#piotr overthinks alot

[master-sass-blast]

Myshka: Take Two

HOLY SHIT THIS TOOK FOREVER TO WRITE.

It’s exactly what the title says --”Myshka,” but from Piotr’s perspective.

Prepare yourself for fluff.

Rating: M for language, description of injuries, and mentions of abuse.

Pairings: Piotr Rasputin x Reader.

This first time it happened, it was an accident.

Which isn’t to say he didn’t mean it. He just... hadn’t planned on confessing any time soon.

Piotr grits his teeth as he brings the X-Jet in for a landing. He can already hear the distinct cracks of gunfire --along with Wade’s maniacal cackling--through the earpieces issued to the team, which is a surefire indicator that Wade, contrary to the instruction he’d been given and common sense, had decided to engage the enemy already.

Or maybe not. Wade cackled over a lot of things, most of which no normal person would. It was probably that. Hopefully.

Unfortunately, your barrage of angry swearing and death threats proved his initial suspicion right a mere seconds later. “ Wade! I swear to Cthulhu, if I die from your dumbass choices, I will personally come back just to kill you.”

“What’s going on?” he asks as he tears the back gate off its hinges.

“The fuckstick decided to set off the shooters and charge them. It’s a mess over here.”

Of course. Blyad. “Language, Y/N.  Deadpool, we talked about this. The plan was to wait for rest of team before--”

Wade starts shrieking about snipers, and he can’t resist a small smile while you jeer at the merc about getting shot in the ass.

He forces himself to focus on the present --some of the traffickers have notice that they’re about to be ambushed, and they’ve opened fire on him and the rest of the X-Force. He picks up the rusted, useless chassis of a truck and chucks it at the shooters, taking out a row of men.

It’s quick work, thanks to having the rest of the team help him. He’s just about to rip off the door to the warehouse when you utter a sentence that nearly makes his heart stop.

“I’m going to blast those dipshits.”

Okay, there’s something to be said for your determination and chutzpah, but a plan isn’t a good plan if it involves putting yourself in a direct danger and running towards gunfire. Running. Towards. Gunfire.

Has he mentioned the running towards gunfire bit?

“Y/N, no. Wait for us.” We’re almost there, please, just wait; don’t hurt yourself, I can’t bear it when you hurt yourself--

“I can’t risk the traffickers taking away another group of mutants.”

Now is not the time to be stubborn! “No, it is too dangerous.”

“I thought that was the point of these missions.”

“Is she fuckin’ serious?” Cable grunts as he shoots two traffickers barreling towards them.

“I am afraid so,” he says, gut twisting with worry. “We need to get to front of warehouse. Now.”

Easier said than done. The inside of the warehouse is crawling with enemies. That, combined with the utter lack of cover, slows their progress significantly.

“Shit! I miscalculated!”

The sound of glass shattering and you shrieking in pain makes his heart seize. He grits his teeth as he throws a man trying to stab him with a knife against the nearest wall. Please be okay. Please be okay. Bozhe moi, if something happens to her--

Your voice comes across the com line in a pained groan. “Fuck. I hurt myself.”

The relief he feels is immediate. She’s alive. “Where are you?”

“On the third level. Follow the wake of destruction and the sounds of pissed off swearing. You won’t miss me. Shit, I rolled through glass. Oh, fuck, that hurts.”

He has to clench his teeth together to keep from lecturing you on safety because that’s the exact last thing you need right now. He flinches when another trafficker unleashes a spray of gunfire at him --solely from being surprised, he was distracted worrying about you and didn’t see the smaller man sneaking up on him--and stomps after him. He whips the villain across the warehouse with basically zero effort and tries to catch his breath while the man screams.

He needs to calm down; he’s angry and panicky from knowing you’ve hurt yourself, and working with Wade requires keeping a level head at all times.

“Oh, definitely not. Shit, I fucked up my leg. I think my knee’s dislocated.” 

Right, because Cable asked you if you could move while he was tossing around traffickers --and he should’ve done that in the first place, because he’s supposed to be the responsible one, and he really cares about you, and--

Calm. She needs you to be calm, Piotr. “You shouldn’t have gone after snipers,” he growls as he charges after another group of shooters.

You grumble something back about deserving gratitude, and it almost makes him smile.

That is, until he hears you panic.

“Holy shit.” 

“What?” Was there someone else up there with you? Another threat they hadn’t accounted for? Were you in danger?

“Is that... Oh shit. That’s a body. I think I decapitated a guy when I went through the window.”

He goes numb while you, Wade, and Cable exchange remarks.

You decapitated a body.

If you had been going fast enough to decapitate a body on impact alone... what had you done to yourself?

“Hey, kid, are you still with us?”

Cable’s voice brings him back to the present; he realizes that your words are slurry --you must’ve hit your head. Hard. “Y/N, you need to stay awake. Falling asleep now would be dangerous.”

“I’ve got something that’ll keep her awake,” Cable says as he studies a readout from his techno-organic arm. “There’s a group of guys on their way up to you. They’re in the stairwell, T minus two minutes.”

Blyad. He tries to focus on taking out the few remaining traffickers, but it’s hard when he can hear your gasps of pain and effort right in his ear. He grits his teeth and pushes through, telling himself that you’ll be okay.

