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master-sass-blast · 4 years

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Out With the Old, In With the New, Part Two -Because Men are Often Worse Still.

IT’S ALMOST 1 AM THIS TOOK SO LONG TO FORMAT AND YEAH I COULD’VE STARTED EARLIER BUT S T I L L-

Part Two of “Out With the Old, In With the New.” To recap, Piotr is kidnapped while on a mission, and you take things into your own hands when Nathan, Wade, and Neena turn up missing as well. In the process of tracking down Piotr, you run into and team up with Angel Dust -aka Christina--who’s looking for her missing daughter. You then ask Frank Castle for help in freeing your family, friends, and Christina’s daughter, then join him, Christina, Ellie, Yukio, and Russell on a mission to rescue everyone. Just when it seems like you’ve won, though, the mastermind behind the kidnappings --Nathaniel Essex--escapes with Christina’s daughter in tow, leaving you all with no other choice but to pursue him.

Yeah, it’s a lot. If you haven’t read part one, you definitely should otherwise this is going to be really confusing.

Rating: Tish for pyschological torture, injury, feelings of failure/probable rejection sensitivity dysphoria, and near death situations.

Pairings: Piotr Rasputin x Reader, Nathan Summers x Wade Wilson, Frank Castle x Karen Page, Ellie Phimister x Yukio, and Alexandra Rasputin x Nikolai Rasputin,

Taglist: @marvel-is-perfection, @chromecutie, @super-darkcloudstudent, @girl-obsessed-with-things, @nebulous-leo, @dandyqueen

Alright. Let’s start with the good news.

The good news is that Piotr is –mostly—okay. He’s a little dehydrated and a little roughed up from being knocked out and captured, but other than that he’s fine.

(According to him, Essex and his team of scientists seemed more interested in Neena, Wade, and Madeline; he and Nate were merely proxy captures.)

The bad news is that everything else is going to shit.

Scott basically hit the roof once he found out you left –with the teens, two known criminals, and a Hell’s Kitchen vigilante that is in the legal gray area in tow—without authorization, and is none too thrilled when you return with three more mutants that fall on the vigilante-assassin spectrum and a mutant super weapon with no tongue.

(Fortunately, Alex sends him packing with a none-too-welcoming glare before he can verbally rip you to shreds.)

Your home is a veritable madhouse, now. True to his word, your uncle flew in, and has since taken your dining room hostage with various laptops, weapons, and stacks of paper. Nate and Frank are shoulder to shoulder with him, going over various strategies and pieces of intel; Wade, Ellie, Piotr, and Christina are arguing about Francis and the Weapon-X program, while Mikhail, Yukio, Alex, and Russell are having their own other conversation about the lab and everything that happened there—

It all blends into a cacophony of noises, none of which is helping you think right now.

Shit.

You notice Neena sitting off to the side, staring out the darkened window that overlooks the back deck. You skirt the chaos that starts in your dining room, trails through the hall, and spills into the kitchen, and sit down next to her on the couch. “You okay?”

She sighs heavily, then gives you a weak, tired smile. “Not really. But I will be.”

You want to ask her what happened in the lab –what Essex was so interested in—but you know now’s not the time for that question. That there may never be a time for that question. “Why don’t you go lay down in the guest room upstairs?” You look over your shoulder at the multiple arguments and conversation, then back at her. “Not to say we don’t need you, but I think we’re covered as far as opinions go.”

“Thanks,” she says with a small smile, “but Wade actually called Dopinder for me. He’ll be taking me back to my place.”

“Are you sure that’s safe?” you ask with a frown.

“I’ve got a good feeling about it.”

You let out a little huff of laughter. “Well, if you want to go chill upstairs until Dopinder comes, feel free.”

“That actually sounds good. I think I’ll do—”

The sound of glass shattering cuts Neena off –along with every other person in your home, save for one.

“You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about!”

You whirl around and see Christina advancing on Wade, who quickly gets Russell out of her warpath before picking up the nearest, largest shard of glass from the broken mirror that he can find and angles it at her.

“I will fucking shank you,” Wade snaps, voice entirely lethal. “You –you, of all people—do not get to tell me what is and isn’t a job! Your fucking sugar daddy turned me into a moldy avocado that got facefucked by a naked mole rat! You two built an entire scam off torturing innocent, desperate people just so your psychopathic main squeeze could get his rocks off and feel like some sort of Zeus-wannabe—”

“You don’t understand shit!” Christina snarls, advancing on Wade. “You’ve never tried to take care of a kid—”

“—playing God and crushing people under his feet—”

“—with no way to get a decent job or pay child support—”

“—and then you helped kidnap my future baby momma—”

“—and no resources or avenues to help you out—”

“—and you think I’m just going to forgive that?”

“—so you take what you can get!”

“Alright, alright, easy,” Alex says with an air of unchallengeable authority. With a simple gesture of her hand, she uses her telekinesis to back Wade and Christina away from each other, before flicking her wrist again, sending every last splinter of glass off the floor and into the kitchen trash can. “There’s bad blood between you two, that much is obvious. None of that changes that we have child to rescue. You two can duke it out later; now, we focus. Ponimayu?”

“If you think,” Wade spits out, still glaring at Christina, “that I am working with some fucking Cara Dune knock off—”

“She will not be joining us,” Alex interjects. “So that takes care of that.”

“Since fucking when!” Christina growls, advancing on Alex with her fists balled up. “Maddie’s my daughter, I’m not—”

“Risking losing her permanently by possibly getting your ass caught in some less than legal actions, while associating with less than legal people,” Alex finishes, standing and crossing her arms over her chest. “Because you have criminal history, da? Which means you do not have full custody, da? And if you get caught in further such activity, you will lose custody to ex who decided to give your daughter to man we are tracking, da?”

Christina visibly seethes, but says nothing.

“Our goal is to protect your daughter, which also means protecting you,” Alex continues, voice gentler. “Otherwise, we end up right back here. So, you stay here, we bring Maddie back to you—”

“—and my ex still has custody rights,” Christina finishes, bitter and defeated.

Alex casts a glance at your uncle before shrugging. “Maybe not. We’ll work something out.”

Christina squints at her, expression perplexed. “Work ‘what’ out?”

“Also, sidebar,” Wade interjects. “Since when am I just getting looped in on this?”

“You want to leave young girl in hands of experimenting scientist?” Alex asks, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

“No.”

“Then you help. Anyone else want to say anything?”

“What about us?” Russell asks, gesturing between himself, Yukio, and Ellie.

“You three stay here as well –I will handcuff you all to chairs myself if it comes to that,” Alex adds before any of the teens can argue. “Anyone else?”

“How’re we gonna track this shitstain down?” Frank pipes up. “He could be anywhere.”

“We can go through the intel we already have,” your uncle says, jumping into the conversation. “Chances are he’s still local, since it’s not easy to keep multiple sites running across a widespread area. We sift through everything, we might find something—”

“I can do you one better.” Ellie rummages in the cargo pockets on her suit, then pulls out a miniature hard drive. “I downloaded the compound’s entire database while trying to open the last containment tube. If he’s got other contacts, other places he’s been setting up, it should be on here.”

Your uncle takes the hard drive from Ellie’s outstretched hand with an impressed nod. “Nice. I’ll get working on this, start doing some basic search eliminations so that we aren’t wading through so much information.”

“X-Men are still involved in this,” Piotr says, speaking up for the first time since Christina punched the mirror. “Things cannot go too far off rails.”

“I’ll go along,” you say quickly when you catch the expressions that flicker across Nate’s, Wade’s, Frank’s, Mikhail’s, and Alex’s faces. “To make sure things don’t get too crazy.”

Piotr frowns. “Myshka—”

“I’m already knee-deep in this shit when it comes to Scott,” you mutter, shrugging. “No need to yank anyone else in. And you need to rest. So there.”

Piotr purses his lips, then nods towards the stairs. “Can I talk to you for moment? Please?”

***

By the time you step over the threshold to yours and your husband’s bedroom, your stomach is in your shoes. You don’t need to see Piotr’s face to feel the disappointment, disapproval, and dissatisfaction radiating off him.

You knew it’d be coming. You’d just hoped that it would wait a little longer than this.

Piotr sits on the bed, waiting until you close the door behind you. The door latches shut, and then he lets out a sigh twice the size he is.

This fucking sucks.

“I wish I knew where to start,” he says quietly, gazing across the room at you.

“You’re upset,” you manage, throat already tight with emotion.

“I am,” Piotr confesses, still quiet. “I know you knew better. Are better.”

And there it is. Less than ten words, and he’s already got you on the verge of tapping.

“I didn’t have any other options,” you say, voice shaking. You sniff, then swallow hard and tilt your chin up. Don’t break down. Not now. “I really didn’t.”

“You always have other options, myshka. Options better than involving children and likes of Frank Castle. You could have asked X-Men for help—”

“Scott was the one on patrol monitor duty. Do you really think he gave me the time of day?”

Piotr frowns deeply. “You are X-Men. If you request assistance—”

“I’ll never be an X-Men in Scott’s eyes,” you spit out, voice breaking embarrassingly. “Look –there’s a young child missing, and she’s in the hands of a fucking maniac. Right now, that takes priority. You’re already disappointed in me—” You choke back a sob, then spread your hands in a ‘what else can I do’ gesture. “We all knew that was coming. So, let’s just leave it there, and next time I’ll try ‘extra hard to be good,’ or whatever.”

“Y/N—”

Whatever he’s going to say next you can’t bear hearing it.

You turn on your heel and all but run out of your bedroom and back downstairs.

***

You catch your uncle as he leaves the dining room.

“Woah, punk –you okay?”

“Yeah,” you lie, scrubbing your face dry. “You get through everything?”

He stares at you, hard, for a long time, but ultimately drops your evident falsehood. “Yeah. Team’s in there concocting a plan right now.” He nods towards the dining room. “Should probably hop in if you want to keep tabs on shit.”

“Yeah, yeah. Look, uh, could you do me a favor?

“Sure. Name it.”

“Can you get her—” you nod towards Christina, who’s sitting on your family room couch and staring off aimlessly into space “—on one of your teams?”

Your uncle raises an eyebrow. “I thought she and your brother had bad blood.”

“I’m more worried about her daughter. If we can give her something mostly legit to do, she’s more likely to be able to keep her, and then…” Images of your childhood flash through your mind, and you swallow hard. “And then another little kid doesn’t have to spend the rest of their life with someone who hates them.”

Your uncle’s expression softens. He nods. “Yeah, punk. I’ll get her set up.”

You nod in thanks –then hug tightly before heading into the dining room. Job’s not over yet. Not by a longshot.

***

Ellie’s mass download turns out to be more fruitful than anticipated –namely in that Essex has a righthand man that never visited the compound –to avoid potential capture if the location was compromised. A string of email communications shows that the righthand man knew about all of Essex’s secondary locations and developed the teleporter for Nathaniel.

And, with a little bit of working and some mostly illegal hacking, Nathaniel’s righthand man can be traced back to an apartment in Northern Manhattan (thank you, Micro, aka “Lieberman”).

The plan is simple. Mikhail teleports the rest of you inside the building’s stairwell to avoid being caught on camera. From there, you follow Alex, Mikhail, Nate, Wade, and Frank up to the proper floor.

Simple. Now all you have to do is execute it.

Your heart starts pounding in your throat as you follow the gaggle of assassins into the hallway. You’d agreed to come along, and you’d known that things would get… less than kosher…

But for the first time, you really take in the various guns everyone else is packing, and the body armor that Frank, Mikhail, and Alex all wear, and your stomach churns.

Dammit, Y/N, what did you just get yourself into.

Both Frank and Wade make to kick the door in –and then get yanked to the opposite wall via telekinesis.

“What, you want to alert entire floor?” Alex hisses, pulling on a pair of black leather gloves. “And get your fucking gloves on, Castle. We are not leaving prints if this guy decides to squeal.” She puts a glove hand on the doorknob, then frowns in concentration—

The door unlocks with a quiet click and swings open with a barely audible squeak.

You trail after everyone else, careful to stay outside any lines of fire—

And then everything happens in the blink of an eye.

The righthand man –Jason Cross, according to the name on the WiFi bill that Frank’s tech spook had tracked down—gets up out of his chair and makes a dive for a cell phone, only to hit the floor empty handed.

Alex summons the phone to her hand with her telekinesis, then swiftly pockets it. “Quiet, or this gets worse for you.”

“Get him in a chair,” Nate growls.

Frank, Wade, and Mikhail all rush Jason, physically picking him up and manhandling him into a wooden chair.

Mikhail pulls out a roll of duct tape from the duffel bag slung over his shoulder, then restrains Jason’s legs and arms with several loops of the stuff –all while whistling what sounds suspiciously like Katy Perry’s “California Girls.”

Because this night can’t get any weirder.

Wade rubs his gloved hands together, and the eyes on his Deadpool mask widen as he stares down at Jason. “Ah, this is gonna be fun! Whatcha feeling, baby boy? Chinese hot sauce water torture? Car battery to the nips? Poptart up the ass?”

“Why overcomplicate things,” Frank growls, voice sounding less like a human’s and more like if a pile of gravel learned how to talk. He towers over Jason, glaring down at him like Death personified. “Talk.”

Jason, to his credit, doesn’t piss his pants –though it’s probably a near thing. “L-look, man, I –I don’t know what you want, or what you’re hear for—”

“Wrong answer,” Frank snarls, then rears back and balls his hand into a fist.

“What the fuck is wrong with you!” Alex snaps, voice hushed. She bats his hand away from Jason with her telekinesis, then glares Frank down. “Eat a damn Snickers and sit the fuck down! For fuck’s sake!”

“He knows were the girl is,” Frank argues.

“And we are not going to get information if you start messing with his head –or if neighbors overhear you beating his ass. Sit down! Just –give me a minute.”

Frank scowls, but sits down on the nearest chair.

Alex lets out a huff, then starts stalking around the apartment.

You visually follow her trail as she snoops around Jason’s apartment. She does a cursory search of the kitchen, eyeing the pristine white coffee mugs all arranged with the handles facing left. She glances over the meticulously maintained coffee pot, then goes about checking through the cabinets.

“Whoa. Looks like someone’s a caffeine fiend,” Wade jokes when she opens one cabinet door to reveal several unopened bags of the same type of coffee.

Alex ignores Wade as she continues her circuit around Jason’s apartment. She eyes the immaculately white area rug and furniture, the precisely spaced pictures, and the flawlessly dusted coffee table before moving into his bedroom.

“Is there something specific we’re looking for?” Frank grumbles.

“Patience,” is Alex’s only reply. She opens the nightstand drawer, then pulls out a black leather-bound journal.

You get that sinking feeling in your stomach as you watch her flip through the journal’s pages, but stay quiet.

At this point, there’s really not much you can do to stop this ride.

Alex strides back out of the bedroom and tosses the journal onto the coffee table next to Jason, letting it land with a resounding thwap. She stares him down for a moment, then heads back to the kitchen.

“We’re looking for a missing kid,” Frank points out irritably.

“I am well aware,” Alex fires back, tone dry. She casts one more glance at Jason, then starts to shuffle through the rows of coffee cups –messing up their arrangement, touching them all over, sending the handles askew. She eyes one, coughs on it, then sets it back in the group before picking one from the back.

Jason stares after Alex, jaw clenching and unclenching feverishly. “Look, whatever it is you want—”

Alex ignores him as she withdraws the coffee pot from the machine. She turns towards the sink, then freezes halfway and sneezes into the pot.

Jason goes whiter than a sheet. “Just –look, I can’t tell you anything—”

She fills the pot with water, then sticks it in the machine. Alex tosses the already opened bag of coffee around for a moment –spilling a sprinkling of grounds on the counter and floor—before yanking one of the cabinet doors open and pulling out an unopened bag.

“Look, I –just stop!”

Alex pauses in her actions, glancing over her shoulder. “You know where the girl is.”

“I already said, I don’t know any—”

She turns away from him and rips the bag in half, sending coffee flying all over the kitchen.

Jason lets out a noise close to a sob.

Mikhail tosses a knife up and down as his mother portions out coffee grounds into a filter. “Is going long? Because, if is, I order pizza.”

Wade perks up. “Ooh, yeah! Burnt crusts and pineapple with olives!”

“No fucking pizza,” Frank growls, grimacing at Wade’s topping choices. “‘Specially not like that.”

“Terpeniye, ognennyy shar. We are just waiting for coffee to brew.”

“Betcha there’s a Postmates option that gets the pizza here faster than that.”

“Later, gorgeous,” Nate murmurs, gently squeezing his boyfriend’s hand.

Alex sets the coffee to brew, then strides into the main living area of the apartment, trailing coffee grounds with her. “Alright, we have few minutes. Let’s talk.” She fixes Jason with a stern glare when he all but lets out a shriek of agony. “You stay quiet, or I make this worse for you. Ponyal?” When his mouth screws shut, she nods and leans against a marble topped end table. “You know where the girl is. Where Essex took her.”

“Look, I don’t know—”

“Your email is listed in compound records,” Alex lists, starting tick off items on her fingers. “You own the blueprints for teleporter –which you also designed. Your journal mentions Essex by name and working with him. You have record of unethical scientific practices and aligning with agencies that promote or practice testing on mutant individuals. You know exactly why we are here and what we want, you are able to give it to us, and there is no ending in this that you do not come out fucked.” She stares him down for a minute, then shrugs. “You only control just how much it hurts.”

Jason gulps, then looks away. “Okay, look, I admit I know the guy –but if Nathaniel finds out I told you anything, he’s gonna kill me!”

“Should’ve thought about that before you sided with the guy that experiments on kids,” Frank growls.

“He’s going to kill you either way, considering we’ve been here,” Nate adds, leaning against the nearest wall. “You want to save a little girl’s life, or not?”

“You guys don’t understand,” Jason says, voice and expression suddenly earnest in a way that makes your skin crawl. “The gift this child possesses is too extraordinary to simply pass up on. The advancements that could be made for mankind are innumerable.”

“She’s a kid,” Frank snarls, finger tapping against his thigh. “Not a resource for you shitbags to exploit.”

“What even do you want her for?” Wade pipes up. “Aside from whatever sick torture porno collection the two of you are creating.”

“Subject Fifty-Eight has the ability to mimic other mutation sets and already displays remarkable ability to control and use said mutation. On her own, she could be an amazing asset in law enforcement and conflict de-escalation—”

“Which means you want to use her as a gun,” Wade surmises. “You sick cumsock.”

“It’s more than that!” Jason insists, leaning towards Wade as much as he can until the duct tape restraints stop him. “Nathaniel was making good headway on isolating the chromosome that carried the mimicry ability. If he’s able to separate it out, stabilize it, there’s not limits to what it could be used for. Soldiers and policemen with the ability to mimic fighting styles or power sets of alien opponents. Weapons with artificial intelligence interfaces that can adapt their ammunition to whatever they’re up against. Technology with programming that lets them adapt and overcome any type of malware. Vaccinations that could adapt to viruses—”

“We aren’t your ‘Godsend!’” you interrupt, crossing your arms over your chest. “Mutants aren’t a resource that you can just exploit for some type of breakthrough!”

“Not to mention, you held us against our will and put us in giant test tubes,” Wade adds furiously. “And we’re talking about a kid!”

“Sounds like dystopic book,” Mikhail interjects. “Like Hunger Games.”

“I think it’s more of a Divergent, technically—”

“I can’t let you stop the pursuit of science,” Jason says, so sincere and earnest that it’s disgusting.

You stare at him, shocked to your core. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

Mikhail turns to face his mother. “Mozhem li my prosto udarit' yego uzhe?”

“Almost.” The coffee maker beeps, and Alex strides back into the kitchen. She pours herself a cup, then walks back into the living area and sits on the couch, directly across from Jason. “Alright. Let’s try this one last time.”

Jason watches her, shifting in his seat (as much as the duct tape lets him). “Look, I already told you—”

“All you told me was a bunch of self-congratulating bullshit that, frankly, made me want to put your face through that end table,” she cuts him off, nodding at the marble end table to her right. “I’m giving you one last chance to do something other than waste my time, and then I’m personally shipping you out to a Siberian gulag, where you can spend the rest of your pathetic, disgusting days sniveling in a cold, dark cell and getting pissed on by gangsters who think you’re a fun bitch to bend over.”

As a credit to his tenacity, if not his common sense, Jason holds strong.

He gulps, and lets out a shaky breath, but shakes his head. “I can’t. I won’t.”

“For fuck’s sake, why aren’t we just breaking this shitbag?” Frank snaps, lurching up off the couch.

“Oh, we are,” Alex says, voice eerily soft and a calm, as she slowly raises the coffee cup to her lips. She maintains full eye contact with Jason as she takes a small sip—

Then she lifts the cup over the immaculate, pure white carpet, and tips it over.

Jason panics, lurching and struggling against his restraints. “No! No, no, no, no—”

The coffee stops, hovering in the air in a massive, rippling, dark brown blob.

Jason pants and gasps, eyes darting between Alex and the coffee.

Alex gently sets the empty mug down on the end table, expression completely inscrutable. She keeps her eyes locked on Jason, practically staring down into his soul.

If he has one left, you think bitterly.

Jason’s chest heaves, breaths slowly relaxing as the coffee continues to float in the air—

And then the blob begins to slowly –inexorably—pour towards the carpet.

Jason’s expression contorts into one of grief. His brow furrows. His eyes widen. His mouth strains into a grimace. His hands grip the armrests of the chair, knuckles going stark white. “Look –I can’t –I’m not—”

Alex merely raises an eyebrow –looking like the pinnacle of unimpressed—and continues to let the coffee flow sluggishly towards the ground.

Jason’s face goes deathly pale, then flushes as he starts to cry. Tears form in his eyes as he yanks at the restraints on his wrists. “Stop it… just –stop it!”

“Careful,” Alex says, voice perfectly smooth and neutral. “Struggle too hard, and you’ll knock over your chair. Might break something.”

His shoulders shake as he watches on, as he stares at a small drip of coffee that rolls down the outer edge of the blob and drops off, falling away from the liquid mass and towards the flawless white carpet—

And he breaks.

“Okay! Okay, okay, okay.”

The drop halts mere inches away from the floor.

Alex raises an eyebrow expectantly.

Jason sniffs and shudders, then hangs his head and starts talking. “The teleporter’s a prototype. It works, but it has a limited range and limited coordinate functions.”

“Useful stuff,” Alex says, voice going gravelly for the first time. “Or I’m dropping this whole cup and going back for the damn pot.”

“It’s in New Jersey. Near Cape May. There’s a second lab there that Nathaniel planned on retreating to if shit hit the fan.”

“And he’ll be there? With the girl?”

“Unless he’s decided to take her somewhere else, yeah.” Jason sniffs. “It’s the only other place he has that has the equipment he needs.”

Alex narrows her eyes. “Coordinates.”

“There’s a flash drive in my safe, underneath my bed. It has a backup of all the information and programming for the teleporter, in case the thing wiped itself clean.”

“Encryption?”

“Yeah; Nathaniel was paranoid about opposition from other companies and scientists. I can—”

“We’ll manage,” Alex interrupts him briskly. “Security measures on the safe?”

“There’s an alarm wired to the door that texts Nathaniel’s phone when it’s opened without the proper code.”

Alex nods at Mikhail. “Cut the back open.” She goes back to staring at Jason, bracing her elbows on her knees. “Security measures at the compound in Cape May.”

Jason squirms. “Look, I’ve already told you—” He lets out a pained whine when the coffee mass drops two inches, then starts talking once more. “It’s pretty spare. We couldn’t afford to have it equipped like the New York one. There’s some cameras, maybe three or four moderately armed guards, and some lockdown functions on the lab doors and windows, but that’s it.”

Alex watches him for a few moments longer, then turns her attention to everyone else. “Anyone else have questions?”

Frank scowls and shakes his head. He lurches off the couch, stalking towards the bedroom where the sounds of Mikhail cutting through the safe drone on. “Broke for a fucking carpet. Disgusting son of a bitch.”

Nathan shakes his head when Alex looks at him. “I’ve heard everything I need to hear.”

You pass on asking any questions, which only leaves Wade—

Who is staring off into space, fists clenched at his side.

You look at Nathan –who shakes his head—then back to Alex. “I… think we’re all set?”

Jason lets out a whimper when Alex collects the coffee back into the cup –mass, single drop, and all—then crumples as much as his restraints let him. “So, what are you going to do with me now?”

Alex shrugs. “Nothing.”

He frowns. “What?”

“Well, you said it yourself,” Alex says. “Essex will kill you just for ratting him out. We don’t have to do anything.”

Jason sputters, mouth opening and closing as he stares at Alex. “I—”

“I mean, look at you,” she continues, smiling enough to show a hint of teeth. “There’s not even a mark on you. Your apartment’s in one piece. All we really did was tape you to a chair and just… talk to you.” Her smile grows as Jason’s expression morphs to one of horror. “You broke for a carpet. If he doesn’t kill you for that, I’d be amazed.”

Jason’s chin trembles as tears roll down his cheeks.

