#also alex wears a suit and everyone loses their minds sdlfkjdsflkjdslfkj

[master-sass-blast]

T.L.C.

Summary: A study on Piotr's character as he cares for the Reader through her pregnancy and medication withdrawal symptoms.

Set after "The Long Awaited Arrival."

Pairing(s): Piotr Rasputin x Reader.

Rating: T for panic attacks, vomiting, medication withdrawal symptoms, and other features of hurt/comfort.

Word Count: 3.8k.

Update Time: So! After three months, the first place I was referred to for physical therapy did not contact me! Hooray!

But, fortunately, I got a new referral to a new place, and they contacted me within two days. I finally have an appointment scheduled for the end of the month.

Thank you all for being patient with the delays in updating the series. My pain makes it difficult to sleep and write; suffice to say, I've been exhausted the past few months. I'm hoping that with physical therapy, I'll finally get my pain managed and get back to having a life.

I hope you're all doing well. Thank you so much for reading and for sticking with the series!

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

There’s a lot of ups and downs to pregnancy.

Not that Piotr knows from being pregnant; obviously, he’s not quite –ahem–outfitted with the proper “parts” for carrying and delivering a baby. But he remembers his mother being pregnant with Illyana. Granted, she’d always kept a pretty straight face through it all, but he could remember her not eating certain foods because they’d make her feel sick, or having to adjust how she worked on the family farm as her belly grew –not to mention the cranky period she went through while cold turkey-ing off coffee. (Alexandra was right to fuss over her husband for smoking, but her caffeine addiction was just as bad –if not worse.)

He could remember his father allocating extra time to care for his mother, too. There’d been several days where Piotr came home from school to find Nikolai making a fresh batch of chicken dumpling soup for his wife because it was the only thing Alex could keep down during the first trimester. Countless evenings of witnessing his father massage his mother’s shoulders, back, legs, and feet. Late night runs to the kitchen to whip up craving snacks. All done as Nikolai did nearly everything his family asked of him –with a loving smile and nod.

So, when Piotr comes home after prepping his classroom for school the following week and finds you perched on the couch, curled over a mop bucket, heaving up your lunch, his response comes naturally.

He’s had a good teacher his whole life, after all.

***

His first order of business is holding your hair and soothing you while you puke.

He’s grateful, at times like this, that he has a strong stomach. Granted, even if he didn’t, he’d still tough it out for you. But not having to fight down his own queasiness makes it easier to focus on caring for you.

“It’s –it’s just the medication withdrawals,” you pant once you catch your breath. “I’m fine, it’s just the meds–”

Piotr winces, chest aching with sympathy when you gag and retch into the bucket again. “It is okay, myshka. Let your body do what is natural.”

You cough, then groan. Your cheeks are wet from tears caused by your gagging. “Fuck.” You dry heave, then sigh. “I’m fine. You –you don’t have to–”

He shushes you gently. “I am staying right here. Just focus on what your body is doing.”

***

Once your stomach’s done, he ushers you upstairs to rest in bed and cleans the vomit bucket.

He’s glad to have had some foresight for all this. Aside from the well-known symptoms of pregnancy –hello, morning sickness–he’d expected another round of illness when your specialist had advised you to reduce the dose of your anxiety medication. He’s seen you go through withdrawals before; aside from the mental symptoms, they always made you sick. So, after that appointment, he’d stocked up –chicken soup, ginger ale, saltines, applesauce, some of your favorite chocolates just to help sweeten (pun intended) the whole ordeal.

He sprays some Lysol into the –now empty–mop bucket and sets it aside to dry, then frowns when he hears you groan. “Are you okay?”

“Just chills,” you reply from the bedroom. “Fucking withdrawals.”

Piotr grimaces. Your back’s been hurting, too; he’s felt you tossing and turning next to him in bed for a few weeks now. He pads back into the bedroom, then kneels down on your side of the bed so he’s at eye level with you. “Do you need medicine? Or your heating pad?”

You shake your head, expression one of resigned misery. “No. It is what it is.” You crack one eye open and manage a small smile, then reach out and stroke his cheek. “But thank you, love.”

