Chapter Text
Peter Maximoff wasn't a mess.
He wasn't great but he wasn't a mess.
He wasn't the loser who lived in his mom's basement at nearly 30.
He was the loser who lived in his dad's friend's school for children who had it together way more than he did.
That wasn't messy, necessarily, he did missions and public relations wise people liked him. He saved people. That one time he tried to fight somebody was a big failure but his saving people was consistent.
Scott had to walk by as soon as he thought that.
Of course he couldn't even have one moment of self delusion that he wasn't a mess.
“Peter,” Ororo stood at his side from somewhere, sighing in a way that matched his mood, “am I your sassy black friend?”
Peter shook his head to clear everything else away, like shaking out an Etch-a-Sketch and leaving a blank slate, and asked her to repeat herself.
“Who is Dee from What's Happening, and what is What's Happening?” Ororo frowned.
“Who said that?” Peter blinked.
Raven didn't break her stride as she passed them in the hall.
“It's dealt with,” she said, sounding bored.
They watched her go, then looked back at each other.
“Never mind then,” Ororo shrugged.
“No what? Wait!” Peter grabbed at her arm as she continued on to the rec room, missing because he was too dumbfounded to have gone into super-speed.
“They are just confused I'm not jealous of your date tonight.” Ororo commented over her shoulder.
“How do they know I have a date tonight?” Peter hurried after her. “Who are they?”
Ororo turned and frowned at him.
“You don't know who you have a date with? Is it a blind date?”
“No, it's Crystal,” Peter waved away as he caught up, “who knows my business and said sassy best friend stuff to you?”
“Just children, it doesn't matter, Raven has dealt with it. So how many dates is it now?”
Peter still looked caught up in the previous conversation as they entered the rec room.
“Three,” Jubilee called out from her seat on the couch with her feet up on the coffee table.
“How does everybody know my business?” Peter threw his arms wide.
“We're invested in you getting a life,” Jubilee said as she noisily chewed gum.
“Dating doesn't give you a life,” Jean said as she poured a coffee from the pot.
“It does if you don't have one,” Scott muttered.
“Oh what identity do you have other than worshipping Jean?” Peter huffed.
“Leader of the X-Men,” Scott smirked, “and your boss.”
“Well I quit, now what ya got?” Peter huffed and threw himself down beside Jubilee on the couch.
Jean approached Peter with a look of concentration and then sipped her coffee. Peter narrowed his eyes and looked up at her. He started to focus on singing Mahna Mahna from the Muppet Show inside his head as obnoxiously as possible.
Jean rolled her eyes and left the rec room.
“Let me style your hair before your date,” Ororo said as she played with a lock between finger and thumb.
Peter shrugged her off and raked his fingers through the silver strands.
“I'm running there, no point.”
“Let me style your hair and put you in a cab,” Ororo said as if the solution was obvious.
“A cab?” Peter whined and let his head flop back over the back of the couch. “I don't need a nap before meeting her.”
“So don't nod off,” his best friend teased.
Jubilee snorted.
“Peter staying concious on a mode of transport, place your bets please!”
“Twenty on him being out before they leave the grounds,” Scott smirked.
“I'm running,” Peter asserted before getting up and searching the mini fridge, “is there any Gatorade?”
“The piss yellow stuff is in the lunch room,” Scott told him.
Jubilee looked disgusted by his description and Peter zipped out and back before she could finish groaning.
“What are you wearing?” Ororo said, as if there had been no interruption.
Peter looked down at himself, then up at her.
“On the date!”
“Oh, um...”
“The tight pants,” Jubilee said under her breath, “and the black jacket. A shirt with a collar and no band logo wouldn't hurt either.”
“How about I just buy you a Ken doll and you can dress that?” Peter teased.
“Wear your DMs instead of running shoes too,” Ororo suggested.
“But they're so clunky to run in,” Peter whined.
“So get a cab!” Ororo laughed and ruffled his hair.
Peter downed his piss colored Gatorade and opened a bag of potato chips to consume at a nauseating rate.
Raven and Hank stepped into the rec room.
“Cyclops, Storm, you're with me Jean and Kurt for a short mission in Chile. Peter, take team leader for a training room session with Jubilee, Boom Boom and Colossus.” Raven was already walking away as she finished her instructions. “Hank's running the session, bitch to him.”
Peter's mouth was hanging open. The others all hurried after Raven. Jubilee looked excited to be given an unexpected training session in the Danger Room with the blue team, even if none of the blue members of the team were actually going to be in there this time.
