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"Why did you need to talk to me? Is something wrong?"
Peter's mom normally isn't in the basement since Peter took it over nearly fifteen years ago, but the basement is also where the bar is and they'd both wanted to try out a recipe Magda had seen in a magazine, so here they are. The yellowed lights reflect against her hair, turning it more reddish-orange than reddish-brown; it strikes Peter for a moment that this is what Wanda could have looked like if she'd gotten the chance to be middle-aged. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking; he’ll never know.
He swallows that thought with another sip and prepares himself for something he should have done seven years ago, the real reason he's talking with his mom instead of listening to records or engineering his latest arcade machine to work at his speed.
“Nothing is...immediately wrong. I just have something to tell you, Mom. Something I did, I mean.” He grips his glass a little tighter. A water droplet runs down his hand; it tickles uncomfortably, but he keeps his hand there so he doesn’t start fidgeting.
His mom doesn’t move other than to give him a tired but curious look. “Do I want to know?”
“Probably not, but you should.” Peter’s finger taps the side of his glass, so he gives up on seeming more composed and sets it down to drum his fingers on his leg.
He knows his mom is already disappointed in him for a variety of things—the stealing when he was younger, the inattention that was a permanent trait despite how many people had told him he would grow out of it, the constant and exhausting need to always move —and he figures hey, if he’s already a disappointment living in his mom’s basement, how could it get worse?
"Well?” His mom tilts her head, equal parts concerned and impatient. “It’s not like you to be so quiet.”
Peter feels his heart thundering in his ears, almost to a point of making him dizzy (and he knows that isn’t the alcohol talking, because his metabolism doesn’t allow him to get drunk easily—a fact that is currently both a blessing and a curse).
He gets the words out, fast and a bit mumbled: “I’m the one who broke him out of the Pentagon.”
The referenced ‘him’ needs no introduction. Magda never liked using Erik’s name (or his more dramatic title, Magneto) if she ever had to discuss him; it made him too real, too close. Peter was less cautious, but the truth felt easier admitting without the full acknowledgement that he’d broken a terrorist—his father—out of prison at the age of seventeen.
Peter’s superspeed means he gets the luxury—or torture, in this case—of experiencing every second in complete, excruciating detail. He realizes he’s made a bad decision after the damage has been done. And as he watches his mom react so incredibly slowly, he realizes something else: it is possible to let his mom down even more.
She pulls back; her eyes begin to water. The grip on her glass looks strong enough to break it, and she actually scoffs. “Pietro. Sometimes I can’t believe you.”
“I know.” he begins. “The guys that came to our house needed help, but I shouldn’t—”
“You should never have—” Magda’s jaw sets as she tries to calm herself. Failing, she shakes her head and takes a large sip of her drink instead. “Are you trying to put yourself in danger?”
Peter’s throat aches, and when he realizes it hurts to talk he instead mouths “No.”
His mom brings a hand to a necklace she’s wearing, fidgeting with the charm. “I just want you to be safe, and you can't be safe if you're trying to constantly help people—especially if it's illegal.”
Peter tries to push past the lump in his throat. “I don’t know why I did it. I just—I was bored, and restless, and I didn’t know any other mutants. I thought it would be cool, and, I mean—it was cool, but it was also totally stupid.” He bites his lip, frowning. “Just…I’m sorry I was such a bad kid. I’d be exhausted if I were in your place.”
His mom gives him a rebuking look. “First of all: you were not a bad kid, and I’m not exhausted—I mean, yes, I'm exasperated now, but it would be crazy if I wasn't. You can have bad moments without being a bad person.”
Peter stays silent for a few beats, unsure of what to say. “...What about Erik?”
Magda’s expression loses some warmth. “He is beyond saving. He’s done too much. But you—” she brings a hand to his cheek “—are not him, and you will never become him.”
Peter tries to focus on tapping his fingers in a rhythm and avoiding her gaze so he doesn't get over-emotional. “But how do you know—”
“Because you have a good heart, Pietro. You help people without being asked, and you’re far more responsible than people give you credit for. Your impulsivity just means you sometimes do things that aren’t always…wise, like breaking into the Pentagon to free someone like him. Ironically, that mutated impulse is actually very human of you.”
She wraps Peter in a hug, and he leans his head against her shoulder. “I love you, and I wouldn’t trade you as my son for anything.” She pulls away, gently but firmly saying, “But you must never do something like that again, Peter. I need you to be safe, especially after what happened with your sister.”
Peter blinks a few tears away, nodding. “I will be—I am. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good.” Magda says. "But as your mother, I have a lot of questions."
"Fair enough." Peter leans back, attempting to exhale any remaining anxiety. "What do you need to know?"