He frowns. Another trait he inherited from his father: he doesn’t like not being able to help. Piotr watches you for a moment, mulling over in his mind what might bring you some comfort and relaxation –then puts a gentle hand on your shoulder when an idea pops into his head. “Would you like to take hot bath?”

You’re quiet for a moment. Then, you stretch and nod. “Actually, yeah. That sounds good.”

He kisses your temple before standing. “Alright. I will draw hot bath for you, myshka.”

You grab the hem of his shirt before he can walk away. “Will you soak with me?”

“Konechno –if you want.”

“Yeah. You holding me sounds really good right now.”

Piotr smiles softly, then bends over and kisses your cheek before heading to the bathroom to get the tub ready.

Mostly, he just has to wait for the water to heat up and for the basin to fill –the latter, of course, takes the longest. There aren’t many tubs that fit him; the one in the master bathroom was a custom job. As such, filling it is a drawn-out process requiring a great deal of patience. For that reason –and the water usage–neither of you use the tub often.

It’s still nice to have, though. It makes for a nice treat, every now and then, to enjoy a luxurious soak instead of a more practical shower. And, in situations like these, Piotr’s glad to have a tub that fits him (even if the monthly utility bill is nowhere near as grateful).

He sets fresh towels next to the tub, makes sure the bath mat is in place (your sense of balance keeps changing as your belly keeps growing, and he doesn’t want you slipping on the tile floor), then grabs a change of clothes for him and fresh pajamas for you:  a pair of leggings and one of his shirts. That’s what you’ve been comfortable wearing lately; he’s certainly not about to deny you anything that makes you comfortable. He opts against any scented oils or bath bombs; both your skin and nose have been sensitive lately. Once the tub basin is –finally–full enough for a soak, he goes back to the bedroom and collects you.

He helps you undress first, then quickly strips down before –carefully–climbing into the tub. He slowly settles in the steaming water –he doesn’t want to slosh water all over the bathroom floor–then holds one arm out to you once he’s situated.

You let out a soft, pleased groan when you climb into the tub and quickly settle in his lap, making little waves lap against the tub’s porcelain walls. You pillow your head against his shoulder and sigh. “Thanks, baby. This is nice.”

“Konechno.” He kisses the top of your head and wraps one arm around your back to help support your weight. “We can stay here as long as you want.”

You giggle, quiet. Barely there. “Until we’re all pruney and gross.”

Piotr chuckles and kisses your forehead. “Da –until we are shriveled raisins.”

“You’re gonna be one big raisin, buster,” you quip, tone warming with amusement. “I don’t even want to see the grape vine that grew you.”

He considers for a moment, then laughs again. “You have met my mother.”

You go quiet for a moment. Then, you bust out laughing –hard, hearty, joyous laughs that make your shoulders shake against him. “Shit, you’re right! I didn’t even think of that.”

He grins and holds you closer. One hand slips beneath the water to support your stomach, so he can feel it quiver as you laugh.

He’s missed hearing you laugh like this.

***

Your panic attacks don’t scare him.

He’s served as an X-Man and mentor at Xavier’s for years. He’s seen all manner of mutations and side effects –including how emotional distress can lessen a mutant’s control of their abilities. What’s more, he’s seen how your emotional distress affects your powers; he knows the kind of carnage you’re capable of unleashing.

So, when he comes home from running errands on a Sunday morning and gets greeted to a rush of wind and you balled up on the floor, sobbing while the curtains flap wildly, he drops his things on the table inside the front door and runs over to you.

“No!” You try to shove him away when he pulls you into his arms. “No, no –just leave–”

“It’s okay,” he assures you, drawing you into his lap anyway. His throat constricts with grief when you let out a broken sob. “It’s okay, myshka. Everything will be okay. Just breathe and let wave pass.”

Eventually, the anxiety does pass. The curtains settle back into their normal hanging positions. Your breathing settles, and your body slowly relaxes against his.

Once he’s checked that you’re okay and that you don’t have any immediate needs, Piotr leans back against the base of the couch and just holds you. He stays quiet so you can focus on processing. Occasionally, he checks in to make sure you’re still doing okay. Kisses your forehead, your temples, the top of your head, your cheeks –whatever he can reach, really.