“Is there a reason we're leaving Quicksilver behind?” Scott was asking Raven from the corridor.
“Ask your girlfriend,” Raven responded.
They were soon out of earshot and Jubilee was running to change into her fight suit. Hank reluctantly looked Peter in the eye.
“What did she do?” Peter asked, wondering if simply giving Jean a Muppet earworm was enough to get tossed from a mission.
“I'm not in the loop on team selection, sorry Pete,” Hank blatantly lied.
Peter stood up and stared at Hank for a moment.
“Danger Room in ten minutes,” Hank said, squirming under Peter's judgement.
That was it, if Hank was uncomfortable over Peter staring at him then something was definitely going on.
“Just say it,” Peter demanded.
“After the session Charles wants to chat in his office, that's all I know?”
Peter folded his arms across his chest and stood his ground. Hank surrendered and walked out of the room. Manuel sat up from his armchair facing the TV and looked over at Peter.
“Mr Quicksilver?” He called out, timidly, “Miss Grey was worried about you feeling bad about yourself. She felt your ennui and went to the Professor about it I think.” The boy shrugged apologetically. “I can only feel the feelings, I can't spy on the actions.”
“My en-what? Is that Spanish? It sounds French. How d'you spell that?”
When Peter zipped out to grab a dictionary from the library and came back to the rec room to look the word up his stomach turned to lead as he read the definition.
“Well that sucks,” he muttered to himself, “she could have just pantsed me in front of everyone and it'd have been less humiliating.”
Manuel looked sympathetic and then turned back to the TV. He was watching a rerun of CHIPs. Peter wished he could watch a rerun of CHIPs instead of pretending to give a crap about running a last minute team training session. Then some Knight Rider or the A Team.
Huh, the A Team...who were going to Chile while the B team were left to run a training wheels session in the Danger Room with a babysitter.
“Can you go?” Manuel asked apologetically. “Your negative feelings are really distracting me.”
“Sorry,” Peter sighed, throwing the dictionary down and running to change into his gear.
After an uneventful exercise in the Danger Room the team showered and changed and Peter deliberately forgot to go to the professor's office. He wandered to the comms room to find out how things were going in Chile and when he heard they were already on their way back he changed and headed out to eat in the city.
He'd kill time before his date away from the mansion and the Jean and Professor brain snooping tag team. After eating and tipping well he went into Bloomingdales to look for a button down shirt that didn't look out of place with his pants and jacket, then almost screamed in frustration as he tried on so many pairs of shoes that weren't going to last one burst of super-speed that he gave up and got a pair of Beatle Boots from a small store in Greenwich Village. They'd probably suck to run in but they had been broken in already so they'd fall apart before giving him blisters.
Vintage was how the flirty guy at the store described Peter's look when he asked if everything looked like it should go together. Wondering if this was a jibe at his silver hair, he took the man's word for it and headed down to The Mudd Club in lower Manhattan to meet Crystal.
Crystal was from a rich family. None of them were mutants and none of them really prejudiced, but she'd made it clear that Peter would never meet the parents or come to any events. She'd even told him if they ran into anyone from their circle to 'be cool and not mention they're dating'.
No, Crystal was totally not ashamed of him.
Peter was on time, obviously, and paced for a while before realising that time wasn't dragging because of his mutation. Crystal was actually late.
Just as he'd realised this a Limousine pulled up beside him and the driver rolled down the window.
“You Peter?”
Peter stooped to look into the car, seeing it was empty but for the driver, then nodded to confirm he was.
“She was right that you'd stand out,” the driver snorted.
Peter rolled his eyes.
“So did she want to meet somewhere else? Should I get in?” He asked the driver.
“Nope, she just sent me to say she's had a busy day and wants an easy night tonight. She's going to the movies with her friends.”
Peter blinked. She stood him up?
“So she just sent you to give me the message?”
“Exactly that. Now get off my door so I can leave.”
Peter took a step back and the window glided back up to show him is own reflection.
Yep, that's what a Jackass looks like alright.
The car drove away and Peter bit back every curse word that was trying to burst out of him. He thought about stealing something really valuable from the Met and leaving it in her bedroom, then calling the cops.
He only thought about it okay?
He decided it was time to see how well these boots held up to a decent run. He started home and when he felt himself running into a heavy rainstorm he stopped and ordered a sandwich from a crummy roadside place. The boots were already struggling and they were not going to fair well to super-speed on wet surfaces.