And there’s a part of him that genuinely believes it. You’re incredibly tough, and you always surprise him with just how much you have in you, how much punishment you can take without giving in.

He flinches when he hears more gunfire in his ear. Please, let that be her firing and not the men. He waits for you to speak, to confirm that you’re alright.

Silence.

Come on, mysh --Y/N. Say something.

More silence.

He can’t stop himself from checking in.  “Y/N?”

Your sigh, wet and ragged. “Got ‘em. Stupid chickenshits. How’re we doing down there?”

“Only a few fuckers left!” Wade shouts as he hops from spot to spot, slicing through enemies with his usual irreverent glee. “Then it’s down to finding the victims and releasing them!”

“I’m gonna need someone to come get me. I doubt I could even fly myself out of here.”

He thanks every deity he can think off that you at least have more common sense than Wade. “Stay where you are. We will have someone up to get you in few minutes. In meantime, stay awake.”

Disposing of the stragglers, fortunately, is quick work. There are a handful of men left now, and most of them have decided to book it instead of trying to fight a couple of super assassins, an eight foot tall man made out of steel, and two super powered teenage girls.

Once the shooters are dealt with, Ellie waves him off. “Go find your girl. We can handle this.”

Normally, he’d protest having you referred to as ‘his girl’ --not that he’d mind that, he wouldn’t mind it at all, but if Wade remembered it he was never going to let it go--but right now he had more important things to do --namely, finding you.

He charges up the stairs, grateful that they can accommodate him in defense mode so he doesn’t have to take the time to shift down. The third floor door crumples like tissue paper when he bursts through it, and he pauses to get his bearings.

The hall is in utter chaos. Broken glass is strewn everywhere, along with chunks of drywall. The bodies of the five men are on the floor, lifeless. Their blood splatters the floor, the walls, the chaos--

And there you are, tucked under a table in a room just off the hall. Your head’s resting against the floor, and you look awful.

Well, you look beautiful --you always do to him--but you also look like someone who’s been put through hell.

He picks up the table and tosses it aside, kneeling next to you so you don’t try to get up. “Bozhe moi. What did you do to yourself?”

“Nothing any self-respecting mutant with poor math skills and even worse impulse control wouldn’t do.”

You roll onto your back before he can stop you --your yelp of pain makes him flinch--and the pained smile you give him tears at his heart.

“How do I look?”

“Like shit,” Cable’s looming above the two of you now, hissing through his teeth as he takes it all in. “The fuck did you do to your leg?”

Piotr looks down and realizes with a stab of sympathetic pain that your leg is badly dislocated at the knee. Der’mo. It will be hard to move her.

“Do you want me to try to pop it back in?” 

He blinks as Cable’s words register, then panics when he realizes what the older man is suggesting. “No, I don’t think that is good idea--”

“Do it. I’d rather that happen than have it dangling around while I’m carried around.”

No, no, no. This is a bad idea. Insanely bad. Up there with some of Wade’s. It should be handled by a medic, a trained professional, with painkillers and proper equipment. “Y/N--”

“Do it! Just give me something to bite on.” 

Piotr watches in abject horror as Cable hands you a bandanna. Before he can say anything else, you’ve steeled yourself and nod. He looks away, grimacing at the sound of the joint popping into place and the anguished scream you let loose.

You jerk onto your side --again, before he can stop you, he’s too caught up in hurting for you to react fast enough--and vomit.

He scoops you into his arms before you can fall face first into your own puke; guilt surges through his chest when you scream again. I hurt her. I should’ve let her recover more. “I’m so sorry.” He adjusts his grip on you as carefully as he can and starts carrying towards the stair case.

“It’s okay,” You croon in his ear, completely out of breath. “It’s okay, big guy, it was going to hurt anyway. It’s okay.”

There’s a part of him that’s touched by the fact that, even when you’re in unimaginable pain, you still want to comfort him.

“That’s my tough myshka.” He cringes at the word choice for a moment; it sounds so possessive, and he really hopes Wade wasn’t paying attention --and that you don’t mind.

You don’t seem to notice. Instead, you press your head against his shoulder --a gesture that has his heart pounding from the unexpected intimacy of it.  “Yeah. Diving headfirst into trouble and hurting herself in the process.”

He’s distracted for a moment by Ellie and Nathan, who are talking about the trafficking victims and you. They’ve found everyone, which means they can load up the jet and get back to the mansion --and get you some much needed medical attention.

He doesn’t realize that you’re falling asleep until you nestle against him, trying to get comfortable.  “Stay awake, myshka. You need to stay with us.”

“Myshka...”

His eyes widen as his mistake registers. This definitely was not how he was planning on confessing his feelings for you --especially since you weren’t likely to remember any of it, given that you probably had a concussion. Should I apologize? I mean, I shouldn’t have said--

“What does that mean? Does it mean idiot? ‘cause I feel like that’s a fair accusation for you to make right now.” 

He chuckles in spite of himself and his embarrassment. “Not quite.”

“I like it. It sounds pretty.” 

His heart’s pounding from exhilaration now --not that there’s any point to it, considering that you have no idea what the word means.

“Colossus?”

He does it again. He can’t help himself. “Da, myshka?”

“I think I hurt my everything.”

He laughs again, but less because he find your statement funny and more because it’s the reaction you’re looking for.  “Hang in there. We will get you fixed up soon.”

It’s Ellie who busts him later.

