#also - i’ve been thinking of this as an alternate version of ‘you’ from andante

[marvelyningreen]

Linger

[Summary: You’d always struggled with your mutant abilities. Now, as doubts and frustrations weigh on your mind, you find encouragement from both a friend, and from a mentor.

Warnings: mild language

Notes: Peter Maximoff x reader, featuring Professor Xavier for platonic reassurance (because the world can always use more platonic fluff.) Set in a corner of the multiverse where the X-Men reboot timeline is happening largely as in canon, but the Dark Phoenix storyline isn’t. ]

You shut your eyes tightly. Focus, focus…

           With every fiber of your being tensed in concentration, you have to remind yourself to breathe. You should be able to do this.

           For a moment – for the briefest instant - you think you feel a lightening in your heels. But that realization breaks your concentration. With a sudden jerk – like the falling sensation that comes when you’re about to fall asleep – your heels thud back into the ground.

           You swear quietly under your breath, grateful that everyone else is busy with class at the moment, meaning they won’t see you out in the gardens. It’s enough of an embarrassment to be struggling like this without the added pressure of an audience. You’d better take a break, though, before you burst a blood vessel or something.

           You don’t even have a chance to register the impossibly fast breeze that shoots by you before you hear a familiar voice say:

           “Whatcha doin’?”

           And it nearly makes you jump out of your skin, just like every time.

           “Cripes, Peter!” you gasp, “You’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

           Peter’s grin turns a little sheepish, and he shoves his hands in his pockets.

           “Sorry,” he says. “Hang on, let me try again.”

           And then he’s disappeared, and you hear the measured sound of footsteps on the paved pathway. A few seconds later, Peter strolls casually into view around the corner of the hedgerow. He pauses, spreading his arms and tilting his head slightly.

           “That better?”

           You can’t help but laugh. Somehow, even his sarcasm seems cheerful. You feel bad for being short with him, even if you were startled.

           “I’m sorry,” you say, “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I was just lost in thought, and you caught me off-guard.”

           “I’ll say. But my original question stands. What are you doing out here?”

           Even when he’s intentionally slowing himself down, Peter still talks quite fast. When you’d first met him, it’d take you a second to process what he’d said. These days, it’s easier for you to keep pace – at least with his conversation.

           “You’re asking me, the groundskeeper, what I’m doing out on the grounds?”

           You give him a wry smile, hoping the answer will throw him off track. You’re not sure you want to discuss your current state of mind with anyone, and especially not Peter Maximoff. You blink, and he’s standing much closer than before.

           “That’d be a fair answer,” he says, “Except for the fact that you forgot to turn the lights off in the cottage before you left, and you only do that when something’s bugging you.”

           Your brows furrow. “Did you just-?”

           “Nah.” Peter shakes his head. “I didn’t know where you were, so I swung by the cottage first. And you weren’t there, and you weren’t in the mansion, so I came looking for you out here.”

           You immediately seize on the opportunity to change the subject.

           “You were looking for me? Why, do you need something?”

           “Nope. I was just bored. But you’re out here looking like somebody took a hedge-trimmer to your rosebushes. What’s got you so frustrated?”

           He’s looking keenly at you with those big dark eyes of his, and you feel your resolve start to weaken. You turn away, trying not to make it obvious that you’re avoiding his gaze.

           “Don’t worry about it,” you say. “It’s nothing.”

           He’s right beside you now, and he nudges your shoulder teasingly.

           “Come on, talk to me. What’s going on?”

           “Peter…”

           He nudges you again. “You’ll feel better if you talk about it.”

           His wheedling is unfairly effective.

           “I was trying to-”

But then you clam up. It’ll sound silly to say it out loud, especially considering your lack of success. Peter waits a moment, watching you expectantly.

“You were trying to…?” he repeats, when it becomes clear that you aren’t going to continue.