He pushed his wet hair away from his face, drank his hot coffee and asked for a refill before the food arrived, and then took a couple of bites of his sandwich while scowling out the window at the downpour outside.
He swallowed, cleared his throat, then reached for his coffee and finished the cup off. He cleared his throat again and felt as if his tongue was too big for his mouth. His throat was burning at the back and his breathing started to make a whistling, wheezing sound.
He gasped and looked around the place.
“You okay kid?” A leathery faced trucker asked him as he lowered his newspaper.
Peter nodded, then wheezed and shook his head with urgency.
The waitress approached with a glass of water.
“Hey, you swallowed wrong?” She asked him.
Peter shook his head again, his vision blurring.
“Sir?” A man who looked like he could have been Hank's pen pal kept him from slumping over the table. “Are you allergic to anything? Any kind of food?”
Peter shook his head and tried to swallow against his swelling throat again.
The man pulled apart Peter's sandwich and found nothing suspicious.
“Are you allergic to anything at all?” He pressed.
“Penicillin,” Peter managed to wheeze, his face feeling like it was too big and really itchy on the inside.
His fingers felt like they were burning too.
His lips...were they inflating?
“How old is the bread?” The man snapped at the waitress.
“I...I don't know!”
“Find the bread they used for this sandwich!” The not Hank guy yelled.
Peter was blacking out, the dive restaurant he was sat in was spinning, the man was holding him up with both hands now.
“That's mould!” The man said way too loud and somehow from very far away.
“We cut the slices from the part without it,” another gruff sounding voice answered.
“That makes no difference you idiot! Call 9-1-1!”
Peter was swallowed up by everything at once, like he was liquid disappearing down the drain, and everything was dark and silent.
He could smell his mom's perfume. He thought he heard her voice fading in and out. He rolled onto his side and hands rolled him onto his back again and told him he would fall out.
He cracked his eyes open and drew in a breath to ask his mom what she was doing here, and where here was, when he focused on the Professor's bald head and flinched.
“Shit!” He croaked.
“It's okay Peter, you're in the hospital, you had an allergic reaction to some mould spores you ingested.” The Professor smiled at him and looked to be contacting somebody telepathically. “You really should be more selective about where you eat.”
Peter swallowed and found it easier than before he passed out, but it still felt very rough.
“It was raining and I've got new...” he looked down at his bare feet, “I had new boots on.”
“Your mother has your clothes and wallet.” Charles smiled.
“So she is here?” Peter sighed. “I was gonna ask you when you started wearing L'Air du Temps.”
Charles chuckled at this and placed his hand on Peter's forehead.
“Your mind's speeding up on me again. While your mutation causes issues so you burn through medication rapidly it also helped you power through the anaphylactic shock.”
“It was fast but I'm faster,” Peter said with a lazy smile.
“How are you feeling?”
“I'm feelin' a lot better than I was,” Peter pushed himself up into a sitting position. “How is mom here?”
“Your wallet still has her listed as your emergency contact. She called us at the school because she knew we were closer and had the means to get here before her. She wanted Hank to bring up to date medical records for you.”
Peter nodded.
“What happened?” Charles tilted his head to one side and scrutinized Peter in a way that made him wish he wasn't in a hospital gown.
It was hard to be Peter without the Peter outfit, the armour, the disguise.
“New boots and rain, I didn't want to slip at super-speed so stopped at the first place for cover. It's clearly not hygienic.”
“I mean before that,” Charles walked around his bed to the other side, “anything else happen today? Anything upsetting?”
Peter gave Charles a look.
“Yeah, I was sidelined at my job and stood up by my not girlfriend.”
Charles took a seat beside him and it was then that Peter realised that the man wasn't using his wheelchair.
“You're not the Professor.”
Not the Professor smiled and tapped the centre of Peter's forehead. He blinked and saw the professor using Cerebro and waving at him while Raven picked up on what was happening and huffed.
“It's okay Peter, he's projecting, it's not an imposter.” She reassured him.
The Professor tapped Peter's forehead again and he was talking to...the hippie druggie Professor.
“It's strange, but I think you trusted me more when I looked like this and treated you like crap.”
Peter smirked.
“I kinda did,” he admitted, “you felt more like a real person.”
Charles looked nostalgic and disappointed by this.
“Sorry man,” Peter began.
“No, no. Honesty is what's been needed between you and I for a while now. I'll be honest with you. I think you need therapy Peter.”