After a while, you sniff. Then, in a scratchy voice, you murmur, “Maybe… maybe I should move back into Xavier’s while I’m pregnant.”

His brows furrow together in alarm and confusion. “Why? Why would you need to do that?”

“If –if I’m going to have more –more panic attacks and episodes again–”

Piotr shakes his head automatically. “Nyet. Absolutely not. This is your home, dorogoy.” He strokes your cheek when you tip your head back and look up at him. “You have every right to be here.”

“Piotr, be reasonable,” you sigh. “I could blow out the fucking windows with a breath.”

“Then we will get new windows.”

Your jaw tightens. Your chin quivers, and you avert your gaze. “I could kill you.”

His heart aches in his chest at how defeated, how certain your voice sounds. He says your name –softly, tenderly–and gently presses his fingers under your chin until you look up at him. “I could kill you, also.”

“It’s not the same,” you mutter, looking away again.

“I break dishes without meaning to,” he reasons as he strokes your hair. “I could crush other’s feet if I am not careful about where I step. If I do not pay attention to how much force I use, I leave bruises. Breaking bones, crushing organs with a hug –it is not out of the question.”

You shake your head. “If you have a panic attack, you won’t break someone’s bones just by being in the same room with them.”

“I know.” He kisses the top of your head. “But I do not want you being unduly unkind to yourself.” When you hum in assent, he hugs you close and kisses your forehead. “What triggered this one?”

You let out a shaky breath. “Saw my mom standing on the stairs. Thought she was real.”

Piotr frowns. It’s been a while since you’ve hallucinated. Between your meds and psychic therapy with Professor Xavier to heal the scarring on your brain, your condition’s been managed. Perhaps elevated anxiety from going off meds exacerbated injuries from scarring. “Let’s talk to Professor. You may need more sessions since you are not taking medication.”

You nod, slowly. Tiredly. “Yeah. Maybe.”

He cradles you closer against his chest and kisses your forehead again. “And… if moving back to main house is necessary, we go together. Khorosho?”

“Khorosho.” You sniff, then bury your face against his chest. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu.”

No, your panic attacks don’t scare him.

They just break his heart.

***

School starts for the year. The first week passes in a blur; it’s a whirlwind of learning names and faces of new students, getting everyone settled back into the school year routine, getting his art and Russian language students oriented with this year’s lesson plan (no small task for the latter, since he’s teaching three classes this year to accommodate the different experience levels), and trying to keep the mansion in some semblance of order now that it’s packed to the gills, Monday through Friday.

And you… seem to be doing okay. The worst of the withdrawal symptoms have settled, and you’re doing two sessions a week with Alyssa and the Professor. You’re eating more regularly, getting back outside for walks, and have started working with new high school students on essay writing on Fridays.

He’s relieved –if only because he doesn’t like to see you suffer. He wants you to have a happy, as-stress-free-as-possible life.

But he’s also been with you –from boyfriend, to fiance, to husband–for a long time. He’s been by your side for many a breakdown. He knows firsthand that when the first storm passes, there’s usually another wall of clouds close behind.

So, when he wakes up on the second Monday of the school year and sees the light of your phone on, Piotr’s saddened, but not necessarily surprised. He blinks a few times to clear his eyes, then reaches across the bed and touches your back. “Privet.”

“Hey,” you murmur, voice heavy with exhaustion. You pause the video you’re watching, then roll over so you can look at him. “Good morning.”

Piotr frowns sadly. Your face is pinched with fatigue and stress. He brushes some hair away from your face, then cups your cheek with his hand. “Did you sleep?”

You shake your head. “Couldn’t wind down. Brain wouldn’t shut up.”

He watches as you turn your head into your pillow to hide your miserable frown. He studies you for a moment, then shifts his hand lower to rub the back of your neck. “Do you want me to stay with you today?”

“You can’t,” you reply, shaking your head automatically. “It’s a school day.”

“Is only second week of school year,” he reminds you. “It will not be end of world if I miss today.”