Alex smirks, stands, takes a sip coffee, then grimaces. “You have shit taste in coffee.” She chucks the cup against the nearest wall –which elicits another groan from Jason—then peers into the bedroom. “Ognennyy shar! Skol'ko dol'she?”

“Uzhe sdelano!” The sound of the safe-cutting stops, followed by some rustling noises, and then Mikhail appears in the living room. He tosses the flash drive to Nathan. “Here goes.”

Nate catches it, then raises an eyebrow at the manila folder and envelopes in Mikhail’s other hand. “What are those?”

“Identity thieving.” He crams them in his duffel bag, then nods at Jason. “What do with him?”

Alex makes a ‘hmm-ing’ noise, then glances over at Jason—

Who promptly passes out.

“What did you do to him?” you ask.

“Pressure point and telekinesis.”

“And we’re just leaving him here?” Frank growls, emerging from the bedroom. “Letting him walk away?”

“With any luck, Essex will handle him for us,” Alex says, dropping the empty coffee mug in the kitchen sink. “If he doesn’t, we take things from there.”

You gulp. You know you should protest the idea of executing another human being –on some level, you want to, the justice system exists for a reason—

But you also know there won’t be any swaying any of the people around you. And… you doubt the world would mourn the loss of someone that broke for a damn carpet.

“Alright, we’re done here,” Alex declares as she strides towards the front door. “Let’s go.”

***

“What the fuck was that?”

You’re all back at the van –which was parked a few miles away from Jason’s apartment—stationed around it while you all wait for Frank to finish his argument with his “tech spook” and for the flash drive to be unencrypted. Frank’s at the open tailgate, doubled over a laptop while grumbling into a shitty flip-phone. Mikhail and Nate are going what the former lifted from Jason’s safe, and Alex—

Is currently being glared down by one very, very irate Wade Wilson.

He has his mask off, which is the biggest tip off that he’s genuinely furious and not just making an argument for the sake of making an argument. The dim lighting and the scars covering his skin cast his face in shadows, but it isn’t hard to miss the sound of his ragged breathing, the way he keeps clenching and unclenching his fists, or how his body is so tensely coiled that it seems like he’s only three seconds away from physically lashing out at Alexandra.

Everything goes silent –save for Frank’s frustrated muttering—as you all glance between the two assassins.

Alex, to her credit, seems none too ruffled. She blinks slowly, raises an eyebrow, and calmly crosses her arms over her chest. “In regards to what?”

“That fucking interrogation!” Wade snaps, sounding almost like a feral dog. “You said we were going in there to squeeze this guy until he coughed up his juices, and then you just –you just—”

“Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.” She shrugs. “Evident from the state of his apartment, his reactions to his order and cleanliness being disrupted, and the journal entries talking about his therapy sessions for the condition.”

“You fucking—”

“I got results,” Alex states. “Without alerting neighbors, authorities, or leaving a trail of evidence that would lead back to us or X-Men.” She raises an eyebrow. “You have problems with that?”

“Oh, I have fucking problems,” Wade seethes. “You don’t just… you don’t just force your way into someone’s brain and turn it fucking inside out! You don’t use something against them that they can’t help or control!”

Even Frank’s staring now, having stopped his quiet swearing and arguing.

“How many therapy sessions do you think this guy is gonna have to go through, now, just undo everything you did to him? You don’t –you don’t just—”

“Presuming he lives that long,” Alex interjects, leaning against the side of the van, “that is not my problem.”

Wade shakes his head vehemently, mouth twisting into a scowl. “We’re not supposed to be that. We bend the rules, we’re morally gray, but we do not sink to the bad guy’s level.”

Alex stares at Wade for a long time before finally speaking. “If you think you’re the first man who has problems with how I operate—”

“It has nothing to do with me being a man!” Wade shouts. “It has everything to do with you emotionally manipulating that shitbag on stuff that he can’t help and can systemically destroy his mental well-being! You beat the shit out of them, you make them piss their pants in fear, but you don’t purposefully look for their weakest spot and keep beating on it until they have nothing left to give you!”

Silence falls, save for the sound of taxis honking and various sirens in the distance.

Nathan steps towards Wade, gently putting his arms around him while Wade gasps and shakes. “Easy, sweetheart. Deep breaths.”

“Semantics of the ‘ethics of interrogation’ aside,” Alex continues once Wade catches his breath, “you are not the first person who takes issue with how I operate. Our goal tonight was covert operation and quick answers. I did both. That nets a win.”

Wade shakes his head against Nate’s shoulder. “You can’t.”

“You don’t want to. I don’t take issue with it.” She shrugs. “Next time we have to do something similar, we stick you on lookout duty instead. Simple.”

You swallow hard as silence stretches on once more, gaze darting between Wade and Alex as the two stare each other down—

And then Frank’s phone starts yelling.

Frank blinks, then lifts his phone’s speaker to his ear. “Yeah, I’m here… dammit, Lieberman, why didn’t you say you were fucking done? …yeah, yeah…” He crouches and peers at the laptop screen, where there’s a few different folders open. “Alright, what are we looking at?”

***

The secondary compound is markedly smaller than the first. It’s fairly non-descript, planted in the center of a vast, weed-choked, otherwise abandoned parking lot.

“Used to be a pharmaceutical processing center,” Nate says as scans the warehouse through a pair of night vision binoculars. “Records say that Essex bought it through a third-party once they shut down due to budget cuts.”

“Good for him,” Frank grumbles as he sips down a cup of coffee. “How do we crack this place open?”

“Should be able to break in through the South entrance,” Nate reasons. “It’s the least defensible from the inside. Get in, gun our way to the lab.”

You drink from your own cup of coffee as you mull your dad’s suggestion over –it’s three in the morning, and it’s only going to get rougher from here on out—then shake your head. “No. We can’t risk losing Madeline.”

“She’s right,” Alex chimes in. “Going in ‘guns blazing’ will alert everyone and give Essex time to escape.”

“Anything we do is going to alert him,” Nate huffs. “The lab has security camera feeds that let him see the whole base. At this point, it’s about speed.”

“Unless we draw him out,” Wade suggests.

Silence falls over the group as you all consider the idea.

“How would we do that?” Nathan asks.

“Like you said, he has the camera feeds,” Wade explains. “So, figure out where the cameras are, and send out a ‘bait team’ to trigger them and bring him out. Then, while they have Essex distracted, the rest of us go in and save Madeline.”

“Is good idea,” Mikhail agrees after a moment of thought.

Nathan considers, then nods. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

***

“Do you really think he’s gonna come out here to fight us?”

You’d teamed up with Alex and Nate to distract Essex, leaving Frank, Wade, and Mikhail to extract Madeline from the compound.

At the time, it’d seemed like a good idea.

But now, as you’re strolling up to the warehouse-style building, in full view of any cameras and with no other cover, you’re starting to have second thoughts.

“He’ll come,” Nate says, charging up his gun.

There’s an undercurrent to his voice –tension, anger, you’re not sure what—that makes you think he knows more about this situation than he’s letting on—

But then there’s a flash of light, and Nathaniel’s standing less than twenty feet away from you, and you don’t have time to second guess anything else.

“You really thought that splitting up would work?” He smirks, self-assured. “Like I don’t already have your whole plan figured out.”

“Working so far,” Nathan grits out, setting his sights on Essex. “You’re out here.”

Nathaniel’s smirk broadens into an arrogant, borderline crazed grin –and then whips his hand to his left.

A rusted metal shipping container, long since left discarded by the previous owners, scrapes across the pavement as it moves towards you three. It picks up speed, moving faster and faster, until it’s practically hurtling towards you.

You gasp and crouch, split seconds away from grabbing your dad and Alex and flying for it—

And then Alex flicks her hand –deftly, casually—at the container.

It stops in its tracks, crumpling in on itself like an empty Pepsi can.

Nathaniel stares at her, mouth gaping in awe and horror.

Alex glares mutely at him, stalking across the parking lot towards him before pulling out her own gun and opening fire.

Nathaniel erects a telekinetic shield to deflect the bullets, then reaches for the teleporter mounted on his wrist.

Before he can touch it, though, Alex flicks out a thin cord of energy from her hand, wraps it around his upper body, then flings him across the parking lot.

Nathaniel grunts as he tumbles along the ground, teleporter sparking when it smacks into the hard pavement. He rolls to his feet, tapping at the device’s display screen, then curses when it doesn’t work before launching more scattered debris at Alexandra.

You watch, somewhat awestruck, as Alex deftly dodges the various projectiles as she charges Essex once more. “You think she’s got that covered?”

“Here’s fucking hoping,” Nate grunts as several black-clad, well-armed men sprint out of the nearest entrance to the warehouse.

The fight becomes less of a ‘fight’ and more of a ‘dodge the multiple flying chunks of metal’ challenge as you and Nathan try to take down Essex’s hired muscle and Alex deals with Nathaniel himself.

You yelp as you duck a straight blast of energy from Alex, which goes on to score out a chunk of the asphalt behind you. You try to fly into the air to avoid getting hit by anything else –then nearly get taken out by a spray of gunfire from one of the guys Nathan’s chasing down.

You’re in over your head. You’re in way over your head. This is so far above your pay grade it’s not even funny anymore. You can handle the various scrapes the X-Men get into, and you’ve managed to come out on top in a few rougher fights than that, but trying to keep pace with literal professional soldiers and assassins is a step too far for you. Several steps too far.

Get home to Piotr, you chant in your head, like a mantra. Get home to Piotr, get home to Piotr, get home to Piotr.

You unleash a whirlwind of air, knocking several gun-bearing men away from you.

Get home to Piotr.

You bounce away from what sounds like a grenade going off, sailing through the air and dodging pieces of shrapnel as best you can as you go.

Get home to Piotr.

Something hits you hard in the back, and you plummet to the ground with a choked grunt. The pavement is none too forgiving to your comparatively fragile, fleshy body; pain sparks in your head and your right knee, alerting you to their discontent with being abused like this.

Your vision goes blurry, and the world slows for a minute as you try to get your bearings back about you.

Get… home…

“…hardly even a challenge.”

You look up, and see Nathaniel Essex standing over you.

He’s grinning nastily, which only further offset by the blood caked to the side of his face. He flicks his hand, and sends you tumbling across the ground once more. “I know the X-men have low standards for fighting capabilities, but this is depressing, even for them.”

Get home… to…

You stagger to your feet, gritting your teeth together as your head and knee throb in vengeful unison. Your stomach drops when you think of Alexandra –granted, your vision’s blurred, but you can’t see her anywhere—but you quickly push it aside when Nathaniel launches a steel beam at you.

He has the decency to look somewhat impressed when you bat it away with an air shield. “Not bad.”

Before you can think, you feel an invisible hand close around your neck, shutting your airflow off as it lifts you off the ground.

“But not good enough.”

You claw at the invisible force –not that it does any good. Your feet kick and thrash as you cough and sputter—

And slowly, the world goes dim.

Piotr.

I’m sorry.

Your face throbs, pulse slowing as you begin to pass out—

No.

Absolutely. Not.

I refuse to go out to this jackass.

With your last bit of consciousness, you force yourself to stop struggling against the pressure around your neck and focus instead on the air around you –to do something with it, anything.

You manage to create a shockwave, sending it out in all directions around you—

It’s enough.

You drop to the ground as Nathaniel goes flying –hitting your other knee in the process, because that would be just your luck—gasping and sobbing as oxygen flows back into your lungs and body. Your ears are ringing slightly, and you throat feels like you’ve been drinking sandpaper—

Get home to Piotr.

You’re alive. Now you just need to do something with it.

You get to your feet, vision swimming as your eyes adjust from having hit your head and then nearly been strangled, but you manage to make out Nathaniel, groaning and laying a few yards away from you.

Get home to Piotr.

You clumsily unleash another blast of air at him, shoving him further away from you and getting a few good, pained swear words out of him for your efforts. You stumble to the side, then gear up to hit him again—

A flash of brilliant, golden energy slams into Nathaniel, rocketing him across the lot and into one of the warehouse walls. A few seconds later, it’s followed by a none too happy Alexandra, who storms after Nathaniel like the human equivalent of a particularly angry swan with a gun.

Seeing that Alex has Nathaniel well handled, you opt to drop down to your knees –hurting both of them this time, fan-fucking-tastic—then crumple against the asphalt on your side and curl into a ball.

Get home to Piotr. Get home to Piotr. Get home to—

A pair of hands grip underneath your armpits, and then someone hauls you to your feet.

“Come on, Rasputin,” Frank grunts, steadying you as you whine and curse. “We’re not done yet.”

“I am,” you mutter. “Hit my head.”

“Yeah, that’s probably why you’re bleeding.”

“Shit.”

A few feet away, you can see Mikhail handling the last of the gunmen, while Wade sprints clear of the fracas, holding a crying little girl in his arms.

Further away, you can make out Nathan and Alex, who’re working on taking down Essex.

You squint, then let out a frustrated sigh when that does nothing to clear your vision. “Who’s winning?”

“Your guy’s mom,” Frank says, sounding somewhat… amused? Impressed? It’s impossible to tell, with him. “She’s uh… she’s pretty much stomping him.”

There’s a few more flashes of Alex’s energy powers, accompanied by the tell-tale sound of your dad’s “future gun”—

And then there’s a flash of white light, and everything goes silent.

Dread sinks in your stomach. “He’s gone, isn’t he?”

Frank lets out an irritated grunt that confirms your fears.

“Okay,” Wade says as he gently rocks Madeline back and forth. “Who pressed the Staples’ button?”

Mikhail looks around for any sign of Essex, then looks to his mother. “Chto teper'?”

“Now, Alexandra sighs as she flicks the safety for her rifle on, “we go home.”

“What about Essex?” Mikhail asks.

“He will surface again, eventually. For now—” she nods at Madeline “—we get her back to mother.”

You raise your hand. “Question: does this mean I can pass out now?”

***

The ride home –since Mikhail’s too tired to teleport everyone and the van you’ve been using back to Xavier’s—is exhausting. By the time you reach the school, the sun’s already rising into the sky.

The process of going through the medical checks –which takes even longer for you, since you have a definite concussion—is excruciating. You’re past running on fumes; all you want is a hot shower, a warm bed, and to not be interrupted for about seven to twelve hours.

It’s all worth it when you see Madeline dash into her mother’s arms. For all your misgivings against Christina –and, considering what she did to Wade, there’s plenty—there’s no denying that she and her daughter have a good bond.

Your uncle intercepts you as you trudge up the porch steps, steadying you as he guides you towards the door. “We’ve got her—” he points discreetly at Christina, who’s still hugging Madeline “—step up. She and her kid should be safe.”

You nod, too weary for words, then make to enter your home—

Except Christina stops you, quickly ushering Maddie inside while your uncle leaves to talk to Nathan and Frank. She steps between you and the door, gaze darting between your uncle and you. “Who the hell is he?” he hisses, jerking her chin towards your uncle. “And why did you even help me? He told me you asked him to set me up with… basically everything?” She narrows her eyes at you, regarding you with hostile suspicion. “The fuck are you trying to pull?”

You want to say something about morals and doing the right thing, about taking the high road, about mutants needing to stand together regardless of their respective pasts…

What comes out, though, is, “My parents paid a telepath to remove my mutant abilities, and all it wound up doing me was nearly killing me and left permanent psychic scarring on my brain.”

Christina blanches, blinking repeatedly. “…Shit.”

You shrug. “Pretty much. Look, your daughter needs a safe space to grow up in, and despite my vast misgivings against you… it’s clear that the two of you love and trust each other. As far as I’m concerned, I did all this for your daughter, so that…” You throat constricts with emotion, and you swallow hard before pressing on. “So that she wouldn’t have to endure the kind of childhood I had.” You sigh, wipe away a few stray tears, then level Christina with an exhausted glare. “Let’s be clear, though –you hurt Wade again, and I’ll fly you out to the middle of the fucking ocean and drop you there.”

Christina rolls her eyes. “Ooh, I’m so scared.”

“Whatever. Please get out of my way so I can go take a fucking shower.”

She smirks, but steps aside nonetheless.

You sigh heavily, then finally step into your home.

Somewhere during the period when you were gone, Illyana and Nikolai showed up –and brought Karen Page with them, too. They, in tandem with Piotr, are monopolizing your kitchen, making breakfast for everyone.

You wait until everyone else from the “rescue group” files into your house, then use the distraction of everyone being reunited to slip upstairs unnoticed. You beeline straight for the bathroom in yours and Piotr’s bedroom, shucking your clothes as you go, then step into the shower and turn the water on full blast.

You can barely keep your eyes open. The only thing that’s keeping you from curling up and going to sleep in this shower is that you don’t fancy the thought of drowning… or accidentally plugging the drain with your foot, flooding the basin, and soaking the bathroom floor.

(You’d been sick; it’d been an accident.)

You do the bare minimum to get yourself clean, then shut off the water and sag against the tile wall. It’s a full five minutes before you can convince yourself to get out of the shower, and even then it’s with a great deal of mental swearing and complaining.

You get dry, find some pajamas (which are really just one of Piotr’s shirts and a pair of clean underwear), then crawl onto the end of your bed and curl up under the throw blanket you keep there for decorative purposes.

And, finally, sleep claims you.

***

You get all of five minutes before the door to yours and your husband’s bedroom opens.

“Myshka.”

You groan and crawl further under the throw blanket. “Y/N is not available right now. Please leave a message at the sound of the ‘fuck.’”

Piotr laughs softly, and you can hear a plate and a glass clatter against his nightstand before the soft, rustling sounds of the blankets and pillows being moved fill your ears. “Come on, moya lyubov’. Breakfast is—”

“I will jam a pancake up your ass.”

He laughs again –then gently cradles you in his arms and sets you at the top of the bed, against a pile of pillows. He sets a warm plate of food in your lap, then sets a fork and knife on the top edge of the plate. “You need to eat, myshka. You have had long night.”

You groan, reluctantly pry one eye open, then sigh resignedly when you see a stack of chocolate chip pancakes, a helping of bacon, two slices of banana bread, and a heap of hash browns. “Carbs. You would know the way to my heart.”

“I would hope so.” He sits next to you on the bed, takes your hand in his, and kisses your bruised knuckles. “You are moya zhena, after all.”

He looks better than when you rescued him from Essex’s clutches. He’s showered, shaved, put on fresh clothes, combed his hair. There’s still shadows under his eyes and a bruise on his cheek, but he looks more like the Piotr you know and love.

You lift your hand to gently rub your thumb along the swell of his cheek, skirting the edge of his bruise –but then your low mood catches up with you, and you drop your hand and look down at your breakfast plate. “You don’t have to stay with me. I know you probably don’t want to.”

You can hear the frown in his voice when he speaks. “Why… why would I not want to be with you?”

“Because you’re ashamed of me,” you eke out, fighting back tears.

Piotr sighs heavily, then leans over and kisses your temple. “I am not ashamed of you. I love you. And… I owe you apology.”

“Apology?” You frown, then set your plate aside before looking up at him. “For what?”

“For not standing up for you more, to Scott.” He grimaces. “Ellie told me what happened. How Scott treated you.”

“That –that’s not your fault, Piotr,” you protest. “Scott’s an asshole because he wants to be; you’re not responsible for his dickotry.”

“Perhaps not—”

“And I can stand up for myself,” you add, eager to soothe his worries. “It’s –it’s not your job to have to do that for me. I’m more than capable of standing up for myself, I promise.”

He smiles softly, then kisses the back of your hand. “I know. It is nothing about ‘capable’ or ‘job.’ I… I know he picks at you. And others. And perhaps it is because I am complacent or non-confrontational, but… I do nothing. And that is not okay. And for that, I am sorry. I am sorry I have not protected you better, and I hope you can forgive me.”

You sniff, then wipe away the tears trailing down your cheeks. “Of course, I can forgive you, sweetheart. I…” You sniff again, and –finding yourself at a loss for words—repeat yourself. “I forgive you, Piotr. Always.”

“Spasibo, moya serdste.” He kisses your forehead, letting his lips linger for a moment, then leans back to rub at his own damp eyes. “Ellie also told me about… conversation she and you had before rescue mission. About position she and others put you in. We had long talk about respecting authority and listening to those with more experience; she wants to apologize, once you are ready.”

You let out a shaky breath, then nod. “I think I want to sleep first.”

“Konechno. After breakfast.”

You laugh wetly and roll your eyes. “Yes, fine, after breakfast, you big dad.”

He chuckles along with you, then none-too-subtly sets your plate back in your lap. “Shoe fits, I wear. Plate in front of you… you eat?”

You laugh at the adorable, impossibly hopeful look he gives you, then heap up some hash browns and pancake on your fork and shove the bite in your mouth. “There. Happy?”

“Immensely.” He hands you the glass of orange juice he brought up, but it slowly ebbs as he watches you eat, contemplation evident in his expression. “Why… why did you think… that I was disappointed in you?”

“Is this your way of saying you weren’t?” you ask tiredly.

He purses his lips, then sighs heavily. “Initially, I was… frustrated. And small bit disappointed. But once I understood,” Piotr says, angling his head to catch your gaze until you relent and look him in the eye, “I was not disappointed with you in slightest. I know you. I know you are not needlessly reckless. I know you would not carelessly put Ellie, or Russell, or Yukio in such dangerous position.”

“But you thought I was. Reckless and careless.”

“It looked that way, but I knew it was not you,” he says, sincere. “And I knew that you had to be desperate to turn to Mr. Castle, I just… did not have all pieces. So, again, why did you believe I was disappointed in you?”

“Because why wouldn’t you be?” You set your fork down, chest tight with hurt and sorrow and regret. “I –I failed! I couldn’t do things the ‘right’ way, I asked a vigilante and a –a murder for help, I couldn’t –I couldn’t keep Ellie and Russell and Yukio out of it—”

“You did your best,” Piotr says softly. He sets the plate back on the bed and draws you into his arms when you start crying again. “You knew that we were in danger –that child was in danger—and you had no help, so you went and found it.”

“But –but Ellie—”

“Put you in unfair position and did not respect your authority, so you did what you could to keep her and Russell and Yukio safe,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “You did your best, myshka. And that is something I am very proud of.”

You burst into sobs, relief pouring over you, washing away the grief and hurt and self-loathing you’d held in over the course of the night. You cling to him, clenching the material of his shirt in your fists as you shake and sniff and whimper.

And Piotr holds you. Rocks you back and forth. Whispers how much he loves you and how proud he is of you and kisses your hair and the bridge of your nose and your tear-streaked cheeks.

Eventually, you calm down. You catch your breath, inhaling and exhaling shakily as your husband rocks you back and forth. You lay your head on his shoulder, blinking the last of the tears away. “She’s right, you know.”

“Who is?”

“Ellie. About being an adult. We won’t be able to… to tell her what to do forever.”

“Nyet,” Piotr agrees, kissing your forehead gently. “But this is different. And she understands that now.”

You let out a shaky breath, then hug your husband tightly. “I love you, baby.”

He hugs you back just as tight. “And I love you, myshka.”

You tip your head back so you can kiss him, then let out a contented, relieved sigh when he presses his lips against yours.

You’re okay.

#sass writes #piotr rasputin x reader #colossus x reader #nathan summers x wade wilson #cablepool #frank castle x karen page #negasonic x yukio #alexandra rasputin x nikolai rasputin #tw: psychological torture #tw: injury #tw: near death #tw: feelings of failure #deadpool fanfiction #x men fanfiction

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master-sass-blast · 4 years

Text

Children of the Gods -Part Two.

Why do I keep writing super long fics that take even longer to format?

Summary: When Allison Ricci surfaces again, you and the adult members of the X-Force jump on the opportunity to track her down and capture her, once and for all. However, it becomes apparent that the thirteen year-old has gained a mysterious mentor --one that's been helping her amass dangerous weapons and stalk Karen Page. Will you and your team be able to stop Allison before it's too late?

Pairing(s): Piotr Rasputin x Reader, Nathan Summers x Wade Wilson, and Frank Castle x Karen Page.

Rating: M for gun violence, death of a child, blood and injury, and overall angst.

Set after “Children of the Gods -Part One.”

Taglist: @marvel-is-perfection, @chromecutie, @super-darkcloudstudent, @girl-obsessed-with-things, @nebulous-leo, @dandyqueen

You adjust your hood, shield yourself from the early –but somehow still bitter—New York autumn winds before stepping out of the car. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I know that you don’t… like stuff like this.”

Your husband, Piotr –who’s currently seated in the driver’s seat—shakes his head. “I made commitment to protect and support you. That means not leaving you to handle difficult aspects of job alone just because they make me uncomfortable.” He reaches over and gently squeezes your hand, then opens his car door and hops out. “Hang on. I will get door.”

You tug on your hood again, trying to make sure it covers your face.

You’re on a covert mission with Neena, Nathan, Wade, and your husband to check out an underground fighting ring known for letting mutants fight in it. There’s a chance of being seen by various criminals the X-Men have been looking for –or, worse, recognized, hence the hood—but, more importantly, there’s a chance of finding Allison Ricci.