Peter's eyes bulged.
“What? I don't need therapy. I had an allergic reaction.”
“Let me explain Peter,” Charles said, leaning forward. “It's not just that today was bad, it's every day. Things just never seem to work out for you. Your friends feel sorry for you. Your relationships aren't healthy. Your family is fractured and you believe yourself to be the glue. You also believe your brand of glue is substandard.”
“What is this?” Peter wanted to shove junkie Charles away and get bald unrelatable Charles back.
“In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity, Albert Einstein.” Charles rose from the seat and headed for the door. “Your mother and Hank will bring you home to the mansion. She is staying in a guest room tonight.”
“What's going on?” Peter pushed for some clarity from the man.
“What's happened is that somebody loves you very fiercely. They put special protocols in place for you when you needed them. Professor Charles Xavier, bald headmaster of the school and founder of the X-Men, will continue being who he is. Charles Xavier, floundering mess in need of redemption via helping another like myself, also in need of a wash and a shave I might add... Well I'm a projection just for you. Call me when you need me.”
Peter watched hippie Charles leave the room.
“And let's call me Doctor Chuck rather than junkie professor, shall we?” He called back before vanishing.
The image of the professor and Raven in Cerebro ghosted back into vision.
“I can only see and hear him via Cerebro. This is going to happen outside my abilities, Peter, but you can come to me to talk anytime.”
“I'm not gonna be any help Peter,” Raven's image said, “but you can check with me if you get confused and want to make sure something's real.”
They vanished and Peter tried to process if he had brain damage or if the Professor had unleashed an imaginary therapist to head shrink him.
Peter's mother came in, carrying a bottle of ginger ale and looking relieved to see him sitting up in bed.
“Hey sweetie, they said you probably wouldn't remember but you threw up a lot earlier, so I bought you something to make you feel better.”
The perfume was in the air again.
“Are you really here?” Peter asked her.
His mom stroked his hair and cupped his face with her free hand.
“Of course, sweetheart.”
“Was the Professor here?”
She nodded and smiled.
“Your friends were all worried about you. Your sister has called three times already, even your father...” His mothers' face turned cold.
“Mom, please don't,” Peter winced.
“I'm not doing anything.” She smiled as if the mood hadn't turned at all.
His mom poured the ginger ale into a plastic cup as he watched her.
“Did the Professor talk to you about me?” Peter asked her as she placed the cup into his hand.
“Generally or anything in particular?” She smiled.
“Mom.”
Peter locked eyes with her. It was a trick they both pulled on the other and was their biggest tell when they couldn't meet the other's eye.
“You're so handsome and talented,” she said with a sad smile, “I just don't understand... When you moved out I thought you'd got a hold on things but the professor worries about the same things I did when you were stuck in that basement.”
“I wasn't stuck,” Peter protested.
“No, you were hiding.”
“When I left you told me not to,” he pointed out.
“I didn't tell you not to leave the basement. I told you not to go after him.”
“Why does it have to be a you or him thing?”
“It never was,” his mom took his hand with both hers, “for me it was about people who leave and people who stay. People who use you and people who support you.”
“You put in the time and you think I'm ungrateful?”
“You're not a prison sentence, sweetie. You're not a punishment or a penance.” She laughed with a weight of bitterness dragging the attempt at mirth down. “I don't want him to change you. I don't want you to try to change to please him. He should have tried to be better for you.”
“He didn't know I existed.”
“He does now, and he left. What about the people who stay, Peter?”
Hank cleared his throat from the doorway.
“Sorry, I got us cleared to take him home. I just have to send blood pressure readings to the doc here in the morning. You are in a wheelchair, then the cab, then you're walking into the mansion at our speed. Understand?”
Peter heaved a deep sigh and nodded.
Hank held out a bag with gray sweatpants and a Georgetown University sweatshirt inside. Peter gave him a look. It was a 'They better not have trashed my date pants and jacket,' look.
“You puked, Pete.” Hank said, bluntly.
Peter nodded. His mom had obviously brought his sweatpants and his sister's sweatshirt. He was handed some sneakers that were clearly bought for him at the last minute.
“The boots need to be repaired, but they're not too bad,” Hank smiled and shrugged.
“Okay.”
He drank the ginger ale and took the clothes to change into as they left him for privacy.
So he left the mansion to go on a date and will be returning home with his mom to everyone knowing he almost got killed by a mouldy sandwich.
He doesn't need therapy, he needs a redo on his whole life.