You know you can trust Peter. He might be inclined to use his powers for pranks, but he’s not the sort of person who’d mock you for your shortcomings. And he wouldn’t keep asking if he didn’t actually care to hear the answer. You sigh, gritting your teeth.

“I was trying to levitate,” you mutter.

Peter lets out an impressed whistle. “Levitation, huh? You’re swinging for the fences.”

“I’m telekinetic,” you say. “Logically speaking, if I telekinetically push against the ground, it should push me into the air. I mean, Mr. Lehnsherr can make himself levitate while only being able to control metal, right? I should be able to do this.”

Hank would be quick to point out that Mr. Lehnsherr is able to levitate by manipulating the earth’s magnetic field rather than by manipulating metal itself, but that’s hardly the point. And-

And now Peter’s laughing. You cross your arms, nonplussed.

“It’s not funny!”

“No, I know,” he says, “I’m not laughing at that. What’s funny is hearing you call him ‘Mr. Lehnsherr.’ Why do you always do that?”

“It’s not like I go around calling the professor ‘Charles,’” you argue. You feel a little disrespectful even saying it hypothetically.

           “Well, sure. ‘Professor’ is his title. But you don’t call Hank ‘Mr. McCoy.’”

           “That’s different,” you protest. “I can’t call my best friend’s dad by his first name. It’d be too weird!”

           There’s a second of silence as you both process what you’d just said.

           Sure, Peter is your closest friend, but you’d never said it in so many words. Did it sound silly? Did it make things weird? Well, it’s too late to take it back now. Peter grins at you, and he speaks before you can try to backpedal.

           “Alright, then as your best friend, I’m gonna give you some advice. You know what your problem is?” he says, wagging a finger at you. “You get stuck in your head and psych yourself out all the time. Here – I got an idea.”

           Peter reaches down to the Discman clipped to his belt and presses play, then skips ahead a few tracks. He settles one of his ever-present headphones onto his ear, and offers the other to you.

           You hesitate.

           “I’m going somewhere with this. I promise,” he says. He raises his eyebrows inquiringly, and extends his hand again.

           Peter smiles as you finally take the headphone and place it over your ear.

           “Now,” he says, “Just take a second and listen. Relax. Breathe.”

           Well, he might know what he’s talking about. You’ve noticed that live music is one of the few things that can get him to voluntarily stay in one place. You exhale, closing your eyes.

 ‘You got me wrapped around your finger,

Do you have to let it linger?

Do you have to, do you have to, do you have to let it linger?’

             You’d first met Peter a few weeks after you’d started working here at the school. One morning, this silver-haired young man with pretty, dark eyes and a charming grin had appeared at your door, introducing himself as Peter Maximoff.

           That in itself wasn’t strange. You hadn’t gone more than a day without someone stopping by the cottage to check on you, or just to talk. You were never certain, but you had a hunch those visits were at the behest of Professor Xavier.

           Peter, on the other hand? You’re pretty sure his visit was prompted by the scent of freshly baked strawberry pie emanating from the cottage’s tiny kitchen.

Peter was one of your most frequent visitors after that. He’s always happy to taste-test any and all baked goods you’d whip up. He’s good company, and easy to talk to. And if there are days that you don’t feel much like talking yourself, he’s easy to listen to.

Drifting back out of your reverie, you open your eyes to see Peter watching you. He smiles.

“Little better?”

You nod.

“Yeah,” you say, quietly. “Thanks. It’s just… I’m so bad at this.”

           Peter frowns, confused. “Bad at what?”

           “This. All of it.” You gesture vaguely at your hands, and then at yourself, trying to indicate your own mutant abilities. “People hear I work at Xavier’s school, and they expect me to be like the Professor, or like Jean, or you.”

           “Huh. Not seeing the common thread there. What do you mean, like me?”

           “Like… Well, you know – exceptional. Important. But I’m not, and I never have been. You can do such incredible things, and I struggle more than half of the students. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here. Maybe I’d be better off back out there, pretending to be normal, instead of here, pretending that I belong.”