He’s sitting in the garden while the medics work on you; he’d wanted to stay, but feared being too overbearing or in the way.

His trainee strolls up to him, hands jammed in her jean pockets, with one eyebrow raised. “So. ‘Myshka.’”

He ducks his head, cheeks burning without his armor to protect him. “You know about that.”

“We were wearing earpieces, Colossus.” When he grimaces, she pats his shoulder. “Don’t worry. Wade was too busy regenerating parts of his head to notice.”

He lets out a breath. “Small blessings.”

“So. Are you gonna tell her?”

“When she’s better,” he decides. “I don’t want to force it on her now.”

“Christ, you’re making it sound like she doesn’t have a fucking choice. Look--” Ellie waves her hand dismissively before he can argue “--it’s sweet that you want to wait until she’s better. Do whatever you think is right. Just don’t chicken out, okay? She’s been basically drooling for you over the past year. There’s no way you’ll fuck this up --unless you don’t tell her.”

He shoots her a look for her language, but smiles anyway. “Thank you, Ellie.”

The second time it happens, it’s still an accident. The word slips out before he can stop himself.

It’s his turn to babysit you. You’ve been couched by Hank’s orders, and your pain meds make you loopy enough that you really shouldn’t be unsupervised.

Case in point, he finds you hanging half off the couch, no pillow or ice pack for your injured knee, trying to pick up the remote from halfway across the room with an air current.

You let out a curse as the remote flops further away from you.

The scene makes his heart ache with fondness. It’s so unbelievably you, so unbelievably adorable. “Myshka.”

The grin you give him is beautiful. “Hey, big guy. ‘Sup?”

Focus. Get her to sit properly. “I do not think you should be laying like that. Is bad for your back, to say nothing of your knee.”

“Well, I didn’t start like this. I was trying to get the remote, but Wade left it all the way over there when he switched channels. Is this really considered the pinnacle of modern entertainment?”

For Wade? Da. He scans the instruction card written by Hank while you keep trying to grab the remote. “Your next dose is due. You need to eat something.”

“Would that I could, but --alas--I am confined to this couch for the time being.”

“I can make you something, myshka. You only need ask.”

Your responding smile makes his heart race --again. “Thanks. I’m up for pretty much anything.”

He retrieves the remote for you so you’ll sit properly, then heads to the kitchen to start pulling together lunch for the two of you. He realizes, once he’s not stooping to reach into the fridge, that you’re just flipping through the channels without actually watching what’s on the screen.

He can’t help but smile. “You know, you might find something easier if you watch more than five seconds at a time.”

You look up at him as he sets the plates of food down and stick at your tongue. “Very funny, big guy.”

Next step, taking care of leg. “I thought you were supposed to have your leg elevated.” When you explain your predicament, an idea occurs to him.

Namely, you could settle your legs in his lap. That, combined with a pillow, should be enough elevation to help with the swelling. “Wait here. I have idea.” You fire some line after him --something about flying to Las Vegas and cheating at the games--and he laughs again as he walks back to the couch, ice pack in hand. “Cheating is against the rules, myshka.”

“Well, duh. How else am I going to win? I’m not that good at Poker. So, what’s this idea of yours?”

He ducks his head, nerves getting the better of him.

I... can’t do this. It’s not polite, not when she doesn’t know how I feel. He manages to make up some sort of explanation about him helping the pillows stay in place, and the relief that runs through him when you buy it nearly leaves him boneless.

Fortunately, lunch goes much smoother than his attempts at hiding his massive crush on you. You take your meds, express your delight over him including Cheetos on your plate, and he manages to get the TV switched from Wade’s garbage choice to something a little more palatable. He settles in to eat his own lunch, and tries to not obsess over how close you are to him.

Your painkillers kick in about halfway through the episode Mythbusters he’d picked. You’re a wriggling, giggling mess next to him, flailing around while you ride out the initial high from the pills.

He places his hand gently on your non-injured leg, trying to calm you. “Easy, myshka. Don’t hurt yourself.”

“I’m not going to hurt myself!” You smack your hand against the coffee table and cradle it against your chest with a pout. “Ow.”

He resettles you on the couch, cradling your head with one of his hands to keep you from lolling around too much. “You were saying?”

“Okay, fine. I hurt myself. Happy now?”

“I will be happier when you settle enough to stop hurting yourself, myshka.”

“Myshka.”

He almost cringes. Bodi roga, I need to stop.

“Why do you call me that? Not that I’m complaining --it sounds pretty cute.”

Joy swells in his chest --not that it has any right to. Control yourself, Piotr; she doesn’t even know what you’re saying. “It is nickname in Russian.”

“Well, I gathered that much. Don’t tell me what it means; I want to guess!”

He acquiesces, even though he’d love nothing more than to tell you. “Very well.”

“It means ‘idiot,’ doesn’t it?”

Alarm shoots through him. Is that... is that what she thinks of herself? Does she think I view her as such? “Why would I call you that?”

“I mean, I did toss myself through a wall and dislocate my leg in the process. I think it’s kind of warranted.”

He shakes his head --he would never. “That would be unkind --and unwarranted.”

“Okay. Fool?”

“No.”

“Lovable fool?”

“Also no.”

“Klutz?”

“It is not an insult,” he says, laughing slightly.