Reports of the vengeance seeking teen have been scarce in the past few months. Wherever she disappeared to after the showdown at Spring Heights Memorial Park, she made sure to stay out of sight.

That was, until a week ago, when reports of a mutant fighter with a power set similar to Allison’s surfaced in the fighting rings.

Piotr opens your door, ushering you out into the lot behind one of Wade and Nate’s safehouses (they’d deemed it safer for you two to park there and ride with them, rather than possibly having the car connected with the X-Men). “Things will be fine, myshka. I will be fine. Konechno?”

“Okay.” You lean against him for a moment, letting your head rest against his chest. “I love you.”

“Ya lyublyu tebya,” Piotr murmurs. He kisses the top of your head, then pats your back gently. “Alright, moya serdste. Let’s go.”

***

There isn’t much of a plan. The sole goal is to slip into the “base of operations” –which is just a defunct, concrete building that used to be a factory for producing car parts—without being noticed, and keep an eye out for Allison.

Because for reasons you don’t understand, your dad’s put an official kibosh on tailing Allison back to wherever she’s been hiding out. It seems counterintuitive to you –but then, you’re not the master strategist.

Piotr keeps a protective arm around you as you make your way into the throngs of various criminal and mob scum. Even though you’re not posing as a married couple, there isn’t much that can turn off his protective instincts.

(Nate, Wade, and Neena are already inside, scoping out different areas. The goal is to not look conspicuous, meaning you can’t all gaggle together like a bunch of ducklings.)

You screw your mouth to the side –and ignore a handful of dudes making some crass remarks about you, which gets them some angry Russian grumbling from your husband—and stare at the board with the various rings and betting buy-ins listed across it. “Got any ideas for which one to pick?”

(Granted, Neena’s probably already picked the right one, but the idea is to cover enough area that at least one of you is likely to spot Allison.)

Before Piotr can say anything, a woman at your right speaks up. “Rumor has it ring five’s going to be good.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Christina sidle up next to you. You know from your uncle that she’s been working a case at the fighting clubs, so it’s not necessarily surprising to see her here.

And, hell, if she knows where Allison might be, it’s worth following her suggestion.

You don’t visibly acknowledge her, but you do say, “Ring five?”

“Thousand dollar buy in to watch –but, if you’re good for it, you’re likely to find what you’re looking for.”

And, given Allison’s… unique fighting style, it makes sense that whoever’s running this shitshow would put her match behind a fat paywall.

Plus, as fortune would have it, you’d thought to bring some cash with you in case a scenario like this arose.

You step up to the counter where people are buying passes to watch matches and placing bets –with Piotr close in tow, like your protective, super-sized shadow—and shell out two thousand dollars from an envelope you’ve kept tucked in your pocket until now.

The money-handler behind the window hands you and Piotr each a pass, then points to the right, towards a stairwell guarded by a large man wearing a black blazer and black sunglasses. “Match starts in twenty minutes. Best to get seats now.”

Piotr’s hand lands on your shoulder as the two of you step away from the counter. “Stay close, myshka.”

“Believe me,” you murmur, “I’m not going anywhere.”

***

The room in question is what looks an old storage room that’s had gymnasium-style bleachers shoved against the wall and a “ring” that’s just a stained concrete floor cordoned off with what Nate had described as “electro-magnetic force shields too expensive for their own good.”

The people in the room are markedly better dressed, but no less dangerous looking. The crisp blazers, shiny leather shoes, and dark sunglasses all indicate a clear desire for anonymity –no doubt mobsters and corrupt officials looking to make bank on a fight.

If anything, you and Piotr look out of place in your hoodies and jeans.

Piotr grits his teeth and hisses under his teeth when a few of the well-polished patrons swivel their heads to look at the two of you. His grip on your shoulder tightens, and he tugs you all the closer against his body. “Stay close.”

“I will, baby,” you promise quietly as he leads you past the ring and up into the bleachers. “I will.”

The two of you choose seats relatively out of the way, tucked into one of the dark corners of the room. Piotr can still easily see the ring, and you can hide behind his bulk to text the others without being noticed.

You: At ring five. $$$ crowd here. Cover might be blown bc clothes.

Dad: Do what you have to.

You pocket your phone, then nestle yourself against Piotr’s side. “Fifteen minutes until the match starts.”

“Hopefully we will make it that long,” he mutters, still keeping an eye on the cash-loaded crowd with hawk-like scrutiny.

You grab his hand, sliding your fingers between his and squeezing reassuringly. “We’ll be fine. Just keep a small profile.”

Your husband chuckles when you grin at your own pun, then kisses the top of your head. “Very funny, myshka.”

***

The two of you manage to avoid being picked out as interlopers until the match starts.

The fight is between a lumbering, hulking that can morph his body into whatever material he touches and a significantly shorter, slimmer, black-clad, masked opponent with the ability to shoot bolts of blue energy from their hands.

“They’re short enough –and the power set’s close.”

“I am not certain,” Piotr mutters as he watches the two fighters clash. “Their control is too good. Allison was sloppier.”

“Well, let’s keep watching. She was already pretty strong; she could’ve been practicing.” You crane your neck to the side as the masked fighter hits their opponent in the chest with a blast of energy –then do a doubletake when you notice someone sitting on the side of the ring where the masked fighter entered.

The person’s wearing a baggy, black hoodie that obscures most of their body and face –but it’s still easy to tell that they’re shouting pointers at the masked fighter throughout the match.

“Piotr!” You elbow your husband in the ribs, then surreptitiously point down at the masked fighter’s coach. “Look! That’s how she got better. She found a trainer!”

Piotr eyes the coach, then quirks his mouth to the side. “We still do not know—”

And then the masked fighter sinks into the ground to avoid a truck tire thrown by their opposition.

“You were saying?”

A small smile tugs at your husband’s lips. He tucks an arm around your shoulders, but still keeps his focus on the ring. “So, we found her. Now what?”

“I’ll text Dad. He’ll have a plan.”

Halfway through forming your text, Piotr –and a sizable chunk of the audience, too—gasps. “Bozhe ty moi.”

You look up in time to see a cloud of ash dispersing over the ring’s floor. “What? What happened?”

The larger man in the ring grits his teeth, then lets out a bellow as he picks up another truck tire and chucks at Allison—

Who merely holds up her hand, which faintly glows blue around the edges.

The tire collapses in on itself, turning into a cloud of ash.

You gape. “What the fuck?”

“Could she do that last time?” Piotr asks.

“Not that I remember.” You finish your first text to your dad, then tack on another one.

You: She can turn things into ash.

You: She literally just turned a tire into ash by holding her hand towards it.

You: Piotr and I both saw it happen.

Nate: Shit.

You keep your eyes glued on the screen, waiting for your dad’s advice on what to do –then jump when a gasp ripples through the crowd and Piotr’s hand tightens on your shoulder. “What? What happened?”

In the center of the ring, the hulking male opponent drops to his knees, then collapses face first onto the ring. A fist-sized, slightly smoking hole has been bored through his chest.

And, a few feet away from him, Allison lowers her still glowing hand.

You suck in a breath, then text your dad again.

You: She just killed her opponent.

Nate: Get out of there. Do NOT engage.

Piotr reads the message over your shoulder, then stands and quickly ushers you towards the door before you can do anything impulsive. “Let’s go, dorogoy.”

“Wasn’t like there was anywhere else I wanted to be,” you mutter.

***

“Remind me, again, why we didn’t follow them? Allison and her trainer left right away! It would’ve been easy to tail them.”

“Because the last thing we needed was the two of you breaking your cover to chase Allison down,” Nathan says as he steers the SUV along a pothole riddled street. “If we’re going to engage with her, we need to do it somewhere we have more control over the environment.”

“But—” You grit your teeth when the car rolls over a pothole, sending a jolt straight up your spine. “What about figuring out where she’s been hiding? If we could’ve found their vehicle, gotten a snapshot of the license plate—”

“We already have a lead for that. Tonight was about making sure she was still in town, that the lead was still fresh enough.”

You grip your armrest, then peer up at an old, crumbly brick façade of an apartment building. “I take it we’re not here for shits and giggles, then?”

“Depends on who you ask.”

He parks at the same time Dopinder’s cab does, cutting the engine and hopping out to corral Wade before the latter can get up to anything too crazy.

Piotr unfolds himself from the front passenger seat, then opens your door for you and ushers you out onto the cracked sidewalk. He places one arm around your shoulders, warily eyeing a group of twenty-something guys that seem to be arguing at the end of the block. “Keep sharp, lyublyu. Could be dangerous.”

“Not everyone’s a threat, baby.”

“Not everyone,” he agrees, grip tightening when one of the guys shoves another. “But not all are wise, too.”

“Chop, chop, compadres,” Wade hollers, feigning obliviousness to his environment (which you know better than to believe, given his status as a deadly mercenary). He grins maniacally, hefting grocery and takeout bags. “We’ve got a delivery to make.”

***

The lot of you head up to the fourth floor of the building. The inside isn’t much better than the outside, with yellowing walls, peeling paint, buzzing lights, and faded, patching carpets.

It’s clean, though. Warm enough. Many of the doors boast colorful welcome signs, pictures drawn by resident children, silk flower wreaths, and signs “warning” of friendly pets.

Wade beats everyone else to one of the doors towards the end of the hall. He starts knocking excitedly, rapping his knuckles against the door until it swings open. “Hi, we’re part of a DoorDash alternative company—”

Nathan catches the door before it can slam shut in his partner’s face. He plants his metal hand against the wooden surface, bracing it open. “We need to speak with Miguel Herrera.”

The resident of the apartment –a hulking, doe-eyed, tan skinned guy who barely looks a day older than nineteen—glances at the rest of you before shaking his head. “He ain’t here. Have a nice day.” He tries to shove the door shut –hard enough that he makes Nathan’s boots slide across the threadbare carpet—

And then a hand catches it from the inside. “It’s alright.” The door swings open, revealing Christina, clad in the same clothes she was wearing at the fighting rings. “I know them. They’re…” She stops for a moment as she makes eye contact with Wade, and the burning rage between them is all too evident. “They’re decent people,” she finishes, quickly glancing away. “It’s okay to let them in.”

The kid shoots a wary look at all of you, gaze lingering on Nathan, Wade, and Piotr the longest, then edges the door open. “Alright. Come on in.”

You all file into an already cramped, relatively small apartment. There’s a gaggle of much younger kids squished onto a worn plaid couch stationed in front of a TV –the oldest one doesn’t look like she’s hit middle school yet—that all peer at you with the same mistrustfulness that the eldest boy did at the door.

The guy that answered the door crosses his arms over his chest, then nods at the bag. “What’s that?”

“Groceries and dinner!” Wade answers cheerfully. “Courtesy of Walmart and Five Guys!”

Those seem to be the magic words for the younger children. They rocket off the couch, swarming Wade as they try to see what’s in the bags.

“Hey, hey, hey!” The guy –who you’re figuring is the kids’ older brother, there’s no way he’s their dad—speaks to the cluster of children in Spanish, then waves them away from Wade. “Manners. Go wash your hands; Maria, help Aaron, por favor.”

The eldest girl –who looks to be about ten, tops—nods, then shoos her siblings towards a miniscule bathroom.

“I’m Miguel,” the guy finally introduces himself. He steps over to the kitchen –which is little more than a counter that has a cook top on it, a sink, a fridge, a microwave, and some cabinets. He starts pulling out plates, silverware, and cups. “Look, I appreciate the gesture—” he jerks his chin at the bags in Wade’s hand “—but we don’t need handouts. I can take care of my siblings just fine.”

“I asked them to bring a few things,” Christina speaks up. “I figured if they were going to bug you, you could at least get something out of it.”

Miguel grimaces, but doesn’t argue. “Well, thank you.” He sets the dishware on the counter, then pulls a well-loved wooden table out of a corner before going about setting it. “Just set the bags in the kitchen. I’ll deal with them later. Why the—” he glances over at the bathroom, then quickly lowers his voice “—fuck are you here?”

“We’ve got a few questions about the rings you’ve been fighting in,” Nathan speaks up, voice even.

Miguel’s shoulders tense, gaze darting over at Nate. “Look, if you’re here to start shit—”

“Not here to start anything,” Nathan reassures him. “Just to ask questions. And, if we did start something, I’m pretty sure your mentor—” he nods at Christina “—would throw us out the nearest exit.”

“Damn straight,” Christina mutters as she helps Miguel divvy up the orders from Five Guy’s.

“We want to ask you about one of the opponents you fought—"

Miguel shushes your dad before glancing back at the bathroom, then shakes his head. “Not while mis hermanas y hermanos are awake. Later.”

Nathan nods as the younger kids start filing out of the bathroom, then steps towards the kitchen. “I can pour drinks. Who wants what?”

***

Miguel, as it turns out, isn’t the only mutant in the Herrera family.

You grin as Aaron –the youngest at five—makes several bits of light float around the room in the shape of butterflies. “That’s so cool!”

Miguel smiles fondly and ruffles his brother’s dark, curly hair. “Ese es mi pequeño sol. He started doing that a few months ago.”

“Ochen' khorosho,” Piotr agrees with an equally endeared smile. “Why not bring him to Institute? We can help him hone powers, learn more about them.”

Miguel grimaces, shifting in his seat. “All due respect, Señor Rasputin, but that isn’t as easy an option as you make it seem. And it doesn’t begin to cover the needs my family has.”

“We have financial aid options for those who need it,” Piotr reassures Miguel.

“My parents looked into that for me, in high school, when my mutation presented,” Miguel fires back. “Even with aid, we still couldn’t afford the tuition, let alone the travel to get to the building or the housing fees. I know you guys don’t get government support, and it complicates things, but Xavier’s just isn’t accessible to lower income families… not to mention everything else.”

Piotr frowns. “What is meaning?”

“You don’t have good resources for kids with learning disabilities, for one, even with your therapy staff,” Miguel says after a moment’s hesitation. “There aren’t enough of them that are qualified in areas like ADHD, dyslexia, autism, that kind of stuff. You also don’t have a lot of people trained to handle more difficult cases –which a lot of low income mutant kids are. I’ve read your school’s disciplinary policies. You’d wash out a majority of your ‘tough cases’ in a few months. You don’t offer scholarships, a diverse array of classes, many extracurriculars, and your meal options don’t cover people with allergies all that well, either. Plus, I don’t want to have to separate my siblings. We’re the only family we have right now, and you guys don’t allow non-mutants.” He shifts in his seat, eyes trained on the floor. “I know you’re a small school, and I think what you’re doing for the mutant community is good. I just… it doesn’t help people like us.”

Piotr studies Miguel for a moment, taking him in, then pulls out his phone. “Would you mind if we discuss this more while I take notes? I think you make good points.”

You can’t help but smile to yourself while Miguel and Piotr resume talking about the Institute. That’s my baby.

***

“I thought one of the bosses had brought their kid to watch the fight when I first saw her. She was so tiny; I didn’t even think I’d be fighting her.”

It’s ten PM. The rest of the Herrera kids are in bed, the dishes have been cleaned and put away, and the groceries are safely stowed in the cabinet and fridge, respectively.

Miguel sits in one of the folding chairs used at the table, arms braced on his thighs and hands clasped loosely. His head droops towards his chest, shoulders sloping low under the weight of his shame. “I almost called off the round, but the bets had already been made. I couldn’t back out.”

“You did what you had to do,” Christina reassures him. She’s sitting in the chair next to him, angled so that she’s set between Miguel and the rest of you. “The organizers wouldn’t have let you back out anyway. It wasn’t your fault.”

“We’re not here to judge your fights,” Nathan adds. He’s standing next to one of the windows that overlook the street, leaning against the wall. “We heard you had information on Allison’s whereabouts. That’s all we need to know.”

Miguel bobs his head, swallowing compulsively before looking up at your dad. “She’s here. In the building. Her and her trainer.”

“What –right now?” Neena asks, leaning forward on the couch.

“No –at least, I don’t think so. I…” Miguel sighs hard, then runs shaking hands over his buzzed hair. “Look, you gotta promise me this isn’t going to come back at me. My mom and my dad –they got deported when all this ICE bullshit started, even though they had legal green cards… I’m all my siblings have right now.”

“We’ll keep you clear of it,” Wade promises. “This kid’s just on an unhinged track right now. We’re trying to stop her before she hurts herself or anyone else.”

Miguel nods once, twice, then continues. “I did a fucking double take when I saw her and her trainer here the first time. It was right after I’d beaten her in a match. They got on the elevator the same time I did; I nearly pissed my pants –I thought they were here to beat me up or hurt my siblings.”

“Did they do anything?” Piotr asks, face creased with concern.

“No.” Miguel shakes his head. “They pushed the button for two floors above me, didn’t say a word to me. I got off that thing as soon as I could and fucking booked it, man.”

“And you’re sure they’re here?” Nathan presses.

“I staked out the sixth floor later, to make sure I hadn’t been hallucinating,” Miguel says, pointing towards the ceiling. “I peeked out from the stairwell, saw both of them carrying groceries into six-twenty-three. Unless they’ve moved house, that’s where they’re at.”

“Should we head up there?” Neena asks, looking over at Nate. “Do a welfare check?”

“I doubt they’re there right now,” Miguel clarifies. “They usually come back a couple days after matches. I don’t know where they go between the fight and those couple days, but like I said, unless they’ve moved house, they’ll be there.”

“We’ll come back tomorrow,” Nathan decides. “Stake out the place, check the apartment if they’re not here, see if we can find any other leads. Thank you for your help, Miguel.”

Miguel wipes his hands on his pants before accepting your dad’s handshake. “I just want to do the right thing.”

“Pretty sure stopping a murder-baby puts you on the proper track,” Wade chirps as he stands and stretches. “I’m feeling snacky. Wanna have Dopinder swing by McDonalds before he drops us off?”

“We have food at home,” Nate says with stern fondness.

“And we have money in the bank. Your point?”

You chuckle under your breath as Nathan ushers Wade from the Herrera’s apartment, then smile to yourself when Piotr approaches Miguel, writing his number on a business card before offering it to the younger man.

“He’s planning something,” Neena murmurs to you as she watches the whole exchange.

“Yes,” you agree, watching as Miguel and your husband exchange phone numbers. “Yes, he is.”

***

“It makes me sad.”

You look over from where you’re getting into your pajamas to gaze at your husband, who’s sitting on the edge of your shared bed whilst scrolling through the notes he’d taken while talking to Miguel. “What does?”

“We need to be helping so many more mutants. So many more people.” His mouth pulls into a tight grimace, and he lets out a heavy sigh. “But we do not have resources. We cannot get resources.”

“We’ll get it figured out, baby.” You finish pulling on your sleep shirt –which usually comes off at least halfway through the night anyway, but it’s the thought that counts—and stride over to him. You insinuate yourself between his knees, then loop your arms around his neck and press a kiss to the bridge of his nose. “If anyone can do it, it’s you. I know you’ll get things figured out.”

Piotr smiles, then presses a delicate kiss against the swell of your cheek. “Spasibo, myshka, for vote of confidence.”

“Anytime, sweetheart. Anytime.”

***

“This is breaking and entering.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of the point.”

The five of you are back in the old apartment building, waiting –in various states of nervousness—in the hallway while Neena picks the lock on the door of apartment six-twenty-three. It’s the early afternoon, and the building is markedly silent, seeing how everyone’s at work or school.

Your husband shoots Wade an annoyed look. “Is illegal, Wade. We are breaking law.”

“Pretty sure not reporting Allison to the authorities is also illegal, Chrome Dome! Relax. We’ve got Pot‘o’Gold here; nothing bad’s gonna happen.”

“I’d like to point out that Juggernaut still ripped you in half when we tried to rescue Russell from the convoy,” Neena mutters. She twists the doorknob, and the door pops open. “Knock, knock.”

You swivel your head, looking both ways down the hall while everyone else files in, then follow closely after Piotr. “So, what are we –oh fuck.”

The walls in the main room are covered with paper. Clipping from newspapers, online articles, maps with routes marked out in red, blueprints of different buildings, tons and tons of pictures—

Of one Karen Page.

There’s some of Frank scattered in there, too, but the space is a stalker’s shrine to the intrepid reporter. There’s pictures of her arriving at and leaving work, entering and exiting her apartment building, meeting with sources, getting coffee and to-go orders from restaurants…

The articles and newspaper clippings are all hers to. Some of them cover Frank’s trial and Punisher escapades, while others focus on organized crime in the city.

A chill runs down your spine when you realize one of the blueprints has been labeled “K. Page Apartment.” “What the fuck is this?”

“She hasn’t given up on Karen, then,” Neena comments with a grimace. “Looks like she’s been following her for over a month, at least. Probably longer.”

There’s a scraping noise behind you, then a shocked, “Shit.”

You and Neena turn to see Wade, Nathan, and your husband standing in front of a hidden compartment tucked in the wall separating the main room from the bedroom. Stashed in the space is a massive store of guns, ammo, explosives, knives…

“Murder Baby got an upgrade,” Wade remarks. He reaches in, pulls out a mine the size of a dinner plate, and blanches. “Several upgrades. Where the fuck did she get all of this?”

“Black market, most likely. She still has family ties to organized crime, weapons trades, everything she’d need to equip herself,” Nathan reasons.

“Then why did she not have tools before?” Piotr asks as he sets the fake panel aside.

“Maybe her mentor decided to juice her up,” Wade suggests, setting the mine down in favor of toying with a machete. “Dude, this is nice!”

“What do we do with weapons?”

“Good question, Almost Literal Long John Silver! As it stands, Daddy’s weapon cache is in dire need of replenishing—”

“We’re not taking anything,” Nate interjects, gently plucking the machete out of his partner’s hand and placing it back in the compartment. “We can’t risk tipping Allison off that someone’s on to her. Our best odds are to stake this place out and intercept her when she comes back.” He takes a few pictures of the hidden closet and its contents, then motions for Piotr to put the panel back.

“But she could hurt someone with those,” you point out as your dad continues taking pictures of the stalker wall. “Shouldn’t we disarm her?”

“She’ll find more,” Nathan says as he taps at his phone’s screen. “We’ve been trying to track Allison down for weeks. We can’t afford to lose her now.”

Wade nestles himself next to Nate, peering over his boyfriend’s shoulder so he can see the phone screen. “Who you texting?”

“Castle. Someone needs to make sure Miss Page stays safe in all of this.” He pockets his phone, then takes Wade’s hand and strides towards the front door. “Let’s go.”

You all step into the hallway—

Right as Allison and a taller, much older woman with shoulder length, dark brown hair step off the elevator.

Shit.

The older woman whips a gun out from under her jacket.

“Hit the deck!” Neena tackles you to the ground as the sound of gunfire echoes down the hall.

The first two bullets embed themselves in the drywall behind you, but the ones that follow ricochet off your husband’s steel torso with metallic plinking noises.

You scramble your feet, doing your best to get your bearings—

The mentor extends her hand towards you all, sending all of you flying.

You gasp as your husband’s steel back zips towards your face, then use a burst of air to propel yourself towards the ceiling. You cringe when the top of his head misses your nose by a hair’s breadth, then drop back down on the balls of your feet.

Piotr lets out a guttural shout as he crashes through the stairwell door. There’s the sound of concrete cracking, followed by a more panicked scream—

“Piotr!” You send a blast of air down the hall –which sends Allison and her mentor tumbling along the floor—then sprint towards the stairwell.

He’s hanging off a jagged concrete ledge in human form when you find him. The partial remains of the stairs lay on the flight beneath him, blocking his landing space.

You grab your husband’s uniform, then fly towards the ceiling so you can lug him up onto the landing.

Piotr stumbles, regains his balance, then immediately starts checking you over. “Are you safe? Bozhe ty moi, I almost crushed you—”

“I’m okay; it’s okay, baby, I’m alright.”

He hugs you against his chest, hands shaking as he strokes and smooths your hair—

“Hey! Get back here!”

The two of you bolt into the hallway at Nathan’s shout, just in time to see everyone else chasing after Allison and her trainer. You and Piotr sprint after them, catching up with the rest of your group just as Allison renders the stairwell door to a cloud of ashes.

You use a burst of air to propel yourself over the group and into the stairwell –then let out a shriek when you see the stairs and landings beneath you evaporating into dust. You catch yourself in the air, then block off the doorway with your body. “Stop! The ground’s gone!”

Nathan stops a few inches away from the edging, glaring down into the now disintegrated stairwell as he watches Allison and her trainer plummet towards the ground for.

Allison’s trainer lands easily, catching Allison without missing a beat before setting her down and ushering her out the door.

Wade whistles, having shoved his face between your side and the doorframe to watch as well. “Damn. Twenty bucks on super strength. Anyone else want to get in?”

“Fifty on telekinesis,” Neena pipes up.

“What now?” you ask as Piotr helps you get back on the –solid—floor.

“We unfuck this mess,” Nathan growls as he stalks back down the hall, towards the elevator.

“Pass,” Wade declares, following after his partner nonetheless. “I much prefer fucking things.”