           Peter’s face had lit up for a moment at hearing you call him exceptional, but the smile faded as you’d gone on. Now he looks frustrated, and almost sad, but he quickly straightens up and looks you earnestly in the eyes.

           “So you’re not as powerful as Jean or the professor. So what? That doesn’t mean you’ll never get any stronger than you are now. And if you wanna talk about me, well,” Peter scoffs and spreads his arms self-deprecatingly, “I started out as a punk-ass shoplifter.”

           You laugh involuntarily. He’s so blunt and matter-of-fact about it that you can’t help it. Peter seems to take your reaction as encouragement.

           “And then I met the professor, and Hank, and Mystique,” he says. “And I came here. Look how much has changed for me since then.”

           You shake your head. “That’s different.”

           Peter cuts you off.

           “Listen,” he says. He steps closer, taking your hands in his. “Of course it’s different. You’re not me, and I’m not you. But don’t think for a second that you don’t belong here, because you do. And I… I want you to stay.”

Still moving at a normal pace – which seems oddly slow for him – Peter reaches up and gently brushes your hair behind your ear.

As his hand lingers, you lean your head against it ever so slightly before you realize what you’re doing. Peter hesitates for a second, and then that grin of his returns.

Slowly, still, he steps closer to you again, wrapping an arm around your waist, leaning in until his face is an inch from yours. He pauses.

“May I?”

“Yes,” you say, breathless.

And then he pulls you close, and your hand settles against the nape of his neck, resting against his soft silver hair, and all you can think is how long you’d been wishing that he’d kiss you. But Peter is a flirt with everyone, right? It’s part of his charm. You didn’t want to let yourself think that you were special to him at all.

But here he is – seeking out your company, kissing you in the gardens like the silly romantic that he is – and just for a moment it seems like everything else is drifting away.

Peter pulls back slowly.

“See, what’d I tell you? The second you stop psyching yourself out, you’re a natural.” Peter grins in response to your puzzled expression. “Just, y’know, don’t look down.”

“What do you mean, don’t l-”

And at this moment you realize that your feet aren’t touching the ground anymore. You’re floating, effortlessly, ten feet in the air with Peter in your arms.

Your heart lurches in an instant of panic, but between the music in your ear and Peter leaning in for a second kiss, you don’t lose control.

In fact, you find that you’ve gained it. In your mind, you press down experimentally, lifting the pair of you a foot or two higher, before gently lowering yourself down until you’re once again standing on the ground.

Peter opens his mouth to speak, and then seems to catch sight of something behind you.

“Oh, hey, Professor,” he says. “How long have you been there?”

Peter manages to keep an arm wrapped casually around your shoulders you whirl around to see Professor Xavier at the end of the hedgerow, watching you with an amused expression.

“Not long,” he says.

Damn it, you can feel your face going beet red. Peter coughs awkwardly, hurrying on to answer a question the professor hadn’t asked.

“We were just doing some, uh…” he catches your eye for a second, “Tutoring.”

You fight the urge to facepalm. Why couldn’t you have invisibility powers instead?

“A unique approach,” says the professor. “Peter, aren’t you supposed to be assisting with a chemistry lecture this afternoon?”

Peter grins.

“What, are you worried that I’m gonna be late? Me?” He leans back in to give you a peck on the cheek. “Bye.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you alone with Professor Xavier. You’re scrambling to figure out how best to politely make your exit when the professor speaks.

           “It’s lovely weather out here,” he says. “Why don’t you walk with me for a bit?”

“Well, I… Uh… Okay.”

You fall in step beside his wheelchair, and the two of you go in silence.

Forget invisibility. At this moment, you wish that you were telepathic. That way, you’d be able to block the professor from experiencing the secondhand awkwardness of your flustered thoughts.

           As you’re stewing, you hear him chuckle.

“I run a school full of teenagers, you know,” he says. “That was hardly a shocking tryst.”

That’s a fair point.

