”
Kurt yelped and fumbled the kid who immediately twisted like a feral cat, tongue out and kicking wildly.
“Let go of me, fuzzy!” Todd yelled. “I got rights!”
Mystique pinched the bridge of her nose. “Todd, I swear , I will get the backpack leash.”
Todd froze. “You wouldn’t.”
“I still have the frog-shaped one.”
Todd froze in Kurt’s arms, scowling, but his resistance didn’t last. With a heavy sigh, he flopped dramatically against Kurt’s chest like a damp towel.
That’s when the short, scrappy blonde girl in front of them let out a delighted bark of laughter. She had messy, choppy hair that looked like she’d cut it herself with safety scissors and enough attitude packed into her tiny frame to start a fight in a Chuck E. Cheese.
“You got in trouble!” she sing-songed, pointing at Todd like she’d just won something. Her grin was feral, the kind that made Rogue take an involuntary step back.
Next to her, a boy with wild orange hair and an unhinged look in his eyes cracked up. Full body, head-thrown-back laughter like this was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. “You always get caught, mate,” he howled, smacking his knee. “This is so good.”
“Tabby,” Mystique said, voice tight, “stop encouraging him.”
Tabby didn’t stop. If anything, her grin widened. “Not my fault he sucks at crime.”
“And you,” Mystique snapped at the orange-haired boy. “Keep laughing and I’m confiscating your matches.”
He gasped. “That’s abuse!”
“That’s normal,” she deadpanned.
Kurt blinked. “Wait. Boom-Boom? And… Pyro?”
Mystique gave a tired nod. “Tabby and Johnny, they only respond to their names and yes, they’re like this all the time now. It’s horrifying.”
The taller brunette boy behind them snorted, arms crossed over his chest. “Snitches,” he muttered.
He had a black eye, a split lip, and the expression of a kid who’d definitely been sent to the principal’s office for something that involved throwing a chair. He looked Rogue up and down like he was deciding if she was worth the trouble of pushing. When she raised a brow, he raised one right back.
“And that’s Lance,” Mystique sighed. “He already beat up two twelve-year-olds at a gas station. For gum.”
“Was it good gum?” Todd piped up.
“No,” Lance grumbled. “It was stolen gum.”
“Hell yeah,” Tabby said, and they fist-bumped behind Mystique’s back.
Rogue blinked slowly. “So they’re kids now.”
“Only until the time warp effect fades,” Mystique said, but it sounded more like a prayer than a fact. “They’re mentally about seven or eight, physically stuck there until the machine’s backlash wears off. Could be a week. Could be two. I’m not waiting to find out.”
Freddy—plump, beaming, and already elbow-deep in Kurt’s leftover pancakes—looked up from the plate he’d commandeered. “Do y’all have chocolate syrup?”
“Freddy,” Mystique hissed. “That is not yours.”
He blinked. “I know. That’s why it tastes better.”
Kurt just stared at him, open-mouthed, then turned slowly back to Mystique, like maybe if he blinked enough, this would all go away.
Nope. Still there. Still happening.
He gestured vaguely to the chaos now unfolding across the foyer. “Okay. So. What the hell happened?”
Mystique sighed like she’d been holding it in since sunrise. “There was a job. Routine salvage mission, or it should’ve been. There’s a lab in Cincinnati that was experimenting with prototype tech—temporal shifts, chronal distortions, some crackpot idea about ‘resetting potential’ or whatever. We got word that the project was abandoned.”
Rogue narrowed her eyes. “Let me guess. It wasn’t .”
Mystique pointed at Freddy, who was now licking syrup off his forearm. “Clearly.”
Kurt rubbed his forehead. “You’re telling me you sent them — this —to break into a lab with time manipulation tech?”
“They were supposed to bring the device back. And they did. ” Mystique shot a withering look toward the kids. “Then, like idiots, they plugged it in at the Brotherhood house to see what it did.”
“It was glowing!” Tabby chirped, completely unrepentant. “And it had buttons! You have to press buttons when things glow. That’s, like, a rule.”
“It de-aged them,” Mystique said flatly. “They’re all operating on about a second-grade level now. Except Pietro.”