***

The five of you wind up dividing into teams –Wade and Piotr stay behind to stake out the building, Neena leaves to go collect extra weapons and tactical gear, and you and Nate head out to stake out The Bulletin office building where Karen works, just in case.

You and your dad set up shop on top of the building opposite Karen’s workplace, equipped with your electronic binoculars and a sniper scope.

“I’ve got her,” Nathan says as he peers through scope. “In her office, talking to a coworker. Looks like she’s fine.”

“And I… I think I’ve got Frank,” you say, adjusting your binoculars as you watch a matte black van park half a block away from Karen’s office. “Yeah, that’s definitely the murder van. It’s either him or some fucking mobsters.”

Nathan frowns at you when you fish your phone out of your pants pocket. “What are you doing?”

“Calling Frank to make sure it’s him.”

“Since when do you have Castle’s number?”

“Since the whole thing with Christina and Essex. He said that if something like that happened again, it’d be better if I wasn’t randomly hanging around Nelson, Murdock, and Page on the off chance he might show up.” You pull up Frank’s contact –filed under his fake identity, just in case—and dial him. “You’re parked outside Karen’s office, half a block away, right? Black murder van, matte black, probable bloodstains on it that no one can see.”

Frank lets out a sharp breath. “Where the fuck are you?”

“Rooftop of the building opposite The Bulletin. Dad and I are staking it out, just in case. I know he texted you about Allison. We ran into her and her trainer when we were leaving from checking out her apartment, and they ducked on us.”

Frank lets out a blue streak that makes the sky look yellow by comparison. “You’re shitting me –where’s your dad? Is he with you right now?”

“Yeah. He wants to talk to you.” You hand your phone off to Nathan, then go back to watching things through your binoculars. Pigeon. Pigeon. Stray cat. Smoker. Guy wearing a rainbow suit. More pigeons—

And then an explosion shakes the whole block.

Smoke billows out of The Bulletin’s doors and windows, gray and thick. Screams pierce the air as people dart away from the building. Sirens echo in the distance, along with the sounds of screeching brakes and horns honking. Broken glass glitters on the sidewalk before being dashed under the feet of panicked passersby.

The murder van lurches, and then Frank practically bursts through the driver’s side door and bolts towards the smoking building.

“Get up. We need to help. I already called Wade.”

You nearly put down your binoculars at your dad’s urging –and almost miss it.

There’s someone else walking towards the building. Not running. Walking. Calmly, and completely out of place in the wake of shrieking and coughing pedestrians. There’s a black, featureless backpack slung over their shoulder, and they’re at least a head shorter than everyone else around them—

“Dad –that’s her! That’s Allison!” You shove your binoculars into his hands, pointing frantically at the street below. “She’s already here!”

Nathan swears when he locks eyes on Allison’s tiny, casually walking form. “Fucking –get down there. Cut her off.”

You jump off the side of the building, hovering briefly as you try to find a landing spot amidst the chaos and carnage. You dive lower, intent on nabbing Allison before she can do anything—

And then you watch her crouch down against the sidewalk, next to a car and out of the flow of foot traffic. She takes the backpack off her shoulder, reaches in, and produces the pieces of a rifle from the bag’s depths.

You freeze. You can’t process what you’re seeing. A wave of dread and nausea wash over you as you watch this tiny, not fully grown human assemble the rifle with more ease than a teenager should ever have with a gun. Your breath catches in your throat as Allison struggles to get a clip into the stock—

And then you see Frank come back out of The Bulletin building with Karen in tow.

You don’t have time to stop Allison or grab Karen and Frank and get them out of the way, so you do the next best thing.

You project your voice as loud as you can and shout the word, “Gun!”

A few windows break, but it gets the job done.

Frank whips his head around, then yanks Karen back into the entry alcove just as Allison gets the clip in and takes aim at them.

A new chorus of screams echo into the air as Allison lets out a round of gunfire that sprays wildly along the facades of buildings and sides of cars. She stumbles, arms jerking as she tries to keep control of the firearm.

You dip away briefly to avoid any wayward bullets, then drop down onto the sidewalk, positioning yourself between Allison and Frank and Karen. You hold your hand up, reaching out to her in a calming gesture. “Allison, put the gun down. This isn’t the way to handle this.”

“The fuck would you know!” Allison shrieks, waving the gun wildly. “He killed my parents, I’m killing him. Stay the fuck out of it!”

“Allison, please—”

There’s the sound of metal scraping against concrete, and then your dad drops down on the other side of the street. He readies his “future gun,” as dubbed by Wade, then sprints over towards you and Allison. He jumps over the hood of a car, then stops on the side of the street, stepping between two parked trucks. “It’s over, Allison. You’re outnumbered, and we’ve got back up on the way. Put the gun down, and let’s talk about this.”

“Go fuck yourself!” Allison snaps, before cocking the rifle and taking aim in your direction.

Frank barrels out from the alcove, keeping Karen tucked behind him. He shoves her towards a gap between two cars, then practically tackles you out of the line of fire and into the same gap.

You gasp when you hit the pavement, gritting your teeth as dull pain flares in your shoulder. “That’s gonna be arthritis someday.” You shove your hair out of your face, then nod at Karen. “Hey. How’s it going?”

“I’ve been better,” Karen grunts. She’s covered in dust and bleeding from a cut on her forehead, but she’s fine otherwise. She paws through her purse, pulling out a .380 and chambering a round before carefully aiming the gun at the pavement. “What now?”

“You two get out of here; get somewhere safe,” you say as the three of you crawl towards the street while Nathan lays down cover fire for you. “We’ll handle Allison, then—”

Before you can say anything else, all the cars within sixty feet of you evaporate into ash.

You look over at Allison, who has her hand extended towards the street. Her eyes glow blue, and her expression is one of grim satisfaction.

You swallow hard. “Shit.”

Everything happens at once. Nathan throws up a telekinetic shield just as Allison opens fire again. A cab skids sideways into a stop at the end of the block, blocking off the rest of potential traffic. Wade dives out of the passenger side, letting out a battle cry before he gets tagged in the hip by Allison and crumples to the ground with an irate “Dammit!” Sirens wail, growing steadily closer.

“We need to get out of here,” Karen gasps, scrambling backwards while Nathan takes care of Wade and Neena rushes Allison.

You cast a glance to your husband –who’s armored up and taking the brunt of Allison’s gunfire so Neena can do her thing—before nodding to Karen. “Go. We’ll take care of things.”

Before her and Frank can make a run for it, a lone figure clad in black and a mask that covers their whole head sprints up the street towards the fracas.

And then a car lifts off the side of the street and sails towards the three of you.

You use an air current to make a shield, gritting your teeth as the car bounces off and crashes against the ground.

Frank growls out a blue streak behind you. “Who the fuck is that?”

“Long story.” You deflect a few more cars, whipping your head back and forth as you try to process Allison’s powers and angry shrieking –she’s opted off the gun, which is good, except she’s better with her powers than a rifle, which is not—and the steadily encroaching cop cars and the sudden assault from this new assailant (who you’re guessing is Allison’s trainer, but now really isn’t the time for hypotheses).

There’s too much going on right now. You all need to get out of here.

“Dad!” You try to shove the mystery fighter back with a blast of air –which works until they stop themselves with a telekinetic shield—then grab onto Karen and Frank and start running towards the rest of the group. “Dad!”

Nate looks up from deflecting one of Allison’s bolts of energy, takes in the most-likely-Allison’s-trainer and the cop cars blockading the other end of the block, then swears. “We need to get the hell out of here! Get them—” he gestures to Frank and Karen “—out of here!”

“Come on!” You direct Frank and Karen towards the nearest alleyway, hoping to at least get them out of sight before the cops can see anything—

A gunshot, aimed between you and the alley, goes off. The bullet embeds itself in the wall of the building just in front of you.

The masked attacker charges towards the three of you, pistol in hand and pointed in your direction.

Karen quickly aims and fires in the direction of the attacker.

The bullets bounce harmlessly off their telekinetic shield, but the force from the impact knocks them onto the ground.

You push the assailant away with a blast of wind, bouncing them across the pavement and into the side of a car. “Alright, let’s—”

“N.Y.P.D.! Put your hands in the air!”

Your head whips back and forth, looking between the police –who are huddled behind their cars, guns trained on all of you—and everyone else. You can see Allison freeze, staring down the cops in shock and fear, and then watch as her eyes start to glow blue. Shit. We can’t afford to lose her again.

So, you do what seems most natural, in the moment. You dash over, grab Allison around her waist, and float up into the air so she can’t teleport away.

Except everything goes wrong.

You hear the gunshot. You hear one of the cop’s guns go off, and you can hear Piotr scream, and you can feel Allison jerk in your arms, but you can’t really process what’s going on. All you know is that you’re dropping towards the ground, and you can’t figure out why. It’s not like you decided to stop floating.

It isn’t until Frank rolls you onto your back and presses his hand against your side that you realize you were shot. Pain bursts in your ribs, radiating across your torso, and it’s all you can do to breathe.

“Hey, hey, stay with me,” Frank gravels out, shucking out of his jacket and pressing it against your ribcage. “Count down backwards from one hundred.”

“Fuck you,” you wheeze.

Then Piotr’s on his knees next to you, voice panicked and hands shaking. He delicately brushes your hair out of your face –he’s not armored down, which is probably for the best, all things considered—and says something to you, but you can’t really make out the individual words he’s saying.

You’re looking past your husband, a few feet away, where Allison’s lifeless body lays on the street. There’s a hole in her chest that’s blooming blood, and the masked fighter kneels over her, feeling at her neck for a moment before closing her eyes.

Another one down. Another voice lost in society’s endless war against mutantkind.

A sob catches in your throat, equal parts pain and grief.

Piotr’s voice breaks through the cacophony of screams and sirens. “Myshka. Myshka, can you—”

And then the impossible happens.

(Though, anymore, you suppose it’s just improbable, given everything you’ve seen.)

Allison’s eyes snap open, glowing blue so intensely that they’re almost white. She screams, back bowing off the ground. Her body jerks onto its side, and she claws at the ground while she shrieks and rages.

A vortex of blue energy opens underneath her, breaking away at the asphalt and sucking it down into its depth. The ground shakes, and the sky blackens above the city as a beam of energy erupts from the portal, sailing up into the sky and disappearing from view.

And then the beam disappears, and Allison and the mystery fighter with it.

It’s an understood truth that New York city is never truly silent –but in that moment, it’s a near thing.

And then you hear Nathan’s voice say, “Bodyslide by seven.”

***

The bullet –which passed through Allison first—bounced off one of your ribs. Fractured the bone, but didn’t hit any of your vital organs.

The healers at the Institute mend the fracture, but you’ll still have a bruise, limited mobility for a bit, pain, and some light physical therapy to do before it’s all sudden done.

You’re lucky.

“What kind of cop shoots a kid?” you grumble, wincing as you prop yourself up in one of the medical ward’s hospital beds.

“Happens all too often,” Piotr says quietly, hoarsely. His hand is wrapped around yours, fingers absently spinning your wedding band around your ring finger. He hasn’t left your side since you hit the pavement and Nathan got all of you out of there.

So much could have gone wrong… or worse…

You squeeze his hand gently, focusing on how solid and warm it feels against yours to keep from spiraling. “You okay?”

“I am now that you are,” he says after drawing in and letting out a shaky breath. Your husband’s eyes are rimmed with red, and his cheeks and nose are flushed.

“I’ll have to stay on bed and-slash-or couch rest for a few days.” You offer him a tired smile. “Maybe we can finally decide what color to paint the living room.”

Piotr smiles back, though the stress he’d gone through is still evident on his face. “That would be nice.”

You squeeze his hand again, then let your eyes slide shut as he presses his forehead against yours—

And apparently that’s all the calm the universe is going to allow you right now.

There’s a knock on the door, and you open your eyes to see Ellie standing in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically pensive.

“Castle and Wilson are trying to kill each other.”

***

Your dad had scooped up everyone when he’d teleported back to the mansion. You suspected that, aside from it being a favor to Karen and Frank, there’d been a precautionary element in making sure that the officers couldn’t ask the two of them about how the X-Men were involved in the whole situation or about the whereabouts of Deadpool and Cable.

(You’re confident that neither Karen or Frank would sell any of you out, but the New York police department is famous for “extrapolating” conclusions off any scrap of knowledge that confirms their hunches.)

You hear them before you see them. The two men are shouting each other, voices bouncing off the walls and high ceiling that comprise the mansion’s entryway.

Frank’s hands are clenched at his sides, shaking slightly as he growls and curses at your brother. His eyes are wild, almost unhinged. He’s ignoring Karen’s pleas to calm down and “take a breath,” but he’s still conscious of her proximity to him, never once stepping on her foot or so much as bumping her with an elbow as he gesticulates at Wade.

You brother, on the other hand, is none so controlled. He’s pacing all over the place –still in his Deadpool suit—flailing wildly and occasionally tripping and stumbling over himself. Occasionally, he’ll get almost nose to nose with Frank, only to go back to storming around, as though he can’t contain the maelstrom of energy inside him.

“Look, if the kid wants a piece of me, then let her do what she needs to do!” Frank snaps, scowling. “There’s no need for all of you to get involved in this shit.”

“And what if she kills you?” Neena pipes up from where she’s leaning against the staircase banister, watching the chaos unfold.

“Then she kills me.”

“That’s not an option,” Karen states, voice steely.

“Is that what you’d want for your kids?” Wade’s back in Frank’s face now, the eyes on his suit widening and narrowing with the rise and falls of his ire. “You’d want that for your daughter, for her to go out killing everyone that ever hurt you—”

Frank’s control splinters. He bares his teeth in a snarl, then slugs Wade across the jaw before grabbing him by the collar of his suit.

“Hey, hey! Hey!” Nate shouts, lurching up from the chair he was sitting in as Wade and Frank start taking shots at each other. “Enough!”

Karen yanks on Frank’s arm, doing her best to disentangle him from Wade. “Frank –stop!”

You take a step forward, set on getting between the two men and separating them—

Except your husband brushes past you, squeezing your shoulder gently as he does. He grabs Wade with one hand, Frank with the other, then wrenches them apart with raw strength and sets them down on opposite sides of his massive form. “Enough!” he orders, voice raised to be heard over the last dregs of the fight. “You do this elsewhere. Not where children are present.”

Frank acquiesces with a tight nod, gaze bouncing around the room as he shifts from foot to foot.

Wade starts to argue –but Piotr silences him with the raise of an eyebrow that’s so stern, so severe, that it calls you directly back to his mother and makes you do a double take.

“We are not permitting child to kill anyone,” Piotr continues (ignoring Wade’s mumblings about “he really is a dom switch in this series.”). “Allison deserves chance to do better. All we have to do is show her that chance.”

“Not that simple,” Frank spits out. “Not when she’s going after the people I care about. Not when she’s using guns and bombs and whatever the hell making the cars disappear was –do we even have a profile on this kid, Summers? What other damn powers am I going to have to anticipate if this girl’s hunting me down.”

“I believe, in that regard,” Professor Xavier interjects as he wheels towards the lot of you, “I might be able to shed some light on the situation.”

***

“There’s multiple theories on how mutants came to be. Some scientists think that anomalies in the evolutionary chain of various animals and other species spurned the development of modern mutants. A group of geneticists based in Korea is working on a study that’s based on the premise that the mutant gene developed out of other, milder mutations more commonly present in humans –asthma, heterochromia, and the like.”

“Which is it?” Neena asks, staring at the projector screen in one of the classrooms as the Professor taps away at a laptop.

“Both –and more. There’s several classifications of mutants today, and only select groups apply to specific theories. It’d be fascinating to dive into at a later time, but for now, we’re focused on Miss Ricci –who as fortune would have it, is part of the Hellenistic mutant lineage.”

“Uh-huh,” Wade says, nodding animatedly. “And in normal speak that means…”

“To put it simply, she’s a descendent of the ancient Greek gods –or, rather, the figures that inspired the stories of the deities,” Xavier explains. “Whether they actually existed as divine beings remains to be seen, but their powers, their followers, and their impact on the world are all quite real.”

“How can you be sure?” Neena asks.

“Certain mutation sets that appear more often than others can be traced back to mutant ancestors who bore the same traits.” The Professor taps at the keyboard, making an image of a genealogy key appear. “Death-based magical abilities –like the ones displayed by Miss Ricci—in mutants have been consistently traced back to the mutant that was worshipped as Hecate, Greek goddess of sorcery. Interestingly enough, the same trait is strongly present in the Rasputin lineage, along with several other Russian families.”

“Because we need so much help in that area,” Piotr mutters next to you.

“So what does all this mean with her going after my people?” Frank says, voice measured in such a way that you can tell he’s barely keeping a handle on his agitation. “What can we expect?”

“Well, unless she gets someone that can tutor her magical abilities, not much beyond what we’ve seen,” Xavier decides. “The ability to teleport and create offensive attacks are often innate to mutants like Allison, almost like the gene’s form of giving the person a defense mechanism. She might be able to tap into a few other base level abilities –such as rendering things to ash—but without proper training, her abilities will plateau soon.”

“But she is getting stronger,” Karen speaks up. “Just how strong is she supposed to get?”

“That would depend on the overall presence of the mutant gene in her DNA –which is not information I am privy to.”

“She’s able to self-revive,” Nathan says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Can you make an estimate off that?”

“How recent has this ability presented?”

“One other time.”

Frank frowns. “She’s done it twice? When else has she died? I thought she was laying low after she kidnapped Karen.”

Nate grimaces, but says nothing.

Frank’s face pales after a moment, jaw working convulsively. His trigger finger twitches against his thigh.

Karen interlocks her fingers through Frank’s, expression grim but determined. “What do we do?”

***

Karen and Frank –at Nathan’s urging—decide to get out of the city for a bit. Allison will likely be down for a bit –regeneration or not, it takes a lot to recover from a bullet wound, let alone death—and disrupting their routine will make it harder for the vengeance obsessed girl to keep tabs on them.

There’s also talk of the two borrowing one of Nathan’s safehouses while they find new apartments. You only get to hear the starts of the conversation before Piotr ushers you out and back to your home.

“You are on prescribed rest,” he says when you protest. “Doctor’s orders. Best to not delay.”

You wind up on the couch, cushioned by an army of pillows, with a blanket over your lap, ice packs against your ribs, snacks and drinks on the coffee table in front of you, your phone hooked up to the charger on the power strip next to the couch, a movie playing on the TV, and Piotr sitting in the chair next to the couch, holding your hand.

(He hadn’t wanted to sit with you for fear of jostling you.)

“There’s going to be a press shitshow over all this,” you comment, partially distracted by the movie.

“I know,” Piotr replies, thumb rubbing against your knuckles.

“You should’ve stayed home,” you murmur. “I’m not a recognizable X-Man. The Institute’s name shouldn’t have been attached to something like this.”

“What should or should have not happened is moot,” Piotr says gently. “What is more important is your are my wife, moya myshka. It is not right for me to leave you to handle things I find… unsavory.”

“It’s okay to find things unsavory, sweetheart.”

“Da. But leaving you in dangerous situation because am not lover of violence is not. Leaving you to handle challenging mission because I do not agree with vigilantes is not. You are my wife. You come first.”

You look over at him, taking in his contemplative expression. “What changed all this? Not that I’m opposed –you can do what you want—but what made you decide to get on board?”

He sighs, grimacing sheepishly. “My father and I… had conversation. When you left with others to find Madeline and Mr. Essex. He thought I was being… most un-husbandly to let you handle ‘rough stuff,’ as he put it. He said that X-Man title was no excuse, that my duties to protect and support you surpassed that.” He gazes down at your wedding and engagement ring. “He was –is—right.”

You aren’t sure how to respond to that –so you don’t. Not directly, at least.

You tug on your husband’s hand until he leans over, then press a kiss against his cheek. “I love you, Piotr Rasputin.”

He smiles, then kisses your cheek in return. “And I love you, Y/N Rasputin.”

#sass writes #piotr rasputin x reader #colossus x reader #nathan summers x wade wilson #cablepool #frank castle x karen page #tw: death #tw: gun violence #tw: shooting #tw: injury #tw: blood #this is an angsty one #consider yourself tagged #x men fanfiction #deadpool fanfiction

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master-sass-blast · 5 years

Text

You Can Always Go Back Home.

THIS FIC IS 22K WORDS LONG. 61 PAGES IN WORD. THREE WEEKS OF WRITING!!!

VALIDATE MY PARKING P L E A S E !!!!

Summary: You wake up alone in a cell with no windows. The following days are nothing short of Hell on Earth.

Rating: M for physical abuse, emotional abuse, verbal abuse, manipulation, injury, blood, vomiting, mental health stuff, panic attacks, kidnapping, and H E A V Y A N G S T.

Pairings: Piotr Rasputin x Reader, Nathan Summers x Wade Wilson, Frank Castle x Karen Page, and Alexandra Rasputin x Nikolai Rasputin.

Set after “The Literal Crack Fic.”

Taglist: @marvel-is-perfection, @chromecutie, @super-darkcloudstudent, @girl-obsessed-with-things, @nebulous-leo

You wake up alone.

Okay, not necessarily disturbing.

You’re in an unfamiliar room with no windows, no conceivable exits, and no memory of how you got here.

Definitely disturbing, and also worrisome, troubling, anxiety-inducing, alarming, perplexing, and… other adjectives…

You push yourself off a small cot. You’re dressed in a baggy white shirt and baggier white pants, someone’s taken your engagement ring, and upon inspection you realize that someone’s put a mutation repression collar on your neck. Okay. Might be time to panic.

There’s a door on the wall opposite where the cot sits. It goes practically flush to the floor and ceiling, has no handle on the inside, and has a small hatch at the base that is currently closed, as your luck would have it.

There’s a couple of vents pumping out cool air along the line where the walls meet the ceilings; they’re far too small to try and escape through –though, without your powers, it’s not like you could get the covers off anyway.

At the far end of the room –not that you have to go far to get to it—is a bathroom. Upon inspection, it only holds a toilet, a small wastebasket, and a sink; checking the drawer attached to the base reveals a small hairbrush, a toothbrush, and some toothpaste. The cabinet underneath has a couple packages of toilet paper and some menstrual products.

This is a holding cell, that much is obvious. You’re meant to be here a long time, judging by the amount of toilet paper and toiletries.

You frown.

Kidnappings aren’t all that uncommon with the X-Men –an unfortunate hazard of the job, one might say. It would seem that you’ve been snatched up –but by who? Are the rest of the X-Men here with you, in different cells? Was someone targeting the X-Force specifically? Did some of your uncle’s enemies figure out where you were and grab you to get to him?

You try to walk back through your memories, but nothing fruitful comes of it. The last thing you can remember is waking up next to Piotr –but was that a few hours ago, or a few days ago?

You suppose it doesn’t matter, in the long run. You’re trapped for now, but someone will look for you eventually and come rescue you. All you have to do, for the time being, is wait.

You head back to the cot with a sigh and plop down as you prepare yourself for the mind-numbing boredom that awaits you.

***

The first hint comes when a meal –lunch or dinner, presumably, judging by the contents—is shoved through the hatch at the bottom of the door on a small tray.

There’s no anxiety medication.

Either whoever’s holding you doesn’t know you’re on antidepressants, or they intend for you to suffer.

You sigh heavily as you crack open a little mini bottle of water and sip from it –then grimace; it tastes like room-temperature plastic bottle.

Judging by the lack of any recording equipment whatsoever –cameras, microphones, speakers, nothing—these people are amateurs. They’re not particularly concerned about you breaking out –which even with your powers gone, if they knew anything about you, they should be. You’ve built a career out of getting out of tough situations.

So, whoever these chumps are, they haven’t done their homework on how to keep you stable –or done any real homework on your past “is a mutant,” it would seem.

Admittedly, that would stack things in your favor, except you’ll be facing withdrawals before too awful long. Hopefully, you can figure out how to get the mutation collar off and escape before you get too deep into those.

You bite into what is arguably the blandest turkey sandwich of your life and lean back against a pristinely painted white wall. Karma, don’t fuck me over now.

***

There’s no mirror in the bathroom.

You notice after your meal, when you try to head in and twist the collar around so you can see what make and model you’re working with –a short lived plan, to say the least; without a mirror, there’s not much you can do to figure out what you’re working with.

Still, you can at least get a sense of the locking mechanism –keypad, key, fingerprint scanner—from touch.

You smooth your hands around the collar, then grimace when you only find a solid plastic node on the back of it. Shit.

These types of collars, as your uncle had taught you, are lockdown collars. They’re meant to go on and stay on, to permanently render a mutant incapable of accessing their powers. No keypad to hack, no lock to pick, no fingerprint scanner to override. The only way to get the damn thing off is short circuit it or cut it off.

Just your luck, there aren’t any scissors in your little cell.

***

The boredom kicks in fast. There’s only so many times you can analyze your surroundings or make escape strategies before you start to lose your mind from the repetition.

There’s not too much to be said for pacing your tiny quarters, either. The room is three strides wide and four strides long –borderline claustrophobic, only big enough for you, the cot, and… that’s about it, really.