“Ah.” Your grin would have him blushing if he wasn’t in defense mode. “Well, that’s nice --but I’ll have to completely rethink my strategy now. This might take longer than I thought.”

“I could just tell you.”

“No! No spoiling my fun!”

He acquiesces again --and if Ellie was here, she’d say you were playing right into his hand.

Eventually. He’ll tell you the truth eventually. You were high out of your mind right now; he wanted you lucid when he confessed his feelings.

He settles again --and tenses when you shuffle around, drop the pillow propping up your leg on his lap, and set your legs across his thighs.

“This okay, big guy?”

Beyond okay. Too okay.

God, he’s weak for you.

He manages a nod.  “Da, myshka. This is fine.”

Finishing his time with you is a combination of heaven and sheer torture. Heaven, because he’s been daydreaming about spending time with you like this; torture, because he knows it’s just because you’re high out of your mind, not because you like him.

When Ellie rescues him half an hour later --with a pointed look at your borderline snuggling--he beats a quick retreat to his art studio. He closes the door behind it, locks it, then shifts out of defense mode and slumps against the wall. Bozhe moi. I am in over my head.

He monitors himself better after that, keeps himself from saying anything inappropriate.

Still, he can’t always help himself around you. I look at you and see my whole future.

Now, if only he could tell you that.

Or maybe not. That’d probably too much to start with.

You sidle up next to him while everyone waits for Wade to finish setting up the fireworks for New Years --a gesture that he tries to not over analyze but elates him nonetheless.

You make some sort of quip about his fire extinguisher, and he regards it with a grimace. “Wade set up the display this year.”

“Oh, god, is the house even going to survive?”

“Hey, have a little faith in me,” Wade whines as he skips past you to finish the final touches on the display. “I can have self control. When I want to.”

“Yeah, the question is does he ever want to?”

Piotr’s got a lot of personal, first hand experience with handling Wade, and the answer to that is a definite ‘no.’ I’ve been grabbed on ass too many times for it to be anything else.

“Ladies, gentlemen, noble gentry of non-conforming gender identity, and Yukio!” Wade crows from his position several yards down the drive. “Tonight is a date that technically doesn’t matter since time is a social construct, but we’re going to use it to celebrate surviving another year! That’s right, tell Death to go fu--”

“Language, Wade.” Seriously, there are children present, does he always have to--

“Okay, okay. Take it easy, Long John Silver. Anyway, since the resident party poopers here at Casa de la Mutant have kiboshed getting drunk off our ass--”

“Wade.”

“Okay! Fine! Long story made short: fireworks! Lots of them! Cover your ears if you don’t want to wear hearing aids by the time you’re thirty! Russell! My man! Let it burn!”

The initial round of fireworks, though loud, is surprisingly tasteful. He feels a surge of pride as Wade starts setting up the finale with Russell. Good job, Wade. He sees you shift next to him and realizes that you’re hugging yourself, shivering.

And it’s out of his mouth before he can stop himself.  “Myshka? Are you alright?”

“Yupp. A-okay.”

He states the obvious. “You’re cold.”

“Are you kidding? In this weather? We’re in a heat wave right now, big guy. How could I be cold?”

He laughs, then unzips the jacket he’s wearing. “Here. Use my jacket. We can’t have you freezing.” He smiles softly as he watches you relax and nestle into the warmth of his jacket, and--

Oh, god, seeing you in his clothes does something for him. To him. One of those. Both of those.

Fortunately, Wade picks that moment to light off the finale, sufficiently distracting him from the runaway thought train he’d been having about you wearing his clothes.

Once the people clear away he starts clearing up the trash from Wade and Russell’s fun. You join him, which starts another round of don’t overthink it, Piotr, she’s just being nice.

He watches, mesmerized, as you send the remaining smoke away with little more than a flick of your wrist. He’s spent several years training with some of the most powerful mutants on the face of the planet, and the way you use yours with such effortless elegance is--

Focus, Piotr. Don’t stare at her. He tries to keep his focus on cleaning up the trash, but he’s soon distracted again because, well...

His jacket’s far too big for you, and it’s adorable to watch you struggle as the sleeves slid over your hands time and time again. He can’t help but chuckle when your face contorts in a caricature of rage, and he hands you the trash bag as you swear under your breath. “Here, myshka. You hold this. I can finish the rest.”

“Why do you need a jacket anyway? Aren’t you protected from the cold?”

“I am. The jacket is not so much for my benefit as it is for others. I may not suffer from the cold, but I still get cold. Complaints arise, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“That, and Wade won’t try to lick your arm to see if he’ll stick if you wear the jacket.”

Bozhe moi, I’m so glad Wade didn’t hear that. “Please, do not tell him about that. I would rather he didn’t try.”

“Secret’s safe with me, big guy.”

He stands --and says his name out of sheer impulse.“Piotr.”

“Gesundheit.”

He laughs --actually laughs, full-bodied and joyous, which seems to be a reaction that only you can pull out of him--and shakes his head. “My name. It’s Piotr. I thought you should know.”

“Nice to meet ya, Piotr. I’m Y/N.”

He laughs again --almost swooning from your endearing goofiness--and shakes your hand with the utmost gentleness. “Very funny, myshka.” Before he can say anything else, though, a loud explosion, a towering fireball, and a scream that sounds suspiciously like Wade emanates from behind the mansion. Der’mo. “We should go check on that.”