Kurt raised an eyebrow at her. “He’s not?”
Mystique sighed and stepped to the side.
That’s when they saw him—tucked just behind her, half-concealed like he’d been trying to merge with her shadow. Small, hoodie-clad, and silent. The sleeves swallowed his hands. His legs were bare, bony knees knocked together under too-short shorts. His white hair was still swept back the way Pietro always wore it
He didn’t look up.
Didn’t fidget like the others. Didn’t speak. Just stared at the floor like it was safer than faces.
Mystique turned slightly and placed a hand at his back—not shoving, just a quiet, firm nudge—and Pietro stepped forward.
He moved with the caution of someone who wasn’t sure he was wanted. Like every inch forward might be a mistake. And when he stopped, he didn’t greet them. Didn’t say anything at all. Just shifted in place and looked over his shoulder at Mystique like he was waiting for instruction.
Her hand made a small motion—just a flick of her fingers.
Pietro glanced back at them. His eyes flicked to Kurt’s, quick and anxious, then dropped again.
“...Hi,” he muttered, voice thin and gravel-rough. Like he hadn’t used it all morning.
Kurt’s heart did something strange in his chest.
Not because it was Pietro.
Because it was him not being Pietro. That familiar cocky smirk was gone. There was no swagger, no teeth, no “what are you looking at?”—just this quiet, half-broken version who looked like a kid caught somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be.
“Hi,” Kurt said gently. No teasing, no challenge. Just the same word, handed back soft.
Pietro didn’t answer.
Mystique glanced at Kurt, her expression unreadable but her voice sharper now. “I never met Pietro as a kid, so I don’t know if this is normal for him. But he hasn’t made a single move to act like his old self. No running, no mouthing off. He’s just… like this.”
Kurt frowned, gaze drifting back to the quiet boy who hadn’t moved since the door opened.
Rogue, meanwhile, let out a slow breath. “Honestly? Thank God. If you’re just dropping them off, we should count our blessings the fast one stays put. One Pietro on toddler mode’s enough—imagine him with a sugar high.”
“Seriously,” she added under her breath, “he’d burn a hole through the wall.”
Kurt didn’t laugh. His frown only deepened.
Todd picked that exact moment to start squirming again, twisting in Kurt’s arms with renewed effort. “I wanna be down! I’m not a baby! I can hop on my own, lemme go!”
“Gott—okay, okay,” Kurt grunted, setting him down before he got headbutted. Todd immediately bolted two feet away, then turned around and stuck his tongue out.
“That’s what I thought, ” he said, triumphantly, before tripping over his own shoelaces and faceplanting into the hallway rug.
While Rogue snorted and Freddy offered helpful applause from the foyer, Kurt looked back toward Mystique—only to realize Pietro had moved again.
He’d stepped behind Mystique, small and ghostlike, barely a shadow. Tucked himself out of view so neatly it was like muscle memory. As if it was choreographed—some unspoken instinct between feral child-soldiers—Lance and Tabby shifted.
They moved in sync, just a half step, but it was enough.
Lance planted himself to Mystique’s right, arms crossed, scowl already loaded. Tabby slinked to her left, one hand on her hip, the other balled casually into a fist. Their positioning wasn’t subtle.
They were guarding him.
No banter. No grins. Just the bare-bones sense that their friend— their guy —was vulnerable, and they didn’t like how he was being looked at.
Rogue blinked. “...Did they just form a toddler phalanx?”
“Looks like it,” Kurt murmured.
Tabby narrowed her eyes at them like she was daring anyone to say something.
Lance didn’t speak, but the angle of his stance said everything: Back off.
Kurt didn’t. He just looked back at Pietro—half-hidden behind them now, hood up, shoulders hunched—and felt that weird twist again.
He sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face, turning to Mystique with a look that said he already regretted everything.
“Fine. We’re taking them.”
Rogue nearly dropped her coffee. “We are ?!” she screeched.
“Yeah,” Kurt muttered, already stepping forward, “but you’re explaining this to Xavier.”
Before she could argue, he bent to scoop up the nearest delinquent—Johnny, who immediately let out a squawk of indignation.