Confined spaces can be used to torture people; even if they aren’t particularly claustrophobic, the inability to move around and do things can drive even the most grounded individuals a little batty.

You wind up laying on your cot and staring at the ceiling. You spend time thinking about how to handle your anxiety once your most recent dose of medication runs out, about your upcoming wedding, about what you want your future home with Piotr to look like…

About Piotr. You think a lot about Piotr. You’re not sure how long you’ve been separated from him, but you already miss him dearly.

You sigh, and roll over onto your stomach. Come find me, baby. I’ll be waiting for you.

***

Dinner –well, your second meal, and you’re starting to realize that without windows you have no way of knowing what time of day it is—is delivered what feels like a few hours later; it’s another little bottle of water, a plain turkey sandwich, an apple, and some canned corn that’s been put in a bowl.

Along with it comes a little bottle of shampoo, a little bottle of conditioner, a little bar of soap, and a washcloth.

You’re stumped at first. There’s no shower down here, how could they possibly expect…

The sink.

You let out a shocked laugh when you realize that your captors mean for you to wash yourself via using the sink. No way! No fucking way!

But… you don’t have any other options –unless you want to use water from the toilet, but ew, gross.

You sigh, shocked and more than a little frustrated, and dig into the sandwich.

***

The lights turn out halfway through your venture with attempting to wash up using the sink.

You yelp, drop the bottle of shampoo, and topple against the wall behind you; you wince as you rub your shoulder. With a rush of annoyance, you realize that there aren’t any light switches in the main room or the bathroom. You have absolutely no control over when the lights are on and when they’re off.

You scowl in the direction of the ceiling. “Really!”

***

The lights switch on again while you’re sleeping. You’re not sure how long it’s been, but it doesn’t feel like it’s been a whole eight hours.

Then again, that could just be the cot. It’s thinly padded, and no matter how you sleep you can feel the metal frame holding it up.

You’re also starting to feel the effects of withdrawal. Your brain feels foggy, your anxiety has spiked (well, more than the situation’s already spiked it), and you have pins and needles feeling all over your body.

You shiver as you wrap your thin blanket tighter around you and curl into a little ball. Baby, please come find me.

***

Your first meal of the day –or is it the third? How long have you been asleep, even?—comes what feels like a couple hours later.

Objectively, you know you should eat. You need to keep up your strength, but as you look at the tray of a plain turkey sandwich, a little bottle of water, an apple, and some canned corn –and no meds, which further confirms that your captors aren’t giving you any—you can’t even work up the shadow of an appetite.

You manage to choke down a few bites of the turkey sandwich before your stomach churns, take the water bottle and the apple, then chuck the rest of your meal in the trash before setting the tray with the others.

***

You try to focus on exercising. Easier said than done, considering you barely ate anything, but you push yourself through to try and keep your endorphins up. You do rounds of push-ups, squats, crunches, planks, and lunges until your limbs are shaking from exertion, then chug water from the sink faucet until you almost puke it all back up.

You whimper as splay out on the floor in an effort to cool down faster. Okay. I need to pace myself better, and I need to eat regardless of what’s given to me. They’re clearly trying to break me by keeping my schedule off. Slow and steady is key.

You take a deep breath, then focus on your breathing and the points where your body is making contact with the floor in an effort to meditate.

You manage to keep that up for a bit until a panic attack hits –and normally you’d use an app on your phone to help yourself work through it, or meditate, or call Piotr, or Nate, or Wade, or Ellie, or Yukio, or Russell, or Neena…

It’s so much worse without the meds. You can’t catch your breath, you can’t stop the overwhelming rush of anxiety, you can’t get your mind to stop racing—

Bed. Get to the bed.

You crawl across the concrete floor and barely manage to get into the cot before you curl into a fetal position and sob.

***

It’s hard to be alone.

You’ve gotten used to having your friends and family right at hand over the past few years –come to depend on it, even; they’ve always been there to help you through rough patches. You’ve come to love having so many companions around you during your time at Xavier’s. It’s a direct one-eighty from growing up, when you only had yourself and your parents for company most of the time –and your parents weren’t exactly what you’d call “company.”

Aside from exercise (which you can’t do too much of without risking hurting yourself), there’s only sleeping, yoga (also limited for safety reasons), meditating, masturbating (which you don’t feel like doing, given your current withdrawal situation), or listening to the gentle hiss of the air vent.

You can’t remember how you got through being so alone as a child –though, technically, you suppose you didn’t; it fucked you up. Badly.

That, and you’d barely been able to handle being at Xavier’s when you’d first arrived. It’d been like a shock to your system. You couldn’t fathom so many people being around each other all the time –and wanting to spend that time with you, no less.

Objectively, you know that isolation is a basic destabilization tactic –but that doesn’t make it any easier to go through.

You roll over so you’re on your other side –your ribs are hurting from the metal support frame for the cot—and close your eyes. Piotr’s gonna come for me. He’s gonna come for me. He won’t leave me here.

***

You have to resist the urge to scream when your next meal is slid through the hatch at the bottom of the door.

Plain turkey sandwich. Canned corn in a bowl. Apple. Room temperature mini-bottle of water.

Sadists.

You’d kill for a bag of Cheetos right now. Or some of Piotr’s pancakes.

You take the tray back to your cot –your ass can’t handle any more of sitting on a concrete floor, and your back can’t handle leaning up against the concrete walls—and try to focus on recalling any sort of memory that might tell you how you wound up here while you choke down your meal.

Waking up next to Piotr. Him smiling at you. And… everything goes black after that.

A blackout might mean head trauma. Or a traumatic event. Or drug use –someone might’ve knocked you out.

A quick check of your head doesn’t reveal any sore spots or cuts –but you probably would’ve felt that when you woke up for the first time. You can’t do a full body check for injection sites without a mirror –not to mention it’s possible the drugs were fed to you—but you can’t find anything on the parts of your body you can see. As for trauma-induced memory repression, well, it’s possible, but you have no way of knowing if that’s it.

You take another bite of sandwich –and it immediately hits your tongue wrong, making you gag.

You spill your corn all over the floor when you dash to the bathroom.

***

You have to get out of here. You have to, you have to, you have to, you have to youhavetoyouhavetoyouhaveto—

“Information first,” you can remember Nathan telling you during one of your earliest training sessions with you. “Get as much information as you can, then act. Patience never hurt anyone.”

You measure the hatch at the bottom of the door first. It’s big enough for you to slip through, even with the collar around your neck. After some careful debating, you decide it’d be best to slide through on your stomach; your back will be facing up, meaning your face and organs will be more protected from blows, technically.

You’ll have to wait before you can declare your “recon” done, though. You have no idea how long the hatch stays open for, or if you’ll be able to hear any footsteps through the walls that’ll alert you to when the hatch is going to open.

You squat down by the door and get as comfortable as you can.

You waited nearly two decades to get out of your first cage. You can wait another day to escape this one.

***

Waiting nearly kills you.

It isn’t the patience –as contrary as you like to play with Piotr about the topic, you are capable of being patient.

No, it’s the exhaustion. The medication withdrawals are doing a number on you; you can’t remember another time in your life you’ve been this tired. Even the accidental coke withdrawals from that one mission where you fell into a vat of the stuff weren’t this bad, because at least you had your family, your friends, and your fiancé to help you.

You chuckle a little to yourself at the memory of the incident. You’ve definitely lead an… interesting life.

You groan as another wave of withdrawal-induced pins and needles pain sweeps through your body, then perk up –well, as much as you can perk up right now—when you hear a series of dull thumps approaching the door to your cell.

Footsteps.

You hardly breathe as the hatch unlatches and slides open –and it retracts into the door, which is another factor in your favor—and count off the seconds as a tray of food slides in. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine—

The hatch slides back shut and latches once more.

Nine seconds.

It’ll have to be enough.

***

You’re wide awake well before the lights come on again.

Your entire body feels like a live wire. Your chest is tight, your palms are clammy, your mouth is dry, your muscles are tense, it feels like something’s constantly crawling up the back of your neck, and despite the fact that you’re utterly exhausted, you can’t sleep.

You stagger to the bathroom on shaky legs and all but collapse onto the toilet. You have no idea how long you’ve been down here, but you know you can’t afford to stay any longer. You need your meds, you need your family –fuck, you need some understanding of how time’s passing; you feel like you’re on the verge of losing your mind with the way things currently are.

You shiver as you stare down at your bare feet, jaw and fists clenched tightly. I’m getting the fuck out of here.

***

The waiting game for the footsteps to sound outside the door is a long one. You pace in short circuits near the door, careful not to wander too far so you don’t miss the sound of them approaching and lose your earliest window of opportunity. You switch to doing what exercises and stretches that you can when the pacing starts to drive you batty, then wind up just crouching next to the door, staring down the hatch with laser-like focus, as though you can make it open with sheer will alone.

And –finally—after what feels like an eternity, you hear the footsteps approach.

Adrenaline surges through your system as your entire body tenses in anticipation. You get down into a borderline army-crawl position as you hear the latch for the hatch release, ready to whip the tray out of the way and dive through the hatch opening before your meal-deliverer can react.

Sure enough, the hatch door slides away, and a tray starts skidding across the threshold—

You rip it out of your captor’s hand and shove yourself halfway through the hatch, eliciting a scream from whoever’s delivering your meal this morning—

You know that voice.

You look up in time to see your mother collapse back onto a flight of wooden stairs, looking half scared to death at your sudden appearance.

Shock hits your system first, both at seeing her face for after so long and the realization of just who is holding you and all the implications that bears.

Anger –rage, white hot fury snarling in your chest like a caged lion—hits next, prompting you to bare your teeth at her in a vicious scowl. “You fucking bitch! Let me out of here!”

Your mother screams again when you grab her by the ankle in an effort to yank yourself out of your cell, then rears back and kicks you in the face repeatedly. “Demon child! Get off me, you whore!”

You shout when the toe of her shoe makes direct contact with your brow, then duck your head when you feel blood start spurting down your face.

You need to retreat. You’re not in a good enough position to fend off her blows like this, and at this rate you’re liable to get seriously hurt before you can get out and get to your feet.

You duck back into your cell and hunch over, pressing a hand to your brow in an effort to stem the flow of blood.

The hatch slams back shut, and your mother’s frantic footsteps retreat back up the stairs and out of hearing range.

You stumble to the bathroom and unravel nearly half a roll of toilet paper before pressing it to your brow. You’re shaking like a leaf as a mixture of adrenaline and fear course through your system. That was my mom.

Your mother, in flesh and blood. Not a withdrawal induced hallucination. The real-life woman who gave birth to you, then made your life hell on earth when your mutation presented.

What the fuck?

***

You have to be at your parents’ house. That’s the only logical explanation. Even though there are other scenarios that might bring your parents into the picture –you’re being held in community bunker back where you grew up, and your mom just happened to be delivering your meal when you tried to break out, for instance—the least complicated answer is usually the most accurate one. Combine that with the knowledge that your parents have tried, inexplicably, to have you kidnapped and brought back home before, and there’s no other explanation that does justice to your current predicament.

Again, what the fuck?

Why the fuck can’t they just leave you alone? They never wanted you –at least, not after your mutation presented—and you don’t want to be around them, they literally don’t even have to think about you since you left, so why do they keep trying to bring you back?

Although…

What if you never left to begin with?

Once the thought pops into your brain, it takes root so deep you can’t stop it –because what if you really haven’t left? What if you’ve been here the whole time, and your precious memories of Xavier’s and your friends and family there are just delusions your mind came up with to help you cope with the abuse you’ve suffered over the years? Your escape, your time spent at the Institute, Nate, Wade, Ellie, Yukio, Russell, Neena, Piotr…

Piotr.

A desperate whimper rips through you as the realization that Piotr might not be real sinks into your brain. No! you think desperately as tears start mixing with the blood on your face. No, he’s real! He’s my fiancé, we’re going to get married—

But you don’t have your ring. Your parents took it from you before locking you in here –or maybe whoever abducted you to begin with chucked it or sold it or—

Or maybe it was never real to begin with.

You sob brokenly, chucking the bloodstained wad of toilet paper away and ripping more off the roll to try and clean up your face as best you can. Without the ring, you don’t have proof that any of what you’ve experienced in the past few years is actually real. Any of the new scars on your body could be explained by abuse or other unsuccessful escape attempts, your muscles could be explained by working out in your cell…

It’s real, you tell yourself desperately as you gasp and choke on sobs. It’s real, it’s real, Piotr’s out there, he’s going to find me, please just let him be real.

You toss your latest wad of toilet paper away –then double take when you see your left hand.

There’s a tan line in the shape of a ring band on your ring finger.

A mixture of hope and relief courses through you, even though you barely dare to let yourself feel it—

And then the lights turn out, plunging you into darkness once more.

You pant frantically as you try to get a grip on your spiraling anxiety, then scream.

***

You manage to crawl back to the cot and fall asleep at some point. Your face hurts –your entire body hurts, really—and there’s no good way to lay without irritating your new cut in some way, shape, or form, but you do eventually pass out for a bit.

The lights come back on sometime later, waking you up with a jolt. You groan, both from exhaustion and the bolt of pain from the cut on your brow –and then all the hair on the back of your neck stands up when the door –not the hatch, the door—to your cell opens.

It’s him.

A slew of memories, some that you’d forgotten, rush into your mind’s eye. Growing up, there’d been a pattern to the abuse you’d suffered from your parents. You’d do something to upset your mother –either legitimate or some made up slight she’d create so she had an excuse to punish you—and then she’d verbally and emotionally abuse you –sometimes physically, too—before locking you in your room for hours on end.

And then she’d lament to your father about how poorly behaved and undisciplined you’d been when he got home from work, and he’d “correct” you with whatever he had at hand –usually his belt.

Get up. Get up, get up, get up getupgetupgetupgetup—

You manage to roll out of the way of his first strike. You tumble to the floor as his folded-up belt smacks against the cot, making the frame vibrate from the force of the strike. Before you can get off the ground, though, he kicks you in the gut and knocks the wind out of you.

“You ungrateful brat!” he snarls as he brings down his belt against your body over and over, often hitting you with the metal buckle. “How dare you disrespect your mother like that! In my home!”

You scream and try to shield yourself from his blows as best you can. “Stop it! Stop hitting me!”

“Spare the rod, spoil the child,” he growls before yanking you off the floor by your hair.

You move on instinct, muscle memory. You knee him in the crotch before breaking his grip, block a weak attempt at a punch the way Nate taught you to, then snatch his belt off the floor and get behind him before he can try anything else. You wrap the length of leather around his neck and pull it tight as hard as you can.

Your father chokes and struggles, attempting –and failing—to get his fingers between the belt and his neck before trying to reach back and pull you off him.

You snarl as you stumble with his movements, trying to keep control over him and his belt. Unfortunately, given your withdrawals, you’re nowhere near as steady as you need to be. You trip over the cot and lose your grip, tumbling to the floor in a heap.

Your father hacks and gasps as he gets his own belt off his neck, then staggers towards the open cell door.

You charge after him, narrowly avoiding slamming your face into the metal surface when he gets it closed before you can reach him. You pound your fists against the door as his hurried, stumbling footsteps retreat up the stairs and bellow at the top of your lungs, “I’ll fucking kill you! You bastard! I’m going to kill you!”

The lights turn off again, leaving you stranded in the dark once more.

You seethe as you step back from the door, then let out a wrathful shriek.

***

Your stomach is killing you.

You hadn’t been able to eat the meal your mother delivered earlier due to the adrenaline dump over the realization that you might’ve never truly escaped from your parents’ home. Even if you could find any of the food in the dark, the meat in the sandwich has definitely gone bad by now, and you’re pretty certain everything else got smashed beyond edibility during your struggle with your father.

You do manage to find the mini-bottle of water. You drain it without thinking, then head to the bathroom to guzzle some water out of the sink when you’re still thirsty.

Except the tap’s been shut off from upstairs. And, when you get desperate enough to check, the water reservoir for the toilet –along with the bowl—has been drained, too.

You laugh until you cry, then cry until you laugh, then follow that cycle until you throw up.

Worse still, you’re unbearably hot. The flow of air was shut off shortly after your confrontation with your father. You’re pretty certain that you’re still getting some air, but without the air conditioning on your tiny cell is downright stifling.

Maybe it would be better if they’d sealed you in here to asphyxiate. At this point, you’d take passing out and dying shortly thereafter over suffering like this.

Your head swims as you wipe a layer of sweat off the back of your neck. You have no idea how much time has passed since your fight with your father. You’ve been lapsing in and out of consciousness, meaning that it could’ve been anywhere from a few hours to maybe over a day.

Are you going to die down here? Is this how you’re going to go out? To malicious negligence?

You weep softly as you curl up on your side. You’d hoped, ever since escaping, that you’d die in comfort, surrounded by those you love –or, if not that, in a blaze of glory that leaves everyone awestruck.

Though, considering you may have never escaped at all, perhaps those aspirations were never meant to be within reach for you.

Your body tenses when you hear footsteps outside your door. This is it. This is the end.

You force yourself into a standing position. You’re not going down without a fight, even if the fight you have left in you is bordering on pathetic at this point. You brace yourself against the nearest wall as the door swings open, letting light from the stairwell into your cell—

Nathan steps in, dressed in all black and with a gun strapped to his back. “Kid!”

You stare at him, shocked. “Dad?”

Neena follows in after him, beaming when she sees you. “We’ve got her,” she says into an earpiece. “She looks a little rough, but she’s conscious.”

Nathan doesn’t bother to talk to whoever Neena’s talking to. He closes the distance between the two of you faster than you can blink, yanking you into his arms and almost crushing you with a hug and—

It’s him. It’s really him. Down to every single last detail –the way his techno-organic arm whirs when it moves, the smell of the soap and deodorant he uses, the slight rasp of stubble on his chin and cheeks that he can never seem to get rid of no matter how often he shaves, the fuckboi haircut Wade never stops ripping on him for.

Dad.

You sob, borderline scream, with relief and collapse against him. You cling to him for all you’re worth, ignoring the various pains in your body that the effort causes.

Nathan holds you tight to him, smoothing your hair and kissing the top of your head in a paternal manner. “It’s okay, kid. It’s okay. I’ve got you, you’re okay.” To Neena, he says, “Let’s get her upstairs.”

You make it to the first step of the stairs outside your cell before you have to stop. “I’m too dizzy,” you whine as your legs give out. “I haven’t had my meds, I’m too dizzy—”

“Okay, okay.” Nate sits down with you. “We can wait here until you feel better.”

You grip his shirt like your life depends on it and cry against his human shoulder. “Please don’t leave me, I don’t want you to leave me—”

“No way in hell I’m leaving you,” he reassures you, wrapping both arms around your shaking form. “I’m staying right here with you, I promise.”

“They took my ring, dad,” you ramble, almost manically. “They took it, they took my ring, they took the ring Piotr gave me, I don’t have it anymore, I thought none of you were real—”

“Go find the ring,” Nathan commands to Neena. “And let Pete know where she is.”

“It’s gone,” you protest. “They took it, it’s gone, I don’t have it—”

“Hey.” Neena kneels in front of you and clasps your shoulder gently. “Look at me, Y/N. This is me we’re talking about. I’m going to find your ring and that’s the end of it. Okay?”

You sniff loudly and nod. “Okay.”

She smiles reassuringly at you. “Good. First, though, I’m going to get your guy and send him down here.”

You stare after her as she jogs up the stairs, then look over at Nathan when she disappears from view. “Piotr’s here?”

“He is. He was very worried about you. We all were.” His face creases into a frown as he takes in your full appearance. “Oh, kiddo…”

“My dad hit me,” you choke out as you start crying again. “And my mom—”

Nathan hugs you again, rubbing his human hand up and down your arm as you sob. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. We’re going to get you out of here, I promise.”

Then there’s the sound of frantic, extremely heavy footsteps at whatever’s at the top of the stairs—

Piotr.

He stops at the top of the stairway leading down to your cell when he sees you –and then you’re surprised he doesn’t trip over his own two feet with how fast he gets down to where you and Nate are, but then he’s pulling you into his lap and wrapping his arms around and kissing you—

You cry until your throat goes raw. You cling to him until your hands hurt. You kiss him until your lungs burn, until you’re on the verge of passing out, but it’s all worth it because he’s real, and he loves you, and you’re going to be okay.

“Easy, easy,” Nate says after a minute. “Let her breathe. She needs to breathe.”

Piotr pulls back, which is when you realize that he’s crying, too. “I love you so much, myshka. Bozhe moi, I thought I would never see you again—”

You mash yourself against his chest as hard as you can, given your injuries –and even then, you’re still not really giving them the consideration that you ought to. “I missed you so much, baby. It’s been so horrible. They didn’t give me any meds, and I couldn’t keep my food down—”

Almost like magic, Piotr reaches into one of the pockets on his cargo pants and produces a protein bar. “Here. Eat this.”

You giggle, wet and a little hysterical, as you accept the snack. “Always protein bars with you, huh.”

He manages a smile for you. “Good for bones.” His face quickly creases back into a teary frown, and he cups the back of your head while he kisses your forehead –scrupulously avoiding the cut by your eyebrow—and murmurs something in Russian that you don’t understand.

“Turn around for a minute, kid,” Nathan says, tugging on the power cell for the repression collar when you do. “Let’s get this thing off you.”

You hold still as best you can while he works on the collar, then let out a sigh of relief that sends a gust of wind up the stairs when he finally gets the thing off.

“There we go,” Piotr says with a smile as he rubs your back soothingly. “Much better.”

“Have you had anything to drink today?” Nathan asks, looking you over and gauging your overall physical state.

You manage to shake your head limply. “No. They shut off the water supply to my room after my fight with my father.”

Nate’s mouth tightens into a deep grimace, then he stands with a grunt. “We need to get her upstairs and start hydrating her.”

You whimper when Piotr tries to lift you up. “No, no, no, no! I want to walk, let me walk—”

Both men quickly soothe you, and Piotr sets you down so you can walk on your own. It’s slow going, given how unsteady you are, but eventually you reach the top step.

You’re in the basement of your childhood home. Everything’s where you remember it being; there’s a washer-dryer set next to a laundry sink, a folding table with a small pile of clothes on it, a few cardboard boxes set on some storage racks, and a desk that your father used for various “tinkering” projects.

“Come on,” Nathan encourages you after a moment. “You’re almost there. Just one more flight of stairs.”

You lean heavily against Piotr as you stumble up the last flight of stairs. Your head is swimming, and you feel nauseous even though your stomach is empty, but you don’t want to stop. You want to get out of here, you want to go back home, and you never want to see your parents again for as long as you live.

“Holy shit.”

You look up as you step into the kitchen of the house where you grow up –and almost do a double take, but that is most definitely Frank Castle standing in the dining room, dressed in all black, a tactical vest, and carrying a gun that’s almost as big as Nate’s.

(There’s a euphemism there, but you’re too tired to think about it enough to find it.)

He also looks genuinely shocked and concerned as he takes your appearance in –and you know Frank’s not the sadist the media makes him out to be, but you’re starting to think that you might look worse for wear than you originally suspected.

You manage to flash a weak smile at him. “Hey.”

He nods back. “You okay?”

You let out a thready laugh. “Been better.”

“She needs water, ASAP,” Nate says as he emerges from the basement behind you.

Frank reaches into his jacket and pulls out an unopened bottle of water, which he then tosses over to Nate.

Nathan cracks it open and hands it over to you with the stern instructions to “Sip slowly. Don’t guzzle it; you’ll make yourself throw up if you do.”

“Oh thank fuck, you found her!”

Piotr takes the water bottle from your hand a split second before Wade crashes into you, wrapping you in a hug so tight and borderline full-body that he must’ve found a way to incorporate octopus DNA into his regular gene sequence to give himself extra arms.

Which… he might’ve actually done. Because he’s Wade.

You still cling to him just as tight anyway, crying like you did when Nate found you, and then again with Piotr, because you’re just so damn happy to see him.

“You’re okay! I’m so glad you’re okay!” He pulls back, and he winces –he’s forgone his usual suit in favor of wearing black tactical gear like everyone else, though he is sporting his mask. “Or I spoke too soon. Ow.”

“Did I grow second nose or something?” you ask, laughing nervously as you reach up to feel your face. “Everyone keeps looking at me like something’s wrong.”

“No! Nothing’s wrong!” Wade says, forcing a bright tone. “You definitely don’t look like your face lost a fight with a blender.”

“You look like you got hurt,” Nate clarifies when your expression changes to worry. “It’ll all heal just fine.”

“You found her?”

Your jaw drops when you see Alex poke her head into the kitchen. “What are you doing here?”

“Rescuing you,” she says as she gives you a thorough once over before pulling a cellphone out of her pocket. “I will call him quick.” She lifts the phone to her ear and disappears, though you can hear her say something in Russian to someone else—

And then Mikhail appears in the kitchen, wearing the same get up as everyone else: black tactical gear and strapped within an inch of his life. He claps a hand over his mouth when he sees you, recoiling for a second before approaching you tentatively. “Bozhe moi, you are okay? We were so worried! Is hugs okay?”