After that, he really tries to watch himself around you.

No, really, he does! He wants to respect your space, to not infringe too much on something he can’t claim. And he manages well. 

Well, almost ‘well.’ The entire X-Force --and the rest of the mansion, it seems--is wise to his crush on you now. That results in no small amount of teasing, but no one tells you at his request --and Ellie’s threat to incinerate anyone who does.

He has caught on to the fact that you like being called ‘myshka’ though, which doesn’t make his efforts to keep from doing that any easier.

So, the fourth time it happens, you hit him a weak spot.

He’s drawn to the back yard --much like everyone else, he suspects--by the sounds of enraged and panicked screaming. He can’t help but laugh slightly at the sight of you chasing Scott across the back lawn.

He doesn’t like or dislike Scott --well, he doesn’t like the way Scott treats you--but he can admit that the smaller man does go on power trips far too often. A small part of him is amused by watching you hand Scott’s ass to him --because, contrary to Wade’s belief, he can enjoy the odd round of inappropriate or ill-timed humor. Just not in ‘Wade’ quantities.

A larger part of him, though, stiffens with concern when you pick up the bat and lunge after Scott. It’s not a plastic one, it’s metal, and you could do some serious damage to Scott or yourself. Or someone else.

He steps forward --since no one else seems to be inclined to step in the path of an enraged woman with a metal bat for Scott of all people--and latches onto the barrel of the bat. It smacks against his armor with a loud clang, making you lurch to a stop. “No, myshka,” he says when you look up at him --he throws in the ‘myshka’ to try and appeal to you, shamefully enough. “This is not appropriate.”

“Not appropriate? On the contrary! This is completely fucking appropriate! Give me my bat! I’m going to beat his head in!”

“Uh, no!” Wade interjects. “No erasing Cable from the timeline!”

“Fine! I’ll maim Scott instead! Give me the bat!”

“No, myshka.” He’s frowning now. Normally, you at least settle a little whenever he calls you ‘myshka.’ What did Scott say to work her up this badly? “Whatever he said, there is better way to handle this.”

“Oh, but there isn’t!”

“Myshka--”

“Do you know what he said to me? He called me a ‘fucking piece of work’ and said that it was no wonder my parents kept me locked in my room because I’m a nightmare!”

His heart aches at the sight of the tears in your eyes, and his teeth click together as anger rages inside him. He scowls at Scott. “Is this true?”

Scott has the decency to look sheepish. “I misspoke.”

“No, misspeaking is calling someone an asshole, or a cunt, or a dipshit! It’s not saying their parents were right for abusing them!”

“I’m inclined to agree.” Professor Xavier emerges from the crowd of watchers, a calm respite in the face of chaos. “Mr. Summers, if I could speak to you for a moment. Mr. Rasputin, I trust you can help Ms. Y/L/N calm down.”

He holds onto your shoulder until the back door closes, leaving the two of you with some privacy.

You scrub at your cheeks with your sleeve. “Well. That was a train wreck.”

“It did not go well,” he agrees. “You need to try to react better, myshka. Don’t let him get under your skin as bad.”

“Don’t let him bug me?” He tries not to flinch under the force of your glare. “He said my parents were right for locking me in my room! How am I supposed to not let that piss me off?”

“Myshka, please, try to calm down. Let me try to get the words right,” he says, holding his hands up in a calming gesture. “I am not saying Scott was right. He was very wrong, and he should’ve never said any of those things. I am just trying to say that beating him up all the time is not right response. You could get hurt, or someone else could get hurt in process. I think it would be better for you to get someone --the Professor or myself, maybe--when these things happen so you and Scott can work out your differences instead of fighting all the time.”

You sniff as you consider his suggestion, then pout up at him. “Aw, but my way is more fun!”

He can’t help but favor you with a soft smile; he knows your humor well enough by now to know that this is your way of indirectly conceding to him. “Perhaps, but more dangerous too.”

“Well, yeah, that’s why it’s fun.”

His forehead creases with his frown when you go silent. You look so small, like a shell of your usual self. He has to stop himself from reaching out and touching you, from trying to reassure you with touch. I need to tell her... but not now. Now is not right time. I just want to... hold her...

“Fucking asshole. Where the fuck does he get off?”

With Scott? Who knows these days. “People say unkind, unwise things when angry. Scott is one of those people, unfortunately.”

“I just... the fuck did I do to deserve that? What did I do as a kid that warranted locking me away?”

His heart wrenches in his chest. Bozhe moi, she’s crying. He kneels in front of you and puts his hands on your shoulders. “Myshka, look at me. Please. You could never do anything to deserve the way your parents treated you. You are wonderful, and smart, and kind; they were fools not to realize your worth.”

“Thanks, Pete. You really know how to make a girl feel special.” 

You have no idea how much I want to make you feel special, Y/N. No idea. I would hope so. You are...” He chickens out. Not now. Later. Now is not right time. “You are my best friend, Y/N. I hope you know that.”

“You’re really special to me, too. I’d use the term ‘best friend,’ but I’m afraid Wade would hear, and he’d throw an absolute shit fit if he finds out he has competition for that category.”

Piotr laughs. He gets it. Wade is Wade. 

You visibly hesitate, then ask, “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but... can I have a hug? I’m feeling really shitty right now.”