“Put me down! I got legs!”
He kicked wildly, sneakers flailing until Mystique cut him a warning glare sharp enough to shave paint off a car. Johnny froze mid-thrash, glared at nothing in particular, and then huffed like a wronged cat.
“I didn’t wanna go here anyway,” he muttered.
Mystique, unbothered, shoved a totebag into Rogue’s hands.
“Not explaining anything to Xavier,” she said flatly. “That bag has everything . Todd’s frog backpack leash. Tabby’s dolls. Johnny’s lighter leash— don’t give it to him, but don’t lose it either or he’ll set something on fire in protest. Freddy’s chewable toys. Lance’s gloves. And—”
She paused, eyes flicking toward the smallest figure tucked behind the others.
“Pietro’s books.”
Rogue blinked. “Books?”
Mystique didn’t elaborate. She just turned on her heel like a woman fleeing a crime scene and muttered, “Good luck,” over her shoulder.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Pietro watched it for a long moment—shoulders tight, eyes pinned to the space she’d vanished through—like he wanted to follow. Like maybe if he moved fast enough, he could catch up. But he didn’t. He didn’t move at all.
Tabby and Lance didn’t leave either. They lingered like sentries, eyes on Kurt and Rogue, expressions unreadable in the strange morning light. Between them, Johnny had started wriggling again, fussing with renewed intensity as Kurt adjusted his grip for the third time.
“Stop squirming,” Kurt muttered, wrestling him upright like a cat mid-escape attempt. “You’re the size of a throw pillow. Chill.”
“ My legs are cramping! ” Johnny wailed, flopping sideways with dramatic flair. “You’re ruining my freedom! ”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Rogue let out a long, exhausted breath and turned toward the kitchen, where Freddy and Todd were already dismantling the remains of their breakfast like a raccoon duo at a Waffle House. Syrup smeared across Todd’s chin; Freddy had found the whipped cream and was just... eating it. With his fingers.
“So we’re babysitters now,” she said, dead-eyed.
“Yup,” Kurt confirmed, still holding Johnny like a bag of rage.
Rogue eyed the three still on the floor—Tabby crouched in a squat, Lance scowling like he’d been asked to recite poetry, and Pietro, silent and watching everything like he was cataloguing danger.
“Have you guys eaten yet?” Rogue asked.
Tabby shook her head. “Mystique gave us granola bars but Johnny threw his at a squirrel.”
“It bit me!” Johnny shrieked.
“No, it looked at you,” Lance corrected.
“Aggressively.”
“Okay, great,” Rogue cut in before that spiral could continue. “Let’s go. We got pancakes. Actual food. No squirrels.”
That earned her cheers from Tabby, Johnny, and even a half-hearted “hell yeah” from Lance. The two of them bounded toward the kitchen like they’d just been promised Christmas and chaos in equal measure.
But Pietro didn’t move.
He stood where he was, tucked slightly behind the others, still wrapped in that oversized hoodie like armor. His eyes tracked them—just barely—but his feet stayed planted.
Kurt gently set Johnny down, who bolted after the others with a shriek of “ dibs on the syrup! ” Then he turned back and crouched, leveling himself with the silent figure still hovering at the edge.
“Hey,” he said, voice quiet. “You hungry, bud?”
Pietro shook his head, gaze sliding away.
“You haven’t eaten yet, have you?”
A small pause. Then a slow, reluctant shake of his head.
Kurt nodded, unfazed. “Alright. How about I make you a plate? You don’t have to finish anything, but you can try some stuff. See what you like.”
Pietro hesitated. Then, after a beat, he reached out—small fingers curling hesitantly around one of Kurt’s.
“You’re soft,” he mumbled, almost surprised.
Kurt smiled, gentle and warm. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m the fuzzy guy.”
Pietro let out a little laugh—quick, startled, like it snuck out before he could stop it. The sound was rough, a bit rusty from disuse, but unmistakably real.
Kurt’s smile widened, soft and sincere. He gave the small hand in his a gentle squeeze, careful not to startle.
“C’mon,” he said, standing up.
They walked into the kitchen hand in hand.