“Hugs are fine,” you confirm with a shaky laugh, tearing up again as he gently wraps his arms around you.

Piotr hands you the water bottle when Mikhail releases you. “Little sips,” he reminds you as he gently rubs his hand up and down your back.

You lift the bottle to your lips, and while you work on not sucking it all down in one go, you finally look around and get your bearings.

The sky outside the kitchen windows is stained a golden color that fades into slowly darkening hues of blue–the light’s coming from the west, if you’re remembering the orientation of the house correctly, meaning that it’ll be night soon.

You glance over at the stove clock.

The digital display shows it’s a little after seven.

“It’s nighttime, right?” you ask quietly.

“Evening,” Nathan confirms.

You nod as you process the information and continue scanning the kitchen. It’s as conspicuously clean as you remember –save for a half-eaten piece of toast left on a plate, a mostly empty glass of orange juice, and a partially read newspaper next to it.

A quick inspection of the floor reveals some smudged, barely-there red stains that, if you squint, might be patterned like the tread of someone’s shoe.

You don’t have to guess how those got there.

“How long was I gone?” you ask, still quiet, as you start in on Piotr’s protein bar. Your stomach gurgles greedily when the smell of chocolate hits your nose, and the past few days of barely eating hit you all at once. “And when can I get something to eat?”

“Four days,” Nate answers again. “And we’ll get you something more filling once we’ve cleared the town.”

Alex comes back around the corner at that moment, arguing with someone on the phone. “Yes, yes –she’s fine, I already told you she’s fine… do not take this out of context, you know what I meant.” She hands the phone off to Wade abruptly. “Keep him occupied for two minutes.”

Wade takes the phone and lifts it to his ear. “According to all known laws of aviation, there is no way the bee should be able to fly—”

She turns and faces you, cupping your face in her hands as she looks you over with motherly concern. She frowns sadly, and gently rubs your cheeks with her thumbs. “Malen'kaya ptitsa…” She lifts her hand to gently brush her fingers against the cut above your eyebrow. “How did you get this?”

Any steadiness you might’ve gained crumples as your eyes start watering again. “I tried to escape… my mom kicked me in the face…”

Alex visibly tears up at that and pulls you into a tight hug.

You shake in her arms, partially from the past few days and partially from the overwhelming feeling of having a maternal figure that loves you.

You have a feeling you’re going to wind up dedicating a few therapy sessions to both.

Frank pipes up from somewhere in the living room –probably keeping an eye on things, given his background and your dad’s general ability with constructing a mission plan. “Still no sign of anyone. Not even across the street. Entire town’s dead.”

“They’re probably at the church,” you pipe up as you step back from Alex and lean against your fiancé, wiping your face dry with your shirt. “Deciding what to do with me.”

Mikhail frowns. “They already took you. What else is there?”

“Whether or not they need to kill me,” you say, voice flat –and even though you’re exhausted and more than a little out of it, you can feel the snap of tension that runs through everyone else within earshot.

“We need to get her out of here,” Nate says, voice low and thrumming with barely controlled anger. He taps Wade on the shoulder, who is in the middle of rambling in Spanish to whoever’s on the phone. “Cars. Now.”

Wade gives Nate a little salute –without stopping his monologue—and heads towards the front door.

“Wait!” You panic a little when Nate and Piotr start moving you towards the door as well. “My ring –I still don’t have my ring, I need my ring!”

“It is okay, myshka,” Piotr reassures you. “I can get you new one—”

“I don’t want another one!” you sob as you dig in your heels to keep from being moved further. “I want the one you already gave me –it’s mine, they took it from me, it’s supposed to be mine—”

“I found the ring!” Neena shouts from upstairs. There’s a series of quick footsteps above you, then a thud that makes you think she jumped the entire flight of stairs in one go, and then she’s jogging into the kitchen with your engagement ring in hand. “I believe this is what you’re looking for.”

You almost collapse with relief when you see it. Your hands are shaking so bad that you can barely hold onto your bottle of water, much less a delicate engagement ring.

Fortunately, Piotr’s there to help you. He takes the ring from Neena with a murmured ‘thank you,’ then carefully slides it back into place on your left ring finger.

“There we go,” Alex says with a note of approval in her voice.

Nathan nudges you forward –albeit not unkindly—as Frank, Neena, and Mikhail head out the front door. “Come on. Time to get out of here.”

You walk through the dining room and entryway on shaky legs, then across the small porch and down the little flight of steps. It’s cool outside, and Piotr shucks off his jacket and drapes it around your shoulders when you shiver.

There’s two sleek, modern, massive black SUVs that look entirely out of place on your parents’ gravel driveway. Neena’s behind the wheel of one, Frank’s behind the other—

And Wade is standing between the two cars, holding the cellphone six inches away from his ear as some rages at him from the other end of the line—

You recognize the voice; it’s your uncle.

Wade shoots Alexandra a slightly shell-shocked look. “I think he’s pissed.”

You hold out your hand to him. “He’ll settle down when I start talking to him.”

Your uncle’s still going as you clamber into the back of the SUV that Frank’s driving. “—Wilson, I swear to all things holy and not, if you don’t put my niece on the phone right now—”

“Hey,” you say quickly before he can start listing off various death threats. “It’s me. I’m okay.”

Your uncle lets out a rush of air that almost makes you think he’s been punched in the gut “Punk.”

Piotr climbs in next to you –which gets an eyebrow raise from you, to which he merely kisses your forehead—and buckles you into your seat before buckling himself in and closing the door next to him.

“Hey,” you say again, voice wobbly and hoarse from all the crying you’ve been doing. “It’s okay, I’m okay—”

Your uncle lets out a broken sob. “Punk –Y/N—I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry!”

“It’s okay,” you reassure him, equally as teary. “It’s okay, it’s not your fault, it’s alright.”

Nate closes the front passenger door of the car with a thud and quickly buckles himself in. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

“We’re leaving now,” you say as Frank pulls out of the driveway. “I’ll be home soon.”

“I’ll be here,” your uncle promises. “I’m… I’m sorry I couldn’t be there.”

“It’s okay,” you say for the umpteenth time. “I know you would have if it was an option.”

“Damn right.” He sniffs wetly, then groans. “There’s some other people here that want to check in on you. I need to… yeah.”

You let out a tired laugh –you don’t have to ask what he means. “That’s okay. I’ll see you when I get home.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Alright, I’m gonna put you on speaker before I get mobbed.”

There’s a brief moment of shuffling on the other end of the line, and then—

Chaos.

Russell, Yukio, and Ellie –and possibly Kitty as well, if your ears aren’t deceiving you—all try to talk at once, asking how you are, what happened, when you’re coming back, what’s going to happen to your parents… It all comes out as a jumbled, cacophonic mess, and even though you have to hold the speaker of the phone away from your ear a little, it makes you smile.

“Okay, okay.” Nikolai’s voice breaks through the din, warm and fond but undoubtedly authoritative. “One at time. Do not want to overwhelm here.”

And that devolves into, from the sounds of things, a ‘rock-paper-scissors’ match for who gets to talk first—

Until Illyana takes the phone. “How are you?”

“I’m okay,” you answer while trying not to giggle at the grumbling you can hear in the background. “I’ve been better, but I’m okay. I’m on my way home now.”

“What’s going to happen with your parents?” Russell blurts –which gets a few hisses of ‘don’t ask that’ from the girls, but you can understand why he’d want to know.

When you come from backgrounds like yours and his, it’s natural to want to know if the people like your abusers are being held accountable.

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “But, if I have it my way, I’m never seeing them again.”

“We missed you a lot,” Yukio pipes up. “We were all really worried about what happened to you.”

“I missed you guys, too,” you say, choking up with emotion again. “I’ll be home soon, I promise.”

“Did Wade kill anyone?” Kitty asks, which prompts a snort from Illyana.

“As far as I know, he behaved himself.”

“Told you,” Russell grumbles at someone –Ellie, most likely, she’s usually the first person to doubt Wade’s self-control (not that she doesn’t have good reason or plenty of evidence to support her suspicions). “Karen’s here, too.”

You blink, surprised. “Karen? As in… Karen Page?”

(You swear you see Frank perk up in the driver’s seat, just a little.)

“Yeah,” Karen says, speaking for the first time. “I was brought here for… supervision.”

Which is another way of saying ‘safekeeping,’ but either way it isn’t hard to miss the distaste in her voice over being babysat.

“Well, uh, thanks for loaning your friend out,” you say for lack of something better to comment on. “I appreciate it.”

Karen snorts. “Now that’s a business idea. But we both wanted to make sure you came back in one piece.” She clears her throat. “How are you doing?”

“Been better,” you admit wearily. “Been a lot better.”

“I can imagine.”

“I’m sure, considering you’re New York’s ‘most kidnapped reporter.’”

Frank snorts.

“Did he laugh at that?”

You smirk. “Yeah.”

Karen grumbles something under her breath before saying, “Well, I’ll have you know that claim is unsubstantiated at best.”

“I’m sure,” you yawn, suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion.

“We’ll let you go,” Karen says decisively. “You should rest.”

“Probably,” you mutter, too tired for functional human conversation. You make your good-byes with the group –Nikolai promises to say good-bye to your uncle for you—then hang up.

The car’s already at the fringes of the town where you grew up. The populated area is quickly giving way to fields of crops and forest; if it weren’t for all the sins you know lie close to the surface of the place, it’d look beautiful.

You watch the sun continue to set before you turn away from the window and let exhaustion claim you.

***

The cars pull over to the side of the road about twenty minutes later –far enough outside of town that you’ve got a head start, but still too close for comfort in your opinion.

You blink sleepily as Nate hops out of his seat and walks over to the door next to you. “What’s going on? Why did we stop?”

“We need to get you cleaned up and make sure you don’t have any serious injuries that require immediate attention,” he explains as Alex and Mikhail hop out of the other car and walk towards him.

You frown. “And if I do?”

Nathan nods to Mikhail. “He’ll teleport back to the Institute with you so you can get immediate treatment, and the rest of us will finish the drive back.” He pauses to take a large medical kit from Alex. “You got a preference for which one of us looks you over?”

“Dad,” you decide, voice quiet, after a moment of thought. “I want dad to do it.”

The three of them nod, and Alex and Mikhail walk a respectful distance away while Nathan puts on a pair of medical gloves.

“Alright,” he says as he turns on a mini flashlight. “Look straight ahead for me.”

Piotr unbuckles his seat belt and shifts so he’s sitting behind you. He kisses the top of your head when you interlock your fingers with his. “Does anywhere hurt?”

“Everything hurts,” you grumble as you follow Nathan’s light with your eyes.

Nate clicks the flashlight off. “No signs of concussion. Can you run me through how you got injured?”

You swallow hard and grip Piotr’s hand tighter. “I tried to escape… earlier today, I think. I caught my mother off guard… and she—” you tap where you’d gotten the split in your skin on your forehead “—kicked me. Couple times.”

Piotr lets out a shaky breath and scoots closer to you, lips pressing against your temple.

“Later, my father…” You chin trembles as your voice trails off, and you find yourself blinking back tears.

“It’s okay,” Nathan reassures you. “You don’t have to tell me how it went. I just need to know where you got hurt.”

“Ribs. Stomach. Neck,” you rattle off. “Legs too, probably.”

“Okay. Can you lift your shirt up for me so I can see your ribcage?”

You do –and for the first time, you realize there’s blood crusted on a good portion of your shirt. Some of it dripped down onto your pants as well. “Oh. That’s why everyone was looking at me weird. I look like Carrie.”

“All you’re missing is the bucket,” Nathan deadpans. He helps you roll up your shirt to the bottom of your bra when you wince, then grimaces. “Aw, kid…”

Your ribs are a mottled myriad of purples and reds, shiny and just a touch swollen. “Huh. I was wondering why that hurt.”

“That would do it,” Nathan agrees, jaw clenching as he inhales and exhales slowly. “Alright, I’m gonna feel your sides to make sure your ribs aren’t broken. This’ll probably hurt a little.”

It hurts a lot, but it’s nothing compared to the past few days.

You squeeze your eyes shut and breathe through the stabs of pain that Nathan’s poking creates. “I used the fighting techniques you taught me with my father. Almost choked him out.”

He presses a fatherly kiss against your forehead. “Atta girl. Good job. Alright, your ribs don’t seem to be broken, but you’re going to be sore until you can see one of the healers. We can always have Mikhail take you back if you’re uncomfortable.”

You shake your head automatically. “No. I want to stay with Piotr.”

Piotr hugs you gently, careful to avoid your bruises, and kisses your cheek. “Myshka, be reasonable.”

“I thought I was never going to see you again!” you whimper as you press yourself against him. “I thought you weren’t even real! I’m not leaving you!”

“We have painkillers,” Nate says when Piotr hesitates. “We can keep her physically comfortable, and her physical well-being isn’t in question. The next immediate step is her emotional well-being. She’ll be calmer if she stays with you.”

Piotr nods after a moment. “If you are certain she will be fine.”

“If I wasn’t, I’d be sending her home with your brother.” Nate nods when Piotr nods again, then pulls a pack of baby wipes out of the medical kit. “Okay, kiddo. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Pictures,” Frank pipes up from the driver’s seat. “This is an abuse case. You need to take pictures.”

“I’m not taking my parents to court,” you sigh. “I probably wouldn’t win, since I’m mutant. All I ever care about is not seeing them again.”

Frank meets your eyes in the rearview mirror. “All due respect, ma’am, but they went to the trouble of kidnapping you and dragging you back to their house. Even if you’re done with them, they clearly aren’t done with you. You need a paper trail.”

“He’s right,” Nathan says when you pull a frustrated face. “The more documentation we have, the better things go if the courts ever do get involved.”

You sigh, exhausted and frustrated. “Fine. Let’s just make it fast. I want to get all this blood off me.”

Nathan calls Alex over to help with the picture taking process. Using Nate’s phone, they start off by taking several pictures of your face and the cut and bruising there, before documenting the state of your clothes and all the blood over it. The snap a few shots of your neck –chafing from the mutation repression collar, apparently—then move on to taking pictures of your ribs and back.

Piotr kisses your forehead soothingly when you whimper from your ribs hurting. “Almost done. You are doing so well.”

They finish off by getting photos of the bruises on your legs from your encounter with your father, then Nate hands the package of baby wipes to Alex. “Start getting her cleaned up. I’m going to save these.”

Frank rolls down his window and holds his phone out to Nathan. “Send them to Karen’s number, too. She works with a law firm; they’ll be able to help.”

“I thought she was a journalist,” you say as Nate copies Karen’s number into his phone.

“She moonlights as a private investigator and paralegal for a law firm, too,” Frank explains.

You nod, impressed. “Pays to be connected.”

“It certainly does,” Alex agrees as she clasps your chin with her hand. “Alright, malen'kaya ptitsa, let’s get you cleaned up.”

With the practiced gentleness of a loving mother, she wipes your face clean with methodic, circular strokes. She goes through several wipes before she moves on to your neck, gently scrubbing the dried blood off your skin.

Your hold on Piotr’s hand tightens further as waves of emotion threaten to overwhelm you.

This should’ve been your mother. The societal laws of the universe dictate that it’s your mother, the one who gave birth to you, who should be loving on you and caring for you like this.

Instead, she helped lock you in a cell and kicked you in the face when you tried to escape.

“There we go,” Alex says softly, fondly. “All clean.” She throws the baby wipes in a plastic bag, then nods at the medical kit –which is really just a black duffel bag with more medical emergency supplies in it than you would’ve thought possible—as she ties the plastic bag off. “There’s clean clothes for her in there. Help her get changed.”

Piotr kisses the back of your head before sliding back across the back bench of the SUV and exiting on his side of the car. He circles back around to you and withdraws a pair of pajama pants, some fresh underwear, and a shirt of his that’s large enough your won’t have to wear a bra. “Alright, myshka. Let’s get you into proper clothing.” He stands so he’s blocking you from view of everyone else –even the driver’s side mirror of the car, not that you’d ever take Frank Castle as the ‘sneak peek’ type.

Still, you appreciate the gesture.

You shuck off your white, baggy clothes with Piotr’s help, then let out a sigh of relief when you pull on the fresh underwear and pajama pants.

“I bet that feels better,” Piotr says as he helps you get the clean shirt on.

“Yeah, it does,” you admit.

Piotr puts your bloody clothes in another plastic grocery bag, then ties it off and tucks it in the medical kit. He zips the duffel bag shut, hands it back to his mother, then nods at Nathan. “We’re ready.”

“Good. We can’t afford to stand still any longer.”

Your stomach growls angrily as everyone gets back in their respective car seats. “Dad, I really need to eat something.”

“I know, kiddo. I promise, as soon as we’re a good distance away, we’ll get you fed,” Nathan says as he buckles himself in. “Think about what you want in the meantime. We’ll get whatever sounds good to you.”

Piotr kisses your cheek as he buckles you back into your seat. “Hang in there, myshka. Just little bit longer.”

“I want burgers,” you whine tiredly –you’ve earned a good whine, though. “Plural. As in lots of them.”

“We can get you burgers,” Piotr promises, buckling himself in as Frank steers back onto the road.

“And fries. I want fries.”

“You can have fries, also.”

“I want your fries, too.”

Piotr chuckles, then nods. “You can have my fries as well.”

You lean against his shoulder, worn out. “Can I get a milkshake, too?”

“Whatever you want, dorogoy,” Piotr says as he carefully wraps his arm around you and kisses the top of your head. “You can get whatever you want.”

***

Forty minutes later, you finally hit a strip with a bunch of stores –and, even better, fast food joints. The two cars order enough food for twenty people, then drive over to an abandoned movie theater with a parking lot that’s more grass than asphalt and park there so everyone can eat.

You manage to slurp down half your chocolate shake before Piotr takes it from you and hands you one of the burgers you’d asked for. “Protein first, please,” he says as he sets your shake in your cupholder. “I do not want for you to get sick.”

After four days of withdrawals and plain turkey sandwiches, the burger tastes like heaven.

You moan obscenely as you take your first bite, then gulp it down before going back in for more.

“The hell are you doing to her?” Mikhail asks, grinning lasciviously as he opens his door and swing his legs so he’s sitting sideways in his seat, facing the car you’re in. “I could hear that through my window!”

Piotr just rolls his eyes, takes a bite of his burger, and hands his fries over to you, the sweetheart.

“What’s the plan for the parents’ house when we get Y/N back home?” Wade asks as he horks down his burger almost as fast as you’re eating yours. “I’m feeling something arson-y. Frankenfurter, you down?”

You can almost hear Frank’s eyes roll at the nickname, but he shows restraint by only flipping Wade off for it instead of cursing him out. “You’re buying the gas.”

“Ooh, I do love good burning!” Mikhail says with slightly manic brightness. “If I come, you will not even need matches!”

“Send a good message,” Nathan reasons, techno-organic eye flaring as he considers the idea. “Warn all the other shitheads not to go after mutants.”

Behind you, Piotr makes a noise of disapproval. “X-Men do not kill.”

“We’re not X-Men!” Wade reasons. “It’ll be fine!”

“I don’t know,” Neena says softly as she watches you closely. “I’m not getting a good feeling about this idea.”

You’re not sure when you started crying, but her sudden attention makes you realize that you’re shaking and that tears are trickling down your cheeks.

“Hey, hey, hey.” Wade crouches in front of you, smiling brightly even though panic is easy to see in his eyes. “It’s okay. We wouldn’t leave you out of it.”

Piotr sighs heavily. “Wade—”

“Hey, a little vengeance towards childhood abusers is very cleansing for the soul!”

“No,” you snap, scrubbing at your face –and then wince when you press against the cut by your eyebrow too hard. “No one’s doing anything. No arson, no killing, no threats, nothing!”

“What the shit? Are you listening to yourself right now?” Wade exclaims. “These are your parents, the people who beat you growing up and again within the past twenty-four hours, and you just want to –what—let them get away with it? The fuck kinda bullshit is that!”

“You can’t,” you sob, almost on the verge of hyperventilating. “You can’t –Wade, you can’t, you have to promise me—”

“Hey, hey.” Nate clasps your hand while shushing softly. “Deep breaths. No one’s going to do anything if you’re not okay with it.”

“Speak for yourself!”

Neena kicks Wade in the shin –albeit not too hard. “We’re trying to calm her down right now.”

“What do you think the arson is for?”

Piotr lets out a harsh exhale behind you. “Wade—”

“Everyone be quiet,” Alex interjects in a tone that brokers no arguing. She fixes Wade with a steely glare when he opens his mouth to argue anyway. “I said quiet. There is more going on here than you realize.”

Wade gives you a skeptical look. “What else could there possibly be? Your family situation is already entirely fucked.”

You sniff wetly and blow your nose into a Kleenex provided by Piotr, then give everyone watching you –which is the entire group at this point—a desperate, pleading look. “What I’m about to tell you cannot ever go any further, okay? Someone else’s life is at stake. I’m putting them at risk –and the rest of you, too—just by telling you all this.”

Everyone nods seriously –even Wade—and then it all comes tumbling out.

About your uncle. About the life he was forced into. About how he got out and has to stay under every radar conceivable to avoid being forced back into “government service.”

“If anything happens to my parents –or their property—that isn’t natural causes, the government drops a massive manhunt on his head,” you explain, voice thick with emotion. “It’s an agreement they made to keep him from taking me when I was a kid and to keep him from lashing out at them from all their bullshit.”

“Why haven’t they just dropped the bomb on him anyway?” Neena asks. “Your parents don’t exactly seem like the most rational, deal-honoring people anyway.”

“He warned them that if they did pull something like that, his first stop would be to come get me and ‘wipe all evidence of them from existence,’” you say. “I think they valued their own lives enough to keep from doing that.”

“Why not just take you and run anyway?” Mikhail pipes up, forehead creased with confusion and concern.

You purse your lips. “For all about him that’s great… he’s flawed. I don’t think he ever thought he’d be in a good position to take care of a kid –and, in all honesty, he wasn’t.”

“But he could have saved you,” Mikhail argues. “He could have gotten you out.”

“My uncle was just as abused as I am, if not more,” you say flatly. “He’s had his own demons to deal with –still deal with. And, at any rate, this isn’t about what he has or hasn’t done; this is about his present safety, and believe me when I say there is a very real threat staring him down.”

“We believe you,” Nate reassures you. “And we’re not going to do anything that’s going to put your uncle at risk.”

Wade holds up his hands defensively when you give him a pointed look. “I’ll behave! I promise!”

You heave a sigh of relief and lean back against Piotr. “Thanks, everyone.”

…

While you all finish eating, Nate, Alex, Neena, Piotr, and Frank work out how the rest of the travelling is going to go.

There’s no stopping for a hotel –or anything other than food, gas, and bathroom breaks, really. Even though you’re safely out of your parents’ clutches, the possibility of them chasing after you –along with who knows who else—still looms ominously like a black thunder cloud.

“We left the collar at the house,” Nate says while looking over some maps with Frank and Neena. “With any luck, they’ll think she got it off and escaped into the woods.”

“By unlocking the door from inside the room,” Frank says, voice heavy with doubt.

“I can unlock handcuffs with my powers,” you retort between massive bites of burger and fries. “And I used to take my bedroom door off its hinges to escape from my room. It’s not that much of a leap.”

Frank shrugs, looking equal parts impressed and irritated –though the latter, you’re certain, is directed at your parents. “If you say so.”

“If they come after us,” Nate says, stressing the first word for your sake. “You’re—” he points to Mikhail “—going to get her and get back to the Institute. We’ll be able to handle whatever they throw at us.”

You frown when Mikhail nods and look to your fiancé. “What about you?”

Piotr kisses your forehead. “I will be fine. My armor mutation will keep me safe.”

“Yeah, honey, but you’re official X-Men. You can’t be associated with a shoot-out in case something hits the news.”

“Grab both of them,” Nate tells Mikhail.

“Do I have to?” Mikhail mock-whines. “Mladshiy brat too heavy.”

Piotr rolls his eyes and says something in Russian, which Mikhail pulls a face at and replies in a short, irritated tone, and then the two of them tangent off into some sort of rapid-fire argument that leads to the two of them talking over each other—

“Stop it, both of you,” Alex admonishes them crisply. “This situation is serious. Act like it.”

“One of us is,” Piotr mutters under his breath.

“Trakhni tebya!”

“Enough.” Alex levels a serious, mildly annoyed look at Piotr. “Quit antagonizing.”

Mikhail laughs.

“That goes for you, too, Koroleva dramy.”

You squeeze Piotr’s hand when you catch him barely suppressing an annoyed grimace. “Be nice.”

Frank noisily balls up the wrapper his burger had come in, effectively distracting everyone away from the argument. “We should get moving again. Do we have a route picked out?”

Neena tosses him a map with a series of roads and highways highlighted. “I’m feeling good about this one.”

“Still lazy writing,” Wade grumbles under his breath.