“I don’t want to take you away from your kids.”

Piotr shifts forward so he’s closer to you, then fishes one hand under the blankets so he can caress your faintly rounded stomach. “I have kid right here, too.” He smiles when you let out a soft –if tired–laugh, then kisses your forehead. “Do you want me to stay?”

You’re quiet for a moment. Then, you let out a shuddering breath and nod. “Yeah.”

Piotr’s heart aches at your tense, wavering tone –it sounds suspiciously like you’re about to start crying–and tugs you into a gentle hug. “Alright, myshka. I will stay with you today.”

***

You do indeed cry. He holds you until you calm down again, then gets out of bed to call Logan.

“S’too bad,” Logan gravels out –and then there’s a pause as he shouts at some of the live-in students that they get one cup of coffee each morning, no extras. “Sorry she’s hurting.”

“Ne volnuytes'. I can call my mother to sub for Russian language classes.”

“That’d be good, since none of us speak it.”

He says good-bye to Logan, then calls his mother.

Alex tuts when he gives her the news. “Poor girl. Pregnancy is hard.”

“It seems to be, yes,” Piotr agrees in Russian. “Sorry to ask last minute, but I need substitute for Russian language classes.”

“I think I can manage,” his mother replies, voice tinged with amusement. “I did run a legitimate curriculum translation business, after all. And I raised you three hooligans.”

Piotr scoffs, albeit good-naturedly. “If you stop by our house, I can walk you through where each class is at before day starts.”

“Good. I will be there shortly.”

***

His brother teleports his mother over twenty minutes after the phone call. Mikhail nods in greeting, ambles over to the fridge, and pulls out a can of lemonade before waving good-bye and winking out of view.

Piotr rolls his eyes, shakes his head, then turns to greet his mother. “Thank you, again, for helping on such short notice.”

“Of course.” She accepts his hug, then nods towards the stairs. “How is she?”

“Tired,” he answers, frowning sadly. “She did not sleep. And her anxiety has been bad.”

Alexandra tsks, sympathetic. “Poor girl.” She eyes Piotr, then smiles and squeezes his shoulder. “Good thing she has you to support her.”

Piotr smiles and ducks his head, pleased by the praise. “It goes both ways. Let me get you class schedules.” He grabs the shoulder bag he uses to transport his laptop and other school materials to and from the mansion and sets it on the kitchen counter. “I have three language classes. Entry level is at nine, intermediate is after lunch, and advanced is at two…”

By the time he’s nearly done catching his mother up, you come padding downstairs. “Hey.”

Piotr and his mother look up in unison. He leaves his mother’s side, heading over to the stairs so he can hold out a hand and steady you the rest of the way down. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just wanted to come say hi.” You wave at Alex. “Dobroye utro.”

“Dobroye utro,” she returns before switching to English. “How are you feeling?”

“Eh.” You shrug, then cover your mouth with the back of your hand as you yawn. “Is what it is.”

Alex hums, nodding, then holds out one arm in offering. She hugs you when you accept and step closer to her, gently rubbing your back. “You are doing good job. Taking care of yourself is part of the process.”

“Thank you.” You sniff, then step back and fan your face with your hands. You let out a laugh. “Ugh, I’m all emotional.”

Alexandra chuckles. “All part of the deal.” She pats your arm. “It’ll be okay.”

“Yeah.” You blink a few times to clear your eyes, then look her over. “You look sharp!”

Alex preens a little, adjusting the lapel of her navy blue suit. “Spasibo. Nicky’s choice.”

“He’s got good taste.” You share a grin with her, then turn and hug him. “I’m gonna head back to bed.”

Piotr kisses the top of your head. “Khorosho. What would you like for breakfast?” He fixes you with a fond, yet determined look when you grimace. “Myshka, you need to eat.”

“Wow, which option will taste best when I’m throwing it up?” you mutter, dejected. “What a fabulous contemplation.”

“What about something like toast?” Alexandra suggests, slightly bemused, after watching the two of you for a moment. “Something not too heavy, can be eaten slowly. It may help.”

Piotr smiles when you relent with a grunt, then kisses the top of your head once more. “What kind of toast?”