Bozhe moi. He hopes his voice sounds even remotely normal, because he’s pretty sure his brain just shut off. “Of course, myshka. You don’t have to ask.” He wraps his arms around you as you lay his head against his shoulder. It’s almost reminiscent of the time he carried you out of the warehouse after you slammed yourself through a window, except better because you haven’t hurt yourself.

Except it’s worse, because you’re crying on his shoulder.

God, he really needs to expand his library of affectionate interactions with you if that’s all he can compare this moment to.

He rubs his hand up and down your back, as gentle and careful as ever. “It’ll be okay, myshka. You’re going to be alright.” He smiles softly when you pull back, trying to hide the sense of loss he’s feeling over not having you in his arms.

“Thanks. I really needed that.”

“No problem, myshka.”

“You use ‘myshka’ more than you use my real name. What’s up with that?”

Blyad. I didn’t think I was using word that much. “Sorry, I--”

“No, big guy, I like it. I was teasing you.”

He smiles and shakes his head, firmly ignoring the way his heart leaps at hearing that you like his nickname for you. “You are nothing but trouble.”

“And yet you keep hanging out with me. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you liked it.” 

You have no idea.

“I still haven’t figured out what it means though. I’m starting to think that you just made it up and are messing with me.”

“It is real word. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“I know that, Pete. I’m just yanking your chain. So, it’s supposed to be something nice. Is it ‘idiot’ in the sense that I call Wade an idiot? Like, in a loving sense?”

He rolls his eyes. Why does she keep coming back to ‘idiot?’ “Nyet. I would not call you ‘idiot’ because it’s unkind. Besides, you are not idiot.”

“Okay, okay. Just thought I’d check. Is it a term for ‘friend?’”

“No.” It’s a term of endearment for couples, and I would tell you that if I was brave enough.

“Does it mean ‘genius?’”

He laughs. “No, but I would venture to say you are one.”

“Careful. I will absolutely use you as a reference when I apply for my official certification. What about... ‘super awesome badass?’”

He chuckles again, happy to see that you’re recovering from Scott’s damaging jabs. “No.”

“Does it mean ‘sexy?’”

He nearly chokes on his own tongue. He ducks his head, rubs the back of his neck, and laughs nervously. “Ah... no.” But you definitely are that. “That would be something Wade would say, but not me.”

“Fair enough.”

“You know, I could just tell you--” Please, just let me tell you, I can’t take you not knowing anymore--

“Uh-uh. I’m having fun with this. Don’t spoil it for me.”

He concedes to you, stuffing the desire to confess his feelings for you once more. He has a feeling he’s going to be doing a lot of that.

After that, he stops trying to regulate how much he calls you ‘myshka.’ Everyone else already knows, and he can’t resist seeing the happy glow in your eyes whenever the term of endearment leaves his lips.

Ellie’s almost constantly side-eyeing him now. She knows he’s in deep based on how often he’s calling you ‘myshka,’ and whenever they’re in a one-on-one training session she makes a point of telling him to ‘grow the fuck up and stop being a coward --just tell her already!’

To which he admonishes her for her language, but ultimately doesn’t argue.

She’s right. He is a coward.

There’s multiple times where he almost does tell you. The softness in your eyes when you look at him, that smile that seems to be reserved for him and him alone, the way your cheeks flush whenever you talk to him... He’s not imagining things. He hopes he’s not.

But then Wade or Russell or Scott walk in, and the moment’s ruined. You might not have Wade’s poor impulse control, but the two of you do share the same propensity for getting distracted easily.

And, well, he’d be lying if he said he felt brave enough to confess his feelings to you in front of an audience.

Blyad.

Life never does get easier, does it?

And it certainly doesn’t like handing him ideal opportunities to tell you how he feels, either.

Take today, for example. He --and the rest of the X-Force--are currently surrounded by fifty hyper, bouncing, shrieking mutants. It’s the school’s annual meeting for the teachers to work on problem solving as Xavier’s kept expanding and expanding. He’d volunteered to help the X-Force with the gaggle of young elementary students, which wasn’t a choice he was regretting--

Except he is, just a little now, because you’ve got one of the kids in your arms and you’re smiling at them as they laugh, and oh god seeing you work with kids is doing something to him, just like seeing you in his jacket on New Years--

He has to viciously derail the train of thought to avoid an embarrassing moment in front of the students... and Wade.

Then, Neena suggests hide and seek, you volunteer to count, and the kids scatter to go find their hiding spots.

He tromps upstairs, trying to force his mind into order; a difficult task, considering that his thoughts are a nonstop loop of you, you with kids, you with kids playing hide and seek, and oh god--

Focus, he tells himself. Find hiding place.

Also a difficult task, considering he weighs over five hundred pounds in his armor and stands at nearly eight feet tall. Even if he could find a spot that would accommodate his height, his heavy footsteps would be a dead giveaway.

Unless...

His eyes widen as a thought occurs to him, then he slips out of defense mode --which gets a considerable gawk from Wade, but Nathan drags him off before merc can say anything too unsuitable for young ears. Piotr ducks into his room, changes into a t-shirt and jeans, and grabs his sketchbook and pencil before stepping into the hall again.

He can hear your voice echoing from the kitchen; he’s almost out of time, as he suspected he would be, and he creeps to the library as quickly as he can.