Nate pats Wade on the shoulder before heading back to his seat. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

Once you’re buckled in, Piotr hands you a small container with some pills and a bottle of water. “Medication,” he explains when you give him a perplexed look. “Dr. McCoy wanted you to have meal before you took it.”

You quickly –gratefully—down one of the pills and follow it with a swig of water. “Thanks, babe.”

He produces another bottle with a few smaller looking pills in it. “Xanax. He instructed me to have you take one as well to help you sleep.”

You take one of the Xanax, chase it down with some water, and flop back in your seat with a sigh as Frank drives the car towards the nearest highway. “How long until we’re home?”

“About two days, give or take four hours,” Nate answers from the shotgun seat of the car.

You adjust yourself so you’re leaning against Piotr and close your eyes.

You may as well get some sleep in that time.

***

You wake up to the sun blasting your eyes –and ow, no, I didn’t need my retinas to be functional, just go right ahead and scorch them, you fucker. You blink hard, trying to get the little spots from accidentally staring at the bright, early morning light to fade from your field of vision, and stretch your back and sit up.

For a moment, you panic when you realize Piotr isn’t next to you –but Nathan is, napping, and if he’s still here then you’re still safe…

You let out a little sigh of relief when you see that Piotr’s in the driver’s seat, steering the car around a bend in the road. You lean forward –mashing your face against the back of his seat in the process—and gently squeeze his shoulders. “Hi.”

He lifts one hand off the wheel when he gets to another length of straight, open road and lovingly squeezes one of your hands. “Dobroye utro, myshka.”

You yawn and latch onto his shirt when he lets go of you so he has both hands on the steering wheel once more. “How long have you been awake?”

“Couple of hours. I switched off with Frank around four.”

Sure enough, Frank’s in the front passenger seat, completely dead to the world and snoring slightly.

“How much longer until we’re home?”

“I think we will reach halfway point later today, provided everything goes well.”

You grunt a little and turn your head so only your cheek’s pressing the back of his seat. “Can we get breakfast soon? I’m hungry.”

Piotr chuckles a little and pats your hand. “Da, dorogoy. We can get you breakfast soon.”

***

Breakfast comes in the form of a Panera Bread. You can only imagine how big the cashier’s eyes must’ve been when Neena and Piotr had gone in to place the order, judging by the three massive bags of food and multiple drink carriers they bring out, but fortunately the place is pretty dead since it’s still early in the morning.

You all eat in the parking lot, car doors open to let in fresh air and facilitate easy conversation.

“We should refuel soon,” Frank says, voice still gravelly –well, more than usual—from sleep. “And stock up on some supplies and coffee.”

“You ordered three large black coffees for breakfast,” Neena remarks, disbelieving. “What are you going to need more coffee for?”

“He doesn’t just punish criminals and jackasses,” Wade quips. “He also likes to punish his cardiovascular system by scouring it with mass amounts of caffeine.”

Frank just rolls his eyes and flips Wade off.

Alex groans as she works a brush through her hair. “I will be glad to not sleep in car soon. I am too old for this.”

“I can take you back,” Mikhail offers, a worried frown tugging at his lips.

Alex merely shakes her head, though. “I would rather be present in case something goes wrong.”

“We’ve made some good progress,” Nate says as he works on polishing off a breakfast sandwich. “If we were going to see them, it would’ve been last night, either at the house or when we stopped to treat her injuries.”

“Doesn’t mean they’re not following behind us,” Frank adds darkly. “Best to stop as little as we have to.”

***

The two SUVs stop at a gas station fifteen minutes later.

Nate eyes the meter critically as the beast of a car continues guzzling down fuel. “And people say climate change is a myth.”

The eight of you head into the gas station two at a time to freshen up in the bathroom and get whatever snacks and drinks you might want, while everyone else keeps an eye on the road for any signs of trouble.

Mikhail comes out with two bags full of Monster and Red Bull.

“Nyet,” Piotr says before you can even muster up so much as a hopeful look. He points at the bags his brother’s carrying. “Keep those in other car.”

“Do you mind if I ride in the front while he drives?” you ask Frank when he comes out from his trip to the gas station, nodding at Piotr while you speak.

Frank shrugs. “Sure. I can sleep in the back.”

“You should rest, myshka,” Piotr says as he kisses the top of your head.

“Yeah, but I want to rest next to you,” you explain. “And hold your hand.”

He chuckles and hugs you gently before ushering you towards the front passenger seat. “I suppose that is reasonable.”

***

For the first time in your life, you don’t mind the monotony of car travel.

You can keep track of how much time is passing, you’re close to Piotr the entire time, you have access to water and good tasting food, and you’re able to talk to the people you love most (other than Piotr) basically whenever you want.

The only real downside is that Frank listens to Bruce Springsteen on repeat whenever he’s driving –during the day that is, he’s not enough of an asshole to play it at night—but even that’s tolerable compared to your past few days in hell on earth.

Piotr sticks close to you throughout it all. If he’s driving, you’re in the front passenger seat next to him. If you’re in the back, he’s sitting in the seat next to yours. If you head into a gas station to use the restroom, he’s the one that heads in with you. Wherever you eat –usually in the car, but sometimes leaning against the side or the hood so you can stretch your legs—he’s right next to you.

You’re both equally clingy to each other, really. On some level, you know the considerate thing to do would be dial it back so you don’t annoy everyone else –but, on the other hand, you spent four days being held and tormented by your parents and thought that everyone you’d ever met outside of your childhood community might’ve never existed to begin with. If anything, you’ve earned a little PDA.

(Besides, it’s not like anyone’s complaining or pulling faces.)

“I thought you didn’t exist,” you murmur quietly one night, while Nate’s driving and Frank’s co-piloting for him. You’re in the back with Piotr, nestled against his chest and snuggled up in his jacket. “I thought I’d made you up –that I’d made everything up.”

Piotr holds you tight, cradling you in his arms as he kisses the top of your head. “I will always find you, myshka,” he promises in an equally quiet voice. “You will never have to wake up alone again.”

***

The two SUVs finally reach the X-Mansion around three in the afternoon, a little over two days after your rescue.

Your uncle’s waiting in the garage for you, pacing nervously and generally looking like a wreck.

“And I thought I was the one that was kidnapped and held prisoner,” you remark as you watch him stare down the cars, like he can make them park and turn off faster if he keeps his eyes on them through the whole process.

“He was pretty cut up when you went missing,” Nate says from the backseat. “Flew here in twelve hours when Xavier contacted him with the news.”

“Holy shit,” you mutter under your breath as Piotr finishes parking the car and turns the engine off. You unbuckle your seatbelt and get out of the SUV as quickly as you can—

Your uncle’s still quicker. He practically lifts you out of your seat and into a crushing hug, sobbing brokenly as he holds you.

Which makes you start crying. You’re surprised your tear ducts have anything left to offer after all the crying you’ve done over the past couple days.

“I’m so sorry!” he gasps between sobs as he clutches you tighter and tighter. “I’m so sorry, punk; I’m so, so sorry!”

You hold onto him just as fiercely. “It’s okay; it’s not your fault, it was never your fault…”

The two of you collapse to the cement floor of the garage in a discombobulated heap, weeping and clinging to each other like it’s all that either of you can do.

And, given the depth of everything that’s happened, it just might be.

Piotr, Alex, and Nate help the two of you stand, steadying you both until you’re each calm enough to stay upright on your own power.

Your uncle cups your face his hands, jaw trembling with rage as he looks you over. “What did they do to you? What did they do –I’m gonna fucking murder them!”

Alex shushes your uncle, quickly stepping between the two of you as he starts shaking again. “Deep breaths.”

“Don’t you fucking ‘deep breaths’ me!”

“She needs you calm,” Alex fires back, pointing at you.

Which you don’t think is the whole truth; of the two of you, you’re miles calmer than your uncle (that would be the Xanax, thank you modern pharmaceutics).

But he needs to calm down. And if thinking he’s helping you is the bridge that gets him there, so be it.

You offer your uncle a watery smile when he looks at you. “Honestly, all I really want is to go inside, take a shower, and nap in a real bed.”

That ekes a ghost of a snort out of your uncle. He takes a deep breath, then nods. “Yeah. Probably a good idea. Easier to bathe in water than in deodorant.”

You snicker. “You’re telling me.”

You’re ushered into the house by your uncle and your rescue group. Piotr stays by your side the whole way, holding your hand reassuringly as you step through the back door and into the kitchen—

And there’s Russell, Yukio, Ellie, Illyana, Kitty, Nikolai, and Karen, all waiting for you with varying looks of worry and anticipation.

Russell, Yukio, and Ellie all swarm you at once. It takes a bit of work figuring out how to hug all three of them at once, and it makes your ribs sting like a bitch, but you don’t care. You’re overjoyed to see them; you’ve missed their energy and company fiercely during all of this.

Illyana and Kitty go next –though they have a little more self-control and opt to go one at a time, sparing your ribs from an extra squeezing.

Illyana holds onto you for a surprisingly long amount of time. When she lets go, her eyes are watery enough that her usually impeccable eyeliner has started running.

“Was very worried about you,” she manages, voice wobbly with emotion when you ask her what’s wrong. “And for medvezhonok. Very distraught while you disappear.” She smiles at you, genuine and bright despite the tears in her eyes. “I am glad you are home.”

You have to hug her again after that.

Nikolai’s hug almost makes you cry (again). It’s so gentle and nurturing, and in direct comparison to the past few days –save for being rescued—it’s an outright shock to your system. “We are all glad you come home, malen'kaya ptitsa,” he says before placing a gentle, fatherly kiss against the top of your head.

If you sniffle a little when you step back and wipe a few tears from your eyes, no one mentions it. “I’m glad to be back.” You turn—

And then it’s just Karen left.

She grimaces when she sees you. “You look rougher than you did that one time when Frank brought you by my apartment.”

“Hey, at least I didn’t bleed on your couch this time.” You mentally flounder for a moment, then shrug at her. “You want a hug, too?”

Karen chuckles –along with everyone else—and shrugs back. “Why not? Hugs are good.” Your hug with her is briefer than your hugs with everyone else, but she does clasp your shoulder when it ends. “Your dad sent me the pictures he took of your injuries and a basic rundown of how they found you. I showed them to the law firm I moonlight for –they’re willing to represent you, if you’re interested.”

Granted, you’d rather not have anything to do with your parents ever again, but knowing what your legal options are wouldn’t be a half bad idea.

First things first, though.

“Can I, like, at least take a shower and a nap first?” you ask.

Karen smiles and nods. “Yeah, definitely do those first. I’ll let them know you’re interested in working with us?”

You nod after a moment of thought. “Yeah. I’m interested.”

***

Before either a shower or a nap, though, comes a thorough medical examination and healing session. Vitals, x-rays, bloodwork, the whole nine yards and a few extra for good measure.

Hank takes some higher quality pictures of your injuries and documents your medical status for your meeting with your new lawyers, then sends you off to one of the healers so you don’t have to treat yourself like the most delicate, frail china doll until everything heals.

“Alyssa and Professor Xavier want to do a session with you,” he informs you before sending you to one of the healers. “To make sure no irreversible damage has been done from going off your meds and being held captive.”

“Define ‘irreversible,’” you sigh as you rub your neck.

Hank flashes you a pained smile. “I know. But better to take all the steps than cut corners. Especially with situations like this.” He waves you along when you go quiet. “Go on. Go get healed up. That should help you feel better.”

***

The healing session does help –but honestly, all you want now is a shower and a proper bed.

Which is exactly what you get for yourself. Once the session is done, you head straight for the room you share with Piotr, beeline for the bathroom, and make yourself a nice, steaming shower.

Ah, just mildly scalding, you think as you step under the cascade of water. Perfect.

The warm water feels like heaven. You can feel your muscles relaxing under the soothing spray, and you waste no time washing your hair and scrubbing yourself down.

The first shower after a healing session is always a little weird. You know you were injured –you can still feel dull pain in your ribs and the stress your body went through from coping with the injuries—but seeing completely smooth, unmarred skin in contrast to all of that always makes you feel like you’re having a bit of an out-of-body experience.

Your fingers automatically lift to your brow. There’s not so much as a fine line scar left from where your mother kicked you, let alone the scabby, crusty mess that had been there only fifteen minutes ago.

You’re not sure whether it’s a blessing or a curse to have everything erased like this. On one hand, you definitely don’t want to bear the proof of your parents’ hatred towards you for the rest of your life. On the other hand, if you don’t have any proof at all, does that mean you didn’t even suffer? It could’ve all just been a nightmare, or a horrid hallucination your psychosis cooked up—

You groan and scrub your face with your hands. I need to sleep.

Piotr joins you halfway through your shower. It takes him considerably less time to scrub down than it does for you, so he spends most of his time caressing your body and planting kisses along your jawline and neck.

By the time the shower’s over, you’re wound up in an entirely different way.

The two of you dry each other off –which really means that you spend more time kissing and groping each other than you do actually drying each other off.

You moan softly as Piotr runs his tongue over the spot where your neck and jaw meet. “Take me to bed, baby.” You sigh happily when he complies, looping your arms around his neck as he picks you up and carries you out of the bathroom.

You’re home.

***

“How are you doing?”

You let out a harsh bark of laughter. “How the fuck doing you think I’m doing?”

The corner of Alyssa’s mouth turns up in a smile. “Probably like shit.”

You snort, then nod. “That’s not far off the mark.” You sigh heavily. “I’m happy to be home.”

“But?”

You shrink back into the couch in your therapist’s office, picking at the hem of your shirt. “I’m scared.”

“That it’s not real,” Alyssa supplies when you don’t volunteer any other information. “Your dad mentioned that you said something about thinking none of this was real when he rescued you.”

Your jaw clenches as the moment you saw your mother’s face for the first time in over two years flashes through your mind’s eye over and over again. “I just… I saw her face, and I felt like I’d been hit by a truck.”

“That’s not an uncommon reaction. Interacting with abusers puts our systems through a great deal of stress.”

You swallow hard, staring out the window as everything that followed that moment flashes through your head at dizzying speed. “It was like… everything I thought I knew uprooted in that moment. And I thought… ‘what if I made everything up? What if I’m a delusional maniac?’”

“What makes you think you’re delusional?” Alyssa asks, clasping her hands in her lap as she studies you.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Just… I’m afraid that none of this is real, and that I’ve been with my parents this whole time.” You look over at her. “I could be delusional. It’s possible.”

“Delusional people don't question whether or not they're delusional,” Alyssa says calmly. “They hold their beliefs with total conviction, regardless of whatever evidence is presented. The fact that you're questioning your experience is symptomatic of your anxiety and depression, not because of a delusion.”

“But it is possible!” you insist, gesturing with your hands in short, agitated motions as your anxiety spikes. “It technically is! People cope with abuse in all sorts of ways! Delusions can be one of those ways!”

“Yes, they do, and yes, it is, but that’s not the case with you,” Alyssa fires back. “In order to construct an alternate reality, you would have to be severely schizophrenic. Delusions can be a subset of schizophrenia, but they're about beliefs and obsessions, not constructing locations, people that have never been met, seen, or heard of, or interactions with those people. The latter would fall into the category of hallucinations. What you’re describing to me isn’t within the limitations of a delusion.”

“Then maybe I’m schizophrenic!” you exclaim.

“You’re not,” Alyssa says evenly. “You don’t exhibit any of the symptoms of schizophrenia. And, if you were, your interactions with your alternate reality would not be as linear as anything you’re experiencing now.” She cocks her head to the side as she looks at you. “Why do you keep looking for reasons why this might not be real?”

“I have to. I have to make sure that everything’s real.”

“Why? What’s the worst thing that happens if none of this is real?”

You draw in a shaky breath as you rip at your shirt’s hemline. “Because if none of this is real, that means I was always with my parents, and no one ever loved me.” You freeze, full body, as what you just say registers, then slump over against the arm of the couch and start crying.

“There it is,” Alyssa says softly as she pulls a couple tissues out of the box on the table next to her chair and hands them to you. “Not delusional. Just scared of not being loved.”

“But what if it is?” you whimper. “What if no one really loves me?”

“It’s not a delusion, honey, I promise. Your questioning reality was a side effect of heightened anxiety due to withdrawals, that’s all. This is all real, and you’re really loved.” She hands you a few more tissues. “Your parents were working very hard to destabilize you, even if they didn't know you were on medication. They took away your ability to track time, any personal effects, had almost complete control over your schedule. When you got back to being in control of yourself and back on your medication, you stabilized. People with delusions don't stabilize when interacting with the delusion. You've stabilized due to being out of a stressful environment and getting back onto medication.”

You grit your teeth as you wipe your cheeks dry with a balled-up tissue. “I hate them. I hate them so much.”

“I know, honey. And they’ve definitely earned it. Just make sure you don’t stay there,” Alyssa encourages you, smiling softly as she looks you in the eye. “Because you don’t deserve having to give them all that energy and effort when they never did that for you.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure how fast the whole ‘moving on’ thing is gonna go,” you grumble as you start shredding your wadded up, damp tissue.

“Fast doesn’t matter,” Alyssa reassures you. “Just as long as you’re moving.”

***

Franklin “Foggy” Nelson and Matthew Murdock are nothing like what you expect.

Though that may largely have to do with the cheery “Hiya, Red!” Wade tosses Matt’s way as soon as the man walks through the front door to the Institute, which makes Matt pull a face like he’s about to shit his pants so hard he’s gonna rip the seams.

Granted, things aren’t necessarily much improved by Frank following them through the door –presumably to make sure Karen stays safe in case things blow back with your parents somehow—

Except Matt turns towards him and growls, “You didn’t say Wilson was going to be here.”

Which leads the grand revelation that one of your lawyers is actually Daredevil, one of Hell’s Kitchen’s leading vigilantes and a staunch rival of sorts with both Frank and Wade.

…Honestly, it’s not the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to you.

***

“I’ll be honest, Miss L/N,” Foggy says once the whole “Matt is Daredevil” kerfuffle is settled and the five of you –Matt, Foggy, Karen, you, and Piotr, who agreed to sit in when you asked him to—finally have a chance to sit down. “Given the severity of your abuse case, I’m a little surprised you haven’t already taken steps to issue a restraining order against your parents. You have more than enough grounds for it. Heck, you have enough grounds to take them to criminal court –and win.”

“I’m not interested in having a day in court,” you say quietly. “I just never want to see them again.”

“Understandable, given the tragic circumstances of your upbringing,” Matt says, tone perfectly sympathetic; he’s clearly had a great deal of practice with this. “A restraining order, however, would go a long way towards making sure that could happen.”

“We’d work with the authorities and whatever legal support your parents might have,” Karen adds, notepad settled on her lap and pen poised to start taking notes at any moment. “And, given the severity of the abuse you’ve suffered, we could represent your interests along with someone that you give power of attorney. You could be as removed from the situation as you want.”

Piotr’s hand closes around yours when you don’t say anything, thumb tracing delicate circles against your skin. “It may be worth considering.”

Matt tilts his head for a moment, a slight frown tugging at his lips. “Is there a specific reason why you never issued a restraining order against your parents, Miss L/N?”

Right, you think dejectedly. He’s Daredevil. He can hear my heartbeat. “You think I’m lying.”

“No—”

“You think I’m hiding something, then.”

Matt’s mouth hangs open for a moment, then slowly closes shut.

You swallow hard and look away as tears threaten to spill. “It’s a complicated situation.”

“We work with complicated situations all the time,” Foggy reassures you. “The more open and honest you are with us, the better we can help you.”

“This isn’t just for you,” Matt tacks on. “Restraining orders can also be used to protect whatever children you may choose to have in the future. Even if you don’t want it for you, it may be worth the peace of mind for your future self, to know that your parents can’t get anywhere near your offspring.”

And that does make the whole idea a lot more tempting. Matt’s right that you really don’t care about yourself in all this, but you wouldn’t wish your parents upon your future kids in a thousand years.

You also know you can’t rain hellfire down on someone’s life without even consulting them first.

“Would you mind if I took a few minutes?” you ask, desperately trying to keep your voice steady. “There’s, uh, someone I need to talk to.”

Matt nods. “Take all the time you need.”

You’re not sure if he’s being nice, or if he doesn’t mind because he’s paid by the hour and you’re still technically using his time.

“We’ll be here when you come back,” Karen says with a reassuring smile. “In the meantime, Mr. Rasputin, perhaps we can get started on asking you some questions about your relationship with Y/N, how much you know about her history, that sort of thing?”

Piotr nods when you nod, squeezing your hand before letting it go. “Of course. Whatever I can help with.”

You quickly step out of the classroom the five of you had settled in, then all but run down the hall and towards the residential side of the mansion.

You need to find your uncle.

***

He lets out a low whistle. “Restraining order. That’s some serious shit.”

The two of you are seated in the gazebo towards the back of Xavier’s property. The skies have decided to cast a relentless downpour on the world beneath them, drenching everything within their reach and making mini-swamps out of various patches of the lawns that encircle the mansion.

The space under the gazebo is dry, though, and the rain is loud enough that you don’t have to worry about anyone overhearing you, and the spot is far enough removed from the house that the telepaths that could pick up what you’re talking about will be able to infer by the distance that the conversation you’re having is deliberately private.

“It’d be good for my future kids,” you comment as you watch little streams of water drip off the edges of the gazebo’s roof. “Honestly, it’d probably be good to do more than just a restraining order, make sure that my parents are completely locked out of everything.”

“Damn right it would,” your uncle agrees with a nod. He glances over at you. “So what’s stopping you?”

You sigh heavily. “They’d probably rat you out to try and get me to stop the proceedings. Or just rat you out to spite me.”

“Oh, there’s no doubt about that,” you uncle says immediately. “The second you do anything to actually shut them out, your mom’s going to throw an absolute shitfit. I know for a fact that the only reason they didn’t turn on me sooner is because, legally, the government couldn’t do anything to force you to go back home to them.”

You frown. “Wait, how can you know that?”

Your uncle flashes you a pained smile. “Who do you think supplied them with the repression serum? Or the collar? Or built the holding cell you were in? Sure as shit wasn’t me, punk.”

Your blood runs cold. “Why?”

“Probably wanted another agent,” your uncle says, entirely too blasé about the whole thing for your comfort. “They knew I was around, they just didn’t know where to find me.”

“Then why not get rid of me?”

“Because getting rid of you would make your mom a ‘bad mother.’”

You scoff, fists clenching against your thighs. “And kicking me in the face doesn’t?”

“Spare the rod, spoil the child. No, I figure once you turned eighteen, they would’ve shipped you off and claimed you were at college or working or what have you.” He grimaces, eyes going flat and dark. “You are lucky you chose to run when you did.”

You swallow hard, trying to stay calm despite the rage bubbling up inside you. “Then why keep kidnapping me? What’s the fucking point of it? They don’t want me, I’m out of their hair, what do they get by dragging me back to a place I never wanted to be from the get go?”

Your uncle shrugs. “Could be the government ordered them to track you down so they’d have better tabs on their ‘potential asset.’ Could be that they just wanted to keep control over you. Honestly, I’m not sure –and I don’t really care to know, either. I stopped trying to figure out your parents’ fucked up cognitions a long time ago. But we’re not talking about them. We’re talking about you getting your parents out of your life.”

“I mean…” You scrub your face with your hands and let out a frustrated groan. “I’m not sure what I can really do. If they’ve got government backing—”

“You let me and the other people in your life worry about that,” your uncle says firmly. “You’ve got more than enough mercenaries and vigilantes in your pocket. If someone tries to fuck any of this up, they’ll get their ass handed to them in short order.”

“But what about you?” you fire back, finally pointing out the elephant in the room. “If I go through with all this, your former handlers are going to start a manhunt for you.”

Your uncle considers that for a moment before shrugging. “Not my first time I’ve had to run. I can always do it again.”

“No! That’s not fair to you!”

“You’re right, it isn’t, but that’s not your fault. I was dealt this hand a long time before you ever showed up,” your uncle says, eyes shining as he smiles at you. “Don’t put your life on hold for me, punk. You deserve to live it without having to deal with your parents. I’ll be fine.”

You hug him, wrapping your arms around his waist as you start crying. “What about your house?”

“I’ll clear it out and burn it. Give them a good ol’ ‘fuck you’ before I duck under.”

You frown. “But… you won’t have anywhere to go once everything settles.”

“Eh, I’ve been thinking about relocating for a while now,” he comments casually as he stares out at the rain. “Maybe… somewhere closer to New York.”

You look up at him, disbelieving. “Really?”

He grins and hugs you closer. “Yeah, really. I miss you when you’re gone, punk. And…” He sighs. “I’m tired of being on my own so much.”

You gasp, feigning shock. “Are you… admitting you feel emotions?”

Your uncle snorts. “Don’t get used to it.”

The two of you sit in silence for a moment, listening to the rain fall and watching it wash away the sins of the earth.

“I might need you to answer some questions for my lawyers,” you finally say. “Just so they know what’s all going on.”

Your uncle pats your shoulder. “Whatever you need, punk. Whatever you need.”