“It’s also hardly the sort of thing you want your boss to walk in on,” you say.  Though the initial embarrassment has faded, you still feel a little nervous.

You’ve always been a bit in awe of Professor Xavier. He’s a kind man, and he has a knack for putting people at ease. But part of you worries about your lack of progress, and the possibility that others might think it reflects badly on him. You don’t want to disappoint him like that.

“I imagine you wonder, sometimes,” says the professor at length, “Why I don’t just use my own abilities to unlock yours.”

Your silence speaks volumes. He’s not wrong, but you don’t want to admit to it in so many words. The professor smiles faintly, and continues.

“I’ve seen what happens when someone unlocks the full extent of a mutant’s abilities in an instant. The results are… unpleasant.”

You don’t have to be psychic to know what he’s referring to. Four years ago, in Cairo, a being that the news had dubbed Apocalypse and his four power-enhanced lackeys nearly destroyed human civilization. It’s not surprising that the professor would be leery of using such tactics himself, and you know he’s right.

“And even if that wasn’t the case,” he says, “I’d be taking away your opportunity to grow into them on your own. And with that, there’s a risk that you might never fully understand and appreciate them, or yourself.”

           You know he’s right, again, but it doesn’t reassure you very much.

           “To be honest, Professor,” you say, “I don’t think I’ve grown at all so far. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. Maybe I’m too old to start learning these things.”

“Nonsense.” The professor’s tone is a little stern, but still gentle. “You know, in many ways, you’re very much the opposite of someone like myself. While I was overwhelmed by powers I couldn’t control, you struggle to access a power that constantly eludes you. You know it’s there, just out of reach – like words to a song you can’t quite remember.”

           You sigh, turning your gaze to the ground. This is something you hardly need to be reminded of. Still, it’s a little bit reassuring that he can understand it without you having to fumble around trying to explain it. But what he says next catches you off-guard.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I’ve been neglecting you.”

           Surprised, you look over at the professor. His brows are furrowed, and there’s something like regret in his eyes. You hurry to contradict him.

           “You haven’t!” you say. “You’ve got so many things to worry about already. If it’s not a crisis, it’s a catastrophe – and running the school on top of that? That all takes precedence; I understand that.”

           You understand, and you don’t mind. Much. The professor shakes his head.

           “It’s been relatively peaceful here for some time. You’re not a child, but you’re still my student, and I’ve neglected to see to your training. For that, you must let me apologize, and let me promise to make up for lost time. But in return, I’d like you to promise me something, as well.”

“Of course,” you say, mystified, “But… promise you what, exactly?”

“This school isn’t simply a place of academic learning,” he says. “It’s a place for people like us to find one another. Though our lives and experiences may be different, we give ourselves the chance to connect with each other, to learn from each other.”

           You’re starting to get his drift. “So… I’ve been neglecting my studies on that front, is that right?”

           The professor nods, but you don’t see disappointment in his expression – merely patience.

           “You have,” he says. “You believe that you’re weak, and because you’re ashamed of that weakness, you hide away and keep to yourself, but that only discourages you more. But if you stop running from yourself – if you were to reach back when someone reaches out to you…”

           “You mean, like… with Peter? Just now?” You sound silly even to your own ears. Your awkwardness seems to amuse the professor.

           “I don’t mean that exact method, specifically,” he says, biting back a smile, “But, yes. Perhaps a friendship like his is exactly the encouragement you need.”

           You fall silent again, considering this. It’s true; you haven’t mentioned your doubts and frustrations to anyone before now. You’d honestly expected to feel worse about opening up to someone, to feel the need to double-down on your self-sufficient attitude to compensate for any vulnerability.

           But you don’t feel that way. You’re still a little hesitant, sure, and you don’t expect that’s going to go away anytime soon. Still… this wasn’t the catastrophic moment of failure you’d anticipated. Peter didn’t laugh at you, or dismiss your feelings. He stuck by you and tried to help. You hadn’t expected that. It’s nice.