You’ve never seen him in his ‘human’ form, and he’s willing to bet that the change will be stark enough that you won’t recognize him. Once you’ve scampered off to find the others, he’ll be able to find a spot that’ll fit him much easier.

Or maybe he won’t. Granted, his switch won’t work against the others --especially since both Nathan and Wade saw him change--but it might be worth it to see the adorable way your nose wrinkles when you’ve been had.

He settles at one of the tables, sketchbook open and pencil in hand, just as you declare that you’re done counting. He tries to focus on working on one of his drawings, tries to tamp down the giddy anticipation as he hears your footsteps ascend the stairs.

You pop into the library, smiling, and--

It works.

“Oh --uh--sorry. Uh, you wouldn’t have happened to see a metal guy walk by, would you? About the size of your average giraffe, made out of steel, probably muttering something about safety or rules.”

He can’t help but smile at your description of him and points to the right.

“Thanks.”

His heart tugs slightly as you head back out into the hall, and he’s left to wonder if he should’ve revealed his identity to you instead. It would’ve been a shock, yeah, but it also might’ve prompted some conversation --and let him reveal his feelings for you.

He doesn’t have long to mull it over, though. He looks up when you poke your head back into the library and can’t help but smile at your confused expression.

He keeps smiling as study him, gears clearly turning behind your eyes.

“Piotr?”

He laughs and sets down his drawing pad. “Da. Honestly, I thought this would work better. I guess I can’t get anything past you, myshka.”

“Holy shit... I... I didn’t expect this.”

The way you’re looking him up and down right now makes his chest fill with warmth. It’s nice to be genuinely admired, every once and a while. And it’s nice when your crush is doing it.

“Oh my gosh! I didn’t realize you had a human form! I just thought you were metal all the time! Looking babe-ly, my man.” 

He can’t help his nervous chuckle; being complimented by you, even if it’s a slightly goofy one, is elating. “Thank you. I prefer to be in my armor. Especially with Wade around.” Because, as he’s learned, Wade necessitates being ready for anything.

“Yeah, he does that. Whoa! You did that?”

He can feel his face heat up as you gawk at his sketch pad; being complimented by you is enough of a head rush, but having you admire his art has his brain short circuiting with glee. “Da. It’s not finished yet.”

“Your ‘not finished’ looks like my ‘only in my dreams.’ Can you teach me how to draw? I’d love to get better.”

Oh god, this is an actual dream come true. Stay calm. Don’t make fool of yourself, Piotr.  “I would love to. Would you like to see others?”

“Hell yeah.”

Having you fawn over his art is satisfying in ways he’d never imagined possible; you lavish equal amounts of sincere attention over each picture he shows you, which makes him indescribably happy.

The softness on your face --the amazement in your eyes--when he shows a full color picture of a sunset nearly makes him melt.

“Piotr, it’s beautiful.”

It’s not one of his favorites --he’d been experimenting with a new color palette, and it hadn’t panned out like he’d hoped--but your praise leaves him blushing anyway. “Thank you. This is not one of my better ones.”

“It’s wonderful. Don’t sell yourself short.”

“You can have it, if you want.”

“Really?” You sound elated. “I don’t want to take it from you.”

“Really, myshka.” He loves the idea of you having one of his pictures, probably more than he should. “If you like it, you can have it.”

“Piotr, that’s so sweet of you. I’d love to have it, if you’ll let me. Though, we should probably keep it in the sketchbook until the day’s done. I wouldn’t want it to get accidentally destroyed.”

He moves to close the sketchbook at the same time you do, and the sensation of your hands brushing against each other is wonderful.

“Oh my gosh. I’ve never felt you without your armor before!” 

The unwitting innuendo isn’t lost on him --he’s an adult, he understands adult humor, he just doesn’t like using it all the time, Wade--but any nerve he might’ve had worked up to tell you his feelings evaporates when you start touching his hand.

It feels wonderful. Heavenly. Your touch is warm and soft on his skin, and--

And it stops all too soon when you retract your hand with a sheepish expression. “Sorry. That was weird of me.”

“No, it’s fine,” he says before he can stop himself. “It feels... good.” He watches you as smooth your fingers over his hand, wrist, and forearm, mind racing with thoughts. I love you. I love you so much.

He needs to figure out how to tell you, because the small touches you’re showering him with are opening a gateway to a part of his brain that he’s worked so hard to rein in. He wants to hold you in his arms, wants to kiss you, wants to call you ‘myshka’ and have it be real.

He wants to touch you.

He brushes his fingers against your forearm before he can overthink it. “May I?” When you nod, he lets his hand run over your arm and up to your shoulder, following his fingers with his eyes. Your skin is just as soft as he’s imagined --on the rare occasions that he’s indulged the daydream side of his brain--and touching you the way you touched him is send little sparks of electricity through his whole body.

He’s not really thinking at this point --his brain has shut off from all the endorphins running through it--and he lifts his hand to caress the side of your face without second guessing himself.

Before he can mentally shake some sense into himself and retract his hand, you close your eyes, lean into his touch, and let out a soft sigh.

Bozhe moi.

There’s no way he’s imagining this. The way you’re leaning into his hand, the happy smile on your face--

It’s mutual. You like him, too.

His mind races as he rubs the pad of his thumb over the swell of your cheek; should he say something --or should he kiss you instead?