“One piece, Mr. Giant,” you grumble –although your voice is tinged with humor. “And apricot jelly. That one’s smelled the best lately.”

“One piece of toast with apricot jelly,” Piotr parrots back, rubbing circles over your back and shoulders. “I can do that.”

“With butter,” you add, voice slightly muffled as you rest your head against his chest. “And make sure it melts all the way before you add the jelly. The texture turns weird otherwise.”

“Konechno.” Piotr leans down to kiss you, then ushers you towards the stairs. “Go rest. I will be up shortly.” When he turns back around, after you’ve made it to the second floor and he can hear your footsteps heading towards the master bedroom, he finds his mother watching him with a fond smile on her face. He frowns faintly, confused. “What?”

“You’re sweet with her,” she explains, switching back to Russian. “It’s lovely to watch.”

Piotr ducks his head, somewhat flustered by the attention from his mother, but nonetheless pleased. “It’s easy. I love her.”

Alex chuckles, then sighs. “You take after your father. Sappy.”

“I think I take after you, too,” he retorts with a soft shrug. He smiles when Alex scoffs –though the tips of his mother’s ears turn red, which is a dead giveaway that his compliment landed how he wanted–then returns to the papers laid out on the kitchen island counter. “So–”

“You’ve done a good job explaining.” She stacks the papers together, taps them against the counter to get them aligned, then tucks them back into his shoulder bag. She slings the strap over her shoulder, then pats his shoulder. “Go take care of your girl. I’ll manage.”

“Thank you, mama.” He hugs her, then watches as she strides down the hall and out the front door. He starts to follow her, then catches himself when the door shuts and latches on it’s own behind her. Right. Of course. He laughs to himself, then turns back to the kitchen. Toast time.

***

“I’m sorry.”

Piotr blinks rapidly, then angles his head down so he can look at you. His brows pinch together as he tries to puzzle out what you could possibly be apologizing for this time (you’ve fallen back into the habit of over-apologizing since reducing the dose of your medication, which isn’t all that surprising, but it concerns him). “For what?”

“For being so picky about my toast,” you murmur, tone sheepish. You tuck your head against your shoulder, thus hiding your face. “I didn’t mean to make you do all that extra work.”

“It –it was not ‘extra work,’” Piotr assures you, laughing slightly at the sheer absurdity of the notion. “You are not feeling well. You are my wife. And you are carrying my child. Taking extra fifteen seconds to make sure butter melts completely is not ‘extra work.’”

“Well… still,” you mumble before you resume nibbling at your toast. “Thank you.”

“No ‘still,’” he insists as he leans over to kiss your temple. “And you are very welcome.” He smiles when you relax a little, then settles back in to watch the video you’d pulled up on your phone–

And then his phone chirps. Once. Twice. Three times.

Piotr frowns when the fourth and fifth notifications roll in. Chto za chert…

The messages are from his students, each with pictures attached.

Pictures of his mother.

Kitty: [image attached] DUDE, YOU NEVER SAID YOUR MOM COULD PULL DAPPER BUTCH.

Ellie: [image attached] Tell ur dad he needs to pick ur mom’s outfits more often

Yukio: [image attached] Your mom looks nice!

Evan: [image attached] u never mentioned ur mom was hot dude

Evan: [image attached] is she seeing anyone lol?

You peer over his shoulder, then start laughing. “Uh oh. I think your kids may have a new favorite teacher.”

“All she did was wear a suit,” he mutters –even as he screenshots the texts to send to his parents; he knows they’ll get a kick out of them. He makes a mental note to have Logan talk to Evan about appropriate boundaries, then squints when a new text rolls in.

Ororo: I think your students have started a Snap group dedicated to your mom wearing that suit.

He sighs and rolls his eyes skywards –then smirks and looks down when he feels you start shaking next to him. “Are you alright?”

You tip your head back and let out a bright cackle. “Yeah,” you manage once you catch your breath, “I think it’s official. Your students are going to replace you after today.”

He shakes his head, still bemused, then turns off his phone and sets it back down. “Very funny, myshka.”