“I know you feel that you should be doing more,” says the professor, “But you must understand, what we’re working towards is a time when mutants don’t have to justify their existence through acts of dangerous heroism. What I hope for is a time when our kind is free to simply exist, using our skills to better our communities, our world, and ourselves, just like any other human being.”

You’re not sure how to describe it, but sometimes there’s something about the professor that’s so reassuringly, resolutely hopeful that it makes everything seem a little less dire.

“I know,” you say, smiling faintly, “But I still do want to help.”

“You are helping,” he insists, “Or haven’t you noticed how more and more students come out to the gardens to study?”

Come to think of it, you have noticed that. When you’d started working here, you could go weeks without seeing a soul outside, and now the garden is almost a more popular destination than the library.

“See, I knew it was a good idea to update the patio furniture,” you say. “Those old iron chairs are beautiful, but so uncomfortable to sit on for more than ten minutes at a-”

You break off, looking curiously at the professor, who’s smiling as he shakes his head.

“They don’t come out here for the furniture. They come out here to see you.”

You blink, surprised. That can’t be right. Or…

You think back to your first year working at the school. The students would gather on the grassy areas of the grounds, but generally not in the gardens themselves. You figured this had something to do with the rather austere layout and, after getting the professor’s blessing, you began incorporating more cottage-garden style flowers. It’d brightened the place up considerably.

One afternoon, as you were hauling wheelbarrowfuls of mulch, you came across one of the younger students. Said student literally had steam pouring from her ears as she stared at the schoolwork spread out on the bench beside her.

If only to prevent anything from catching fire, you stopped and asked her what she was working on. It was history homework, and she was having trouble memorizing the names of the important figures in the era.

Now, you may not be a particularly strong mutant, but you were usually good at school. You sat down with the girl and helped her figure out a mnemonic that made sense to her.

You saw the girl in the gardens frequently after that, and sometimes her friends would join her, and they’d flag you down to tell you what they were learning about. The gardens became a favorite study spot for older students, too.

You’d never really thought about it before now, but every time the students would try to catch your attention, it was to talk through a concept they were struggling with. Huh…

“You have a knack for thinking about things from a different angle,” the professor goes on. “Are you quite certain you don’t want to teach?”

You get the feeling he’s only half-serious, and you laugh. “Oh, I’d be useless trying to put together a curriculum. I think I’d better stick to giving freelance advice.”

“Fair enough. I can tell you this much,” says the professor, “There’s much more in you than you know yet. And, for what it’s worth, I’ve never seen Peter so content to pace himself in everyday life.”

           Yup, you’re blushing again. You can feel it.

           You’ve circled back around to the doors. To his credit, the professor seems to understand that he’s given you enough to think about for one day, and takes his leave.

           “Well, it was a lovely afternoon for a turn around the gardens,” he says, “I noticed that the zinnias are getting ready to bloom. Might I trouble you to bring some in for my study this week? They always seem to brighten up the place.”

           “Absolutely, sir,” you say. “And, Professor? Thank you.”

The professor smiles, and bids you good afternoon.

           As you walk away from the mansion, your thoughts turn back to Peter, and you smile to yourself. You know exactly what your next baking project is going to be: a chocolate cake with real buttercream frosting – Peter’s favorite.

           And suddenly, your arms are held out in front of you. In your hands is a little potted tea rose plant – the sort you’d find at a grocery store’s floral department. There’s a note stuck amongst the leaves, written in slanted, hurried-looking script:

           Figured you’d prefer something that lasts a little longer than a bouquet. See you tonight, maybe? <3 Peter

           He really is sweet. Ridiculous, but sweet. If you hurry to finish the last of your work, you’ll have just enough time to bake that cake before evening.

           You can picture yourself putting the finishing touches on the frosting, only to blink and find that a piece of cake is missing, and to turn around and find Peter sitting on your couch, already halfway through the slice.

           The thought makes you smile again. Carefully hugging the little rose to your chest, you hurry along.