Because, as ungentlemanly as it sounds, he really wants to kiss you. Bozhe moi, I want nothing more.

Before he can decide, you make the choice for both of you.

He inhales sharply when you press your lips against his and presses his hands against your back to pull you into his lap. Your lips feel utterly perfect against his, and he has to remind himself to breathe. More than once. He grins at you when the kiss ends. “Bozhe moi. I have wanted to do that for... for a while.”

Your returning grin looks blissful. “Yeah. Me too... We should probably go find the kids. It’s been thirty minutes.”

He stands --as much as he doesn’t want to; he’d rather stay here and kiss you some more--and tucks his sketchbook under his arm. “Da. Lead the way.” He does hold your hand as the two of you walk out of the library to track down the other hiders, which has him smiling long after you let go.

The rest of the day is a mix of bliss and torture. Bliss because he knows you like him now, because he can reach out and share fleeting touches that leave both of you exhilarated and a little flushed; torture because all he really wants to do is kiss you again, and he can’t do that because there are fifty plus witnesses and he doesn’t want to let everyone see that just yet.

Ellie puts it together though -admittedly, the two of you aren’t exactly subtle--and mutters “About time” low enough so only he hears it when she passes. She’s smiling though, and he appreciates her support all the same.

Eventually, the day does wind to a close, and the crowd of mutant kids and X-Force members disappear with surprising quickness...

Thanks to Wade, apparently; at least, it’s thanks to him if the blow job gesture he’s shooting you is anything to go by.

Piotr rolls his eyes and focuses on picking up the trash from dinner.

The door shuts with a thud, and you rejoin him, favoring him with that soft smile he loves so much. “Hey.”

He smiles back, keenly aware that, though you two are alone, you’re still in view of the mansion; he wouldn’t put it past Wade to spy on the two of you, because the merc with no concept of privacy would absolutely do it. “Hi.”

“What were you and the twins talking about?”

“Mostly about what they think of America. They think weather is too hot.”

“Yeah, it must be a big transition for them. Not gonna lie, it was really cute to watch you interact with them.”

He grins and raises his eyebrows. That... wasn’t what he was expecting you to say, but it thrills him away. “Da?”

“Yeah. You’re really good with them.”

He ducks his head, trying to contain his earnest fervor. “I liked watching you work with girl who can fly. I think you made her day when you showed your abilities.”

“She was a sweetheart.”

He goes quiet, mostly because that’s... not what he meant by that.

Another conversation for another day. He settles for kissing you on the cheek. “She’s not only one.” He quickly ties off the bag of trash and chucks it in the nearest barrel. “Shall we go for walk?” When you nod, he takes your hand and leads you to a part of the garden that he knows is out of sight from the mansion windows. He manages to hold a conversation about the day and the kids with you while you walk, but it’s hard to focus when he can hear his heart pounding in his ears and all he can think about is kissing you again.

Which he does. As soon as you’re sitting next to him again, tucked safely from view on a bench behind a tree, he presses his lips against yours feverishly. It feels so overwhelmingly good for such a simple gesture of intimacy, and it pains him to break the kiss.  “Sorry. I’ve been wanting to do that all day.”

A rush of delight runs through him when you kiss him.  “Don’t apologize. I was hoping you’d do that.”

He smiles softly as you nestle against his side, and he can’t resist kissing the top of your head when you lay your head on his shoulder. She’s so precious.

“So, do you want to know what my last guess for what ‘myshka’ means is?”

He does, actually. He’s curious to know if you’ve guessed it by now --or looked it up. “Sure.”

“Does it mean ‘beautiful?’”

“Nyet, though you are very beautiful.”

“Well, then, I give up. I have no idea what it means.”

“Does that mean I can tell you now?”

“Go for it. I’m dying to know.”

This is it. This is the moment he’s been waiting for since your first kiss in the library. “It means ‘little mouse.’”

“Really? ‘Little mouse?’ I know I’m short, but I didn’t think I was that small.”

He laughs quietly. “It is not about height.” Here goes everything. “In Russia, it is term of endearment... that boyfriends use for girlfriends.” He feels you still against him as you process the information, and he forces himself to be patient and let you take your time.

“Does... does that mean you liked me all this time?”

Here it is. Tell her how you feel, how you’ve felt, he tells himself. “Da. You are kind, and smart, and unbelievably fierce, and achingly beautiful. You swept me off my feet the moment I met you with your humor and spirit, and I have been in love with you ever since.”

“Why didn’t you say something? I could’ve kissed you months ago!”

“You told me not to say anything! What was I supposed to do?” And he was scared to admit his feelings, but that’s a confession that can wait until later.

“Man, the one time my stubborn streak really doesn’t pay off.”

He chuckles and wraps his arm around your shoulders --which feels amazing, and he thinks he’s going to love being affectionate with you more than he anticipated. “I think it all worked out in end.”

“Oh, there’s no way I’m disagreeing with that. So, Mr. Rasputin, is this your way of asking me to be your girlfriend?”

His heart’s pounding, and his mouth is dry, but he manages a nod. “Da.” He lets his eyes flutter shut when you lean up to kiss him again. “May I take that as ‘yes?’” he asks when you break the kiss, slightly breathless from his elation.

“Da.”

Hearing you say is wonderful, better than he could’ve ever imagined.

He smiles, and leans in to kiss you again.