***

Matt, Foggy, and Karen take your uncle’s status in remarkable stride –which, considering that Matt is Daredevil, Karen unearths some sort of mob or government conspiracy every other week, and Foggy is constantly looped into the two’s insatiable drive to get into as much shit as possible, isn’t all that surprising, actually.

Your uncle does help confirm everything you’ve said –and everyone else, for that matter—about your parents. Even if he can’t testify, he can tell the three of them where to look for various details to confirm your version of events.

“Given your medical and therapy records, we have what basically constitutes an ‘open and shut’ case,” Foggy says during one of your sessions with them. You’d opted to meet at their office, which is attached to a deli and butcher’s shop run by Foggy’s family. “Even this doesn’t get taken this to criminal court, getting a restraining order should be easy. I can’t imagine there’d be a judge in New York that’d deny it.”

“Well, maybe one or two, but they’re in prison now,” Matt adds with a small smile.

Piotr squeezes your hand gently when you don’t react to either lawyer’s statements. “Are you alright, myshka?”

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Just… it’s a lot to wrap my head around.”

“Why not start with an ex parte order?” Karen suggests. “That’ll make sure you’re immediately protected, and then we can work with the judge to get a long-term order in place. Once that’s done, we can look at your file and work on anything else you might want to get set up to safeguard yourself against your parents.”

You nod sluggishly. “Yeah, just… can I have a night to sleep on it? I’m still trying to recover from everything.”

“Absolutely,” Matt says immediately. “You’ve been through a great deal of trauma, Miss L/N. It’s understandable that you’d want to take time to think about everything.”

You know he means to sound sympathetic and understanding, but right now it just sounds coddling. All you want to do is go home, crawl into bed, and sleep for a thousand years.

Piotr makes good-byes for both of you as you head out of the office and towards Piotr’s car. He catches up with you quickly, gently lifting you up from where you’d slumped against the car door so he can open it for you. “Are you well, myshka?”

“Yeah,” you murmur as you plop into your seat. “Just really tired. Can we go home?”

Piotr bends down, ducking under the roof of the car so he can kiss your temple. “Da.”

“And can we snuggle?”

He stops mid-way in closing the car door to give you a loving smile. “Konechno. Whatever you would like.”

***

Once the two of you get back home, Piotr lifts you out of the car and carries you all the way upstairs to the room the two of you share. He gently tucks you in bed before slipping his shoes off and climbing in on his side.

You wriggle over to him, nestling against his chest as he wraps his arms around you. “I’m so tired.”

“I know,” he murmurs as he kisses the top of your head. “It is okay. You are allowed to be tired.”

You trace your fingers over the planes of his chest in swirling, nonsensical shapes. “I just… I don’t know how to feel about it. The restraining order.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know. I guess… it feels like I’m not allowed to do it.”

“Because of your uncle?”

“That, but also… I spent my childhood trying to figure out how to be a good daughter. I feel like if I lock my parents out, they’re never going to love me.”

Piotr stays quiet for a moment, before hugging you tighter and trailing kisses from the top of your forehead to your lips. “Perhaps you are right. But, I would say you have so many people here that love you. People who you do not have to prove yourself to. And I think it would be worth peace of mind to not have your parents looming over your shoulder so much. Especially when we start having children.”

And that’s the kicker of it, in the end.

Besides, Piotr’s right. You do have a wonderful family and life here at Xavier’s; everything’s improved for the better since leaving your parents and hometown community. No sense in fucking that up by leaving things to chance –especially once kids come into the picture.

“Okay,” you decide, pressing your forehead against your fiancé’s chest. “I’ll do the restraining order.”

***

You’re still extremely fatigued and weak the next morning, and Piotr deems you too unwell to travel (not that you’re complaining, because hello pajama day). He calls in to the law firm of Nelson, Murdock, and Page and lets them know –and as luck would have it, they’re in a position to make a house call since all you’re doing today is signing paperwork.

Frank also shows up. Whether it’s of his own reasons or he’s tagging along with your legal team, you neither know or care. He pretty much pairs off with Nathan and Wade as soon as he steps over the threshold into the house, talking with the two fellow assassins in hushed tones about who knows what –the latest style of bullets, maybe, or the most efficient ways to clean a gun.

(What do assassins talk about over lunch, anyway?)

You set up shop in the dining room with Piotr and your lawyers. Piotr’s family and your uncle are a few feet away in the kitchen, and further back are Nate, Wade, and Frank, still enraptured in whatever conversation they’re having.

“Alright,” Foggy says as he pulls a sheaf of paperwork out of his briefcase. “This is going to look like a lot, but it’s really just a bunch of reading and signing. Some of these are just waivers giving us permission to act in certain capacities –to use your medical records and therapy records as evidence in the courts, to act on your behalf without you being there in our capacity as your attorneys, stuff like that—some of these are forms that basically just say you understand, to your best ability, that you’re telling the truth, and some of these are also your permissive relief requests.”

You stare down at the papers like they’re liable to catch fire at any given moment. “And then?”

“Then, an emergency protective order goes into effect,” Karen says. “The emergency protective order only lasts a few days, but in that time we’ll request the ex-parte order to extend the time while we work through the litigation. Once we get through the process of establishing the long-term restraining order, it’ll be issued.”

You take a deep breath and nod slowly. “And then?”

“Given the severity of your case, we’re going to push for the longest term possible,” Matt explains with a small smile, “which is about five years. You’ll have to renew it at those intervals, but given the amount of evidence that supports your side of the story, it shouldn’t be difficult.”

Piotr puts an arm around your shoulders when you start shaking. “Are you okay?”

“Just… feel like the world’s going to explode,” you murmur as you try to breathe evenly. “Or… that they’re never really going to love me again.” You hide your face against his shoulder as tears start leaking out.

Karen produces some tissues from her purse and hands them over to Piotr. “I know this isn’t easy…”

Normally, you’d snap at anyone who dared to issue that phrase while you’re dealing with family shit, but something about the sincerity in Karen’s voice makes you believe that, somewhere along the way, she’s gone through the same kind of shit that you have.

You lift your head and meet her gaze.

Her eyes are just as watery as yours. “Letting go of people who were supposed to love you but don’t is never an easy thing to do. It hurts, and it sucks, and it forces you to go through so much grieving that life just doesn’t prepare us for. But you deserve to have peace of mind in your day to day life. You deserve to never go through again what you went through two weeks ago.”

You sniff, inhale deeply, then nod. “Okay. Just… uh… do we have to go in any order?”

“Nope,” Foggy says with a kind smile. “Just so long as everything gets signed.”

“Okay.” You take another deep breath, then nod to yourself. “Okay. Let’s do this shit.”

***

It’s so much paper. The top of the dining room table has disappeared under all the papers you have to sign. At least twenty forests must’ve died for all this paper to be here.

Also, you’ve officially hit the point where you’re questioning whether or not you know your own signature or not. Just looking at the black scrawl of ink makes you go a little cross-eyed.

“Alright, almost done,” Foggy says as he preps the next form for you to sign while Karen organizes everything and gets them tucked back in his briefcase. “We just have your permissive protections request left and the form that lets us act in your capacity as attorneys.”

“Thank fuck,” you mutter as you reach for the permissive protections request. “Is it possible to get carpal tunnel syndrome in less than a day?”

“I did it once!” Wade calls from the kitchen.

“I don’t even want to know how you managed that,” you fire back as you sign and initial the various spots on the form and hand it over to Karen. “Alright, last one.”

Matt stiffens in his seat before Foggy can hand it over to you, though. “Someone’s coming to the door. Several someones.”

Everyone freezes –and, sure enough, a couple seconds later there’s a series of raps on the front door.

You can hear Russell get up from the rec room and head towards the door, and then the door swinging open—

And past that, you can’t necessarily hear the conversation, but Matt’s hackles basically go up, which makes you tense further—

“Wade!” There’s a brief sound of struggle, and the Russell books it towards the kitchen. “Wade, Y/N’s parents are here with a bunch of other guys!”

Your blood runs cold, then white hot. If they hurt him, if they fucking hurt him…

Piotr tries to grab you when you jump up from your chair. “Myshka, stop—”

Your uncle reacts at the same time, immediately lunging in the direction of the front door. “Fucking assholes—”

Alex and Nikolai catch him, and Frank wraps his arms around his waist and hauls him back and out of sight for good measure.

You manage to slip past everyone in the chaos caused by your uncle’s attempt, charging down the hall towards Russell’s panicked voice. You can hear Piotr behind you, along with Wade, but you can’t think about either of them right now. All you can think about is Russell, and making sure no one hurts him, and if they hurt him, I’m going to kill every last one of them with my bare hands.

You nearly collide with the younger teen, but push him behind you and snarl directly in the face of your town’s pastor. “Get the fuck out!”

He –along with your parents and several of the men from your community—recoil in the face of your rage and the gust of wind that blasts through the hall.

Hit a dog long enough…

Your mother recovers first, scowling at you as she advances on you. “You disobedient, disrespectful—”

Piotr bursts into the hall, physically putting himself between you and everyone else before anyone can do anything. He glares down at your mother, drawing himself up to his full, massive height and balling his fists at his side. “Do not dare touch my fiancée.”

You mother blinks, shocked. “You actually proposed to her?”

“You took my fucking ring off me!” you snap, pointing at the hand in question.

“I thought it was fake!”

Of course she did. The whole time she told you –and everyone else told you—that no one would ever love you, and they actually believed it themselves.

Fuckers.

“Everyone, please,” your town’s pastor says above the chaos and all the shouting. “We don’t want to cause a scene or a problem.”

“Oh, I think you’ve already fucking done that,” Wade says, voice deadly, as he steps up to stand next to Piotr.

“You’ve been doing that for years,” Nate adds, gun clearly visible on his belt, as he steps between you, Russell, and everyone else.

“We’re not here because we have a problem with any of you,” your town’s pastor continues. “We’re just here to take Y/N back home, where she belongs.”

You stare at him like he’s the one growing a second head. “What?”

“We’re concerned about your spiritual well-being,” he says, like that’s applicable to the situation in any way, shape, or form.

You sputter at him, outraged. “What the –fuck your religion!”

“You mind your mouth!” your mother snarls. “And you’re coming back home with us!”

“The fuck I’m not!” you shout back. “I’m an adult! You can’t make me go anywhere if I don’t want to!”

“The daughter’s place is under her father’s headship until she is married,” your pastor says, desperately trying to keep some semblance of control over the situation. “It would be most appropriate for you to return home until you’re married to ensure your sexual and spiritual purity.”

“Now, we don’t have time to unpack all that,” Wade mutters under his breath as he flashes a none-too-subtle ‘cuckoo’ gesture at you.

You just stare at the pastor, agape and eyes wide. “What the… what?”

“I know this may seem shocking—”

“They beat me!” you shriek, pointing at your parents. “They locked me in my room for days on end! They told me they hated me, that no one would ever love me, that I was an abomination!” You narrow your eyes when your pastor blanches, the chill of realization settling hard in your stomach. “You knew. You knew all of it was wrong. Just like you know that this is wrong! You let it all happen!”

He grimaces, but ultimately says nothing.

“Doesn’t matter,” your father growls flatly. “You’re not shaming my name by dallying about like some whore. You’re coming home. Today.”

You can’t even wrap your head around it. You’re staring in the face of people who know what they did to you, on some level, was wrong, but all they care about is taking you back to the environment where it all happened and will keep happening. Like they don’t care about your well-being, or what makes you happy, or about how much progress you’ve made since coming to Xavier’s—

I can’t make them care.

The penny drops right as you’re on the verge of tears. You can’t make them care about you. You can’t make them love you. Every single person you’re facing down –your parents included—decided a long time ago that you weren’t worth loving or respecting. No amount of arguing, pleading, or proof to the contrary is going to make them change their minds because there’s so much guilt on their shoulders –emotional or legal, though it should be both—that if they ever pulled their heads out of their asses, their necks would snap from the weight of it all.

And, amid all the pain the revelation causes, a single thought rises above all the emotional chaos: I can’t keep giving them my energy.

As much as it hurts to admit, it’s a useless fight. And as much as you want them to love you, they’re, at their cores, not people that are healthy to be loved by. You’d have to change every single thing about you –including things that can’t be changed—for them to ever love you.

And they don’t deserve that, least of all from you.

You look over your shoulder and see Foggy, Karen, and Matt all looking at you –well, Matt isn’t, but you know he’s focused on you and the fight unfolding in front of you.

Karen raises her eyebrows at you and holds up the form that lets them act as your attorneys without your presence and a pen.

An offer. A ladder out of the hell you were born to and raised in. A way to close the door once and for all.

It’s about time you take it.

“You know what?” you say, almost laughing from the sheer ridiculousness of it all. “I’m done with all of you.”

“And just what does that mean?” your mother says with a roll of her eyes.

You look back to Foggy, Matt, and Karen one more time before glancing over to your mother. “It means you’re dealing with my attorneys from here on out.” You turn and walk towards the trio, ignoring the squawks of protest the group from your hometown lets out.

As soon as you sign the form, they step past you and between Piotr, Wade, Nate, and everyone that’d joined your parents. “We represent the law firm of Nelson, Murdock, and Page,” Foggy says brightly. “And we’re here to inform you that you are currently violating an order of protection that was issued for our client’s safety against you.”

“The local authorities have been contacted and are on their way to arrest you for violating the order, in addition to charges of domestic abuse and conspiracy to commit abduction,” Matt adds.

“You fucking bitch!” your mother screams, lunging forward at you only to be stopped by Matt and Foggy. “You can’t do this!”

“Miss L/N,” Matt says, turning towards you. “For the sake of your emotional well-being, I would advise you to leave the room. Mr. Rasputin, perhaps you could accompany her for her comfort?”

“He needs to be here to represent the Institute,” you say, suddenly drained from the whole ordeal.

“I’ll go with her,” Wade offers, stepping back to clasp your shoulder. “Come on, sis.”

You put an arm around Russell’s shoulders. “Let’s go, bud. We’re done with them.”

Back in the kitchen –and out of sight of your parents and everyone else—Alex, Nikolai, and Frank are still holding your uncle back.

He relaxes once you cross the threshold and step out of sight of the hall. “Are you okay? What happened?”

You sigh, then shrug. “I decided to let my attorneys handle the situation.”

Your uncle stares at you, then smiles as tears well up in his eyes. “Good. Good job, punk.”

You try to smile back, but ultimately start crying.

He reaches over and pulls you into a massive hug.

The two of you stay like that for a while, holding each other while tears flow down each of your faces.

***

The whole process of your parents –and everyone else that decided to show up with them—being arrested is exhausting.

There’s a lot of screaming. A lot of arguing. A lot of insults –those are mostly directed at you, even though you aren’t in the room.

Frank and your uncle have to duck into the basement to avoid being seen by any of the officers –which Wade makes a “alternative seven minutes in heaven” comment about that makes you smile briefly, but you’re honestly too tired to really do anything except stare at a wall right now.

Piotr has to talk to the officers as a representative of the Institute, which means that you can’t just drape yourself over him like you want to and soak in his affection and love for you.

The only upside is that Matt, Foggy, and Karen can speak to the police on your behalf. Right now, you’re not sure you could handle dealing with all the questions you’re bound to be asked.

Eventually, Alex walks up to your seat and squeezes your shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go for walk.”

You frown up at her. “Don’t we need to be here in case the police have questions for us?”

“Your attorneys are already representing you,” she says. “Besides, if they really need something, Illyana will let us know and we can come back in.” She squeezes your shoulder again, then nods towards the back door. “Come. You could use some fresh air and quiet.” She puts an arm around you as you stand and gently ushers you to the back door and outside.

It’s far calmer outside. A cool, easy breeze ruffles your hair, and the grass is soothingly soft beneath your feet.

Alex nudges you forward, though not unkindly. “Come on. Medvezhonok keeps saying I should see the gardens.”

You walk alongside her through the various gardens that dot Xavier’s property. In the wake of the adrenaline and stress abruptly leaving your body, you’re feeling numb, almost detached. It’s almost like your body can’t fully process the shock and stress of having your parents show up.

Well, come to think of it, that’s probably exactly what’s going on.

Alex is markedly quiet as she examines the garden, expression placid and body language lax as she ambles along the pathways between various clusters of flowers and flora.

“You seem calm,” you remark, voice barely more than a mumble as you stare down at a few bright, cheery yellow lilies.

“Age brings serenity,” she says as she crouches down to better look at a butterfly feeding off some hummingbird mint. “And there is not much to be afraid of when you can outmatch nearly every opponent facing you. That, and they are not my nightmare.” She looks up at you, a ghost of a sympathetic smile on her lips. “They were –are—yours. It’s always harder when it’s personal.”

You let out a huff of air. “Ain’t that the truth.” You sit down on a nearby bench, staring blankly at nothing. “What happens next?”

“I am not the person to ask that question,” Alex admits, brushing her jeans off as she stands back up. “I would wager, though, that your lawyers will know how to handle things.”

You nod slowly, numbly. “Yeah, probably.”

Alex watches you closely for a moment before sitting down next to you. “How are you, malen'kaya ptitsa? How are you feeling?”

What you mean to say is something along the lines of “overwhelmed,” or “numb,” or “exhausted,” or maybe even “angry to the point where I can’t feel it anymore.”

What comes out, though, is: “I don’t think my parents ever loved me.”

You feel a slight pulse of shock hit your system once your words register in your own brain, then the slow, sinking dread and resignation as the truth of it sets in. You’ve been on the precipice of realizing the truth for a while, but you’ve never really admitted it at all, much less out loud to someone else.

Alex grimaces and nods. “I would wager you are right. No parent who loves their child treats them how you were treated.”

You nod along, lips tugging into a frown and chin trembling. “Yeah. I kind of just… realized I can’t make them love me or respect me. That’s why I just decided to let Matt ‘n Foggy ‘n Karen handle everything, you know? I was just done with all of it.”

“You’re right,” Alex reassures you. “On all counts. You cannot change their stance, but you do not have to hold onto people who refuse to treat you with decency.”

Your eyes sting and water as a lump rises in your throat. “I just… I don’t understand why I couldn’t be worth it to them. I mean, I get that they never wanted a mutant child, but I was just a kid. What about being a mutant made it worth beating me, terrifying me, demeaning me, abusing me, making my life a miserable hell every single day I lived in their home—”

Alexandra wraps her arms around you as you start crying and presses a motherly kiss to the top of your head when you press yourself against her. “Some people are just horrible, malen'kaya ptitsa. Sometimes they are so lost in their own misery that the only way they can make themselves feel better is to make others hurt, sometimes they only care about themselves to the point that they stop caring when they hurt others, and sometimes they just enjoy making others hurt because it brings them pleasure. Either way, the end result for their victims is still the same: pain and abuse they should have never suffered.”

You whimper and weep against her shoulder as she slowly rocks you back and forth. “I don’t understand –I tried so hard to be good—”

“It was never about you being ‘good,’” Alex murmurs against your hair. “You have always been ‘good.’ It was about their hatred and inability to love unconditionally. Unfortunately, you got stuck with short end of stick, and I am so sorry that you did, dorogoy rebenok.”

You sniff and swipe at your face as you sit up and look her in the eye. “Did you go through this kind of stuff with your parents? Did they care that you were a mutant?”

Alex’s face goes completely blank as she stares at you. “My par… Piotr never told you.”

“Told me what?”

Alex’s lips purse into a thin line; she slides off the bench to kneel on the ground in front of you and clasps your hands in hers. “Malen'kaya ptitsa… I was taken from my family when I was four to train as government asset. I never saw them again, and when the KGB disbanded in the nineties, I found out that they had been executed to prevent any leaks of information from spreading. The only family I have ever had is Nikolai and my children –and now you as well.”

Guilt drops in your stomach like a lead brick. “Oh God.” You double over and start crying again. “I’m sorry –I’m so sorry! I’ve just been complaining like a brat—”

“Nyet. Nyet, nyet, nyet -- malen'kaya ptitsa, look at me.” Alex cups your face in her hands, forcing you to lift your head and meet her gaze. “Never apologize for hurting after what you have endured. Understand?”

“But what you went through was so much worse!” you protest. “I at least had a family, I had a home—”

“You had neither of those things until you came here,” Alex insists sharply. “You may have had biological parents, but they were not family or home. ‘Family’ and ‘home’ means safety and love, and they certainly provided neither. And, yes, my time as asset was horrible, but I never had to second guess whether or not I was loved. I never had to deal with mind games as to whether I was wanted or respected or what have you. I always knew where I stood with my handlers and what was expected of me.” She rubs your cheeks with her thumbs, wiping the tears away. “People who try and rank pains as ‘worse’ than each other are people who cannot handle their own emotions and need to put them in boxes to cope –and, more often than not, they are the type of people who contributed to our pain in first place.” She swallows hard, tears welling up in her eyes, and when she speaks again her voice is shaky with emotion. “So please, do not stop yourself from grieving. Because I am most certainly grieving for you.”

You sob and collapse against her, body shaking as grief wells up and pours out of you –grief for the childhood you lost, for the pain you had to endure, for the love you should’ve had but never received…

And, through it all, Alex holds you tight with strong arms as she cries along with you. “It’s okay, malen'kaya ptitsa. It’s okay.”

***

Once the authorities leave –and take your parents, pastor, and the others that’d joined them along—Piotr comes out to the back with Nikolai to collect you and Alexandra.

The two of you are significantly calmer, having had time to cry and catch your breath, but it’s still apparent that you both have been crying.

Piotr lifts you into his arms and carries you towards the house, while Nikolai sits down next to his wife on the bench.

“Can we just go to bed?” you croak, voice hoarse and throat dry from crying. “I’m just really tired. I just want to go to bed.”

Piotr kisses your forehead as he adjusts his hold on you so he can open the back door. “Da. We can go to bed.” He carries you all the way up to your shared room and gently tucks you into bed before going back to close the door, then joins you in bed. “How are you?”

“Tired,” you mumble. “Angry. Sad. It’s just—” you point at your head, twirling your finger around like you’re stirring a pot of soup “—a lot in here right now.”

“I bet,” Piotr murmurs as he wraps his arms around you. “But you can rest for now. You have earned good rest.”

“You’re telling me.” You sling an arm over his waist, then sigh when he starts tracing swirling designs on your arm and shoulder. You slow your breathing, counting your inhales and exhales until you feel less like you’re about to completely crumble apart.

And then you say, “I want to get a tattoo.”

You can practically hear the slow, shocked blink Piotr does. “Uh… khorosho.”

You tip your head back so you can see his face –and he definitely looks surprised. “Is that really okay with you?”

“It is your body,” he says, smoothing your hair away from your face. “I was just more… surprised by lack of context, I suppose.”

“I mean, I kind of wrote it off when my uncle told me that the ink wouldn’t take as well, but… I want something permanent on me. Something that can’t be taken away. When my parents took my ring, and I thought you weren’t real…”

Piotr holds you closer as your voice trails off. “It is alright, myshka. And if you want tattoo, we can find way for you to get one.”

“You don’t think it’s irresponsible to get a tattoo because of the trauma I went through?”

He sighs as he contemplates your question. “In this case, I think not. I know you will get one done safely. And, honestly, I do not think it is very drastic change to yourself considering what happened. Besides, people who lose loved ones or self-harm or feel suicidal get tattoos to help them stay grounded. I do not see why you cannot do same.”

You snuggle closer to him, soothed by his support. “You don’t care if we have kids and I have a tattoo?”

He snorts. “Nyet. What you want to do to your body is your choice. My mother and Mikhail have tattoos, so our kids will see them anyway. Plus… I was thinking of getting some of my own.”

“Really?” You tilt your head back so you can see his face. “What were you thinking of getting?”

“Maybe DNA strand on my wrist, for mutantism,” he says, tapping his right wrist. “And possibly some work on my shoulder and back that looks like northern lights night sky scene. And… I know I want to get our children’s fetal heartbeats. On my forearm.”

You smile softly. “I like the sound of all of that. Especially the heartbeats one.”

He smiles back at you and leans down to kiss you. “So do I.”

You nestle closer to Piotr as he kisses you, hands softly gripping the material of his shirt as his arms hold you tighter against his body.

Your journey to recovery is far from over. If you had to wager, it’ll probably never be over, not entirely.

But you climbed an important mountain today. And with Piotr by your side –along with Wade, Nathan, Neena, Russell, Yukio, Ellie, and the rest of Piotr’s family—you’ll be able to keep climbing whatever mountains happen to find you.

One foot in front of the other.

You’ve got this.

Sources about how delusions work:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Delusional_disorder https://www.buting.com/blog/2015/02/false-memories-lies-and-the-limitations-of-the-human-brain.shtml https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/delusion/ https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3016695/

#sass writes #piotr rasputin x reader #colossus x reader #nathan summers x wade wilson #cablepool #frank castle x karen page #alexandra rasputin x nikolai rasputin #ANGST ANGST ANGST #SO MUCH ANGST #tw: abuse #tw: manipulation #tw: injury #tw: blood #tw: vomiting #tw: kidnapping #this entire fic is basically a trigger warning #x men fanfiction #deadpool fanfiction

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