Mortimer's face was burning.
It could have been for any number of reasons; for one he was obviously very angry. Being kept up well past midnight to complete a butt-load of chores (that Dominic had added last minute on to his already long list) would generally do that to a guy.
So, there was anger. Next was the fact that he was currently being made to scrub the oven clean with a tiny brush. Had this been winter, he wouldn't have minded so much. But no, it was a humid summer night and the sweat was dripping off his brow as he worked and while the oven wasn't necessarily on, it was the psychological aspect of it that made it so unbearably hot.
And the dress he was wearing itched like hell.
Yes, the dress. Another reason for the heat in his face. It was black and short sleeved with a square collar and the skirt came down about mid-thigh - even shorter now that Mort was on his knees. Thank God they'd let him wear his boxers underneath, though he suspected it was more to spare the rest of the Brotherhood the sight of his green ass than it was to spare him the humiliation of having to tug his skirt down every time he moved.
The dress had been Blob's idea. In fact, the dress had been Blob's property. Weird thing for him to have so conveniently on hand. It actually wouldn't have been so bad if it wasn't so tight under the arms and made from such irritatingly coarse fabric. And the smell. Where exactly had Blob been stashing this thing?
Mort sprayed more oven-cleaner into the open mouth and sat back on his heels, watching the foam bubbles pop. He put a hand to his back and made a sad noise, arching to stretch out the soreness.
Footsteps on the tile behind him sounded out and Mort swiftly bent down again, scrubbing at burnt cheese and meat drippings from ages past. Tired and aching as he was, he didn't need to be seen taking an unauthorized break from Drill Sergeant Rockhead.
"At ease, soldier. I'm just getting some tea."
Ah, Neena. She'd been content to just sit back and watch while Rogue had looked vaguely uncomfortable with the whole thing. As if the X-men didn't do worse to teammates who repeatedly failed. Why else would she have left to join up with the Brotherhood?
Mort took the opportunity to rest against the cabinet opposite the stove as he watched her pour the hot water into two mugs. The girls liked drinking tea quite a bit, he noticed. Always together. Tonight it was peppermint tea; he could smell it and longed for a cup of his very own. Odd, since he didn't normally like tea.
"Almost done for the night?" Neena asked. Apparently she was in a better mood, enough to be civil.
"Still gotta clean out Pietro's dishes, wash them, then mop the floors. And then whatever else Dominic adds on before he lets me go to bed," he grumbled.
Neena looked at him quizzically. "Mort, Dominic went to bed three hours ago."
He stared back at her in disbelief. "But . . . But he said he'd let me know when I could stop -- AGH!" Mortimer threw his scrub brush at the sink. It bounced off and clattered across the tile. "That big Grecian turd! Aw man, he was just gonna let me figure it out!"
"Seems like it," Neena shrugged, unaffected by Toad's tantrum. "I would keep my voice down if I were you," she teased. "He might wake up and make you clean the windows in that outfit."
Mort crossed his arms and childishly stuck his tongue out. She sipped at the hot beverage, giving him a mildly pitying gaze over the mug's rim.
"Why don't you just bring down Pietro's dishes and I'll let you call it a night, 'kay? Rogue and I want the living room to ourselves, and you without pants mopping the floor is not a sight we'd like to see."
"Hey, the dress wasn't my idea. It was someone else's. Someone who needs special help." Mortimer sulked, glowering in the direction of Blob's room. Neena smirked and left the kitchen with both mugs of tea.
Mort sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. He was exhausted and he couldn't wait to get out of this damned dress. With many small groans and various other pained noises, he stood up and practically bent over backwards to realign his back. He loped over to the sink and drank a long cool draught of water from the tap. There was sweat trickling down his chest and making the fabric on his body that much more irritating.
Pietro might be asleep at this hour, Mort realized. He'd just sneak in, collect the dishes all ninja-like, and be in bed within the hour. Sounded great. Maybe he could hide the dress. Or rip it up. No good; Dominic would only force another one on him. Who knew what Blob had in his closet anymore? Probably best not to find out.
He headed upstairs and steeled himself for the possibility that Pietro might be actually be awake still. Maximoff had disappeared shortly after they got home and sequestered himself in his room. Probably to talk to his father. He always talked to his father alone. Which was just fine; Mortimer didn't really want to know what the leader of mutants thought of him, especially right now.
Mort had the sudden ridiculous fear that Magneto would still be on the videophone once he was allowed into Pietro's room. He had no desire whatsoever to be paraded in a dress in front of that man. For a multitude of different reasons, he barely wanted Pietro to see.
Here it was, the door of unpleasant possibilities itself. Mortimer pressed his knuckles against it for a moment, debating and chewing the hell out of his lip. If Pietro was awake, just walking in would be a big strike against him. If he was asleep, knocking would only wake him up and piss him off.
Deciding to err on the side of politeness, Mort knocked softly. He heard a grunt and a mutter. So, Pietro was . . . awake? He knocked again, just as timidly.
"Who is it and what the hell do you want?" Maximoff's voice answered flatly.
". . . Housekeeping?" Mort ventured, not really knowing what else to say. He was wearing a dress so, why the hell not?
He felt guilty when Pietro's tired voice allowed him to come in. Then he flushed self-consciously as he felt Maximoff's eyes look him over.
"Glad to see you think this is funny," Pietro iced, staring back at the videophone. Mortimer knew then that Magneto had already called him - how many hours ago? And Pietro was still sitting here. Pietro didn't sit still often. He would have taken the dishes down himself within nanoseconds if he'd been feeling alright; neatness after meals seemed to be a staple of the man's diet.
Mortimer eyed the glass with wine drops still clinging to the mouth and bottom, and the plate which held grape stems and traces of chicken alfredo sauce. They were beacons of filth in the otherwise immaculate room. Dominic hadn't sent him up to clean; he'd sent him up to get torn to shreds. But that didn't really matter to Mort right now, because he was looking at Pietro. Not even the mess in Blob's room could compare with the one he saw sitting in Pietro's chair.
"Are you alright?" unfortunately slipped out of Mortimer's mouth before he could think. He cringed as Pietro's eyes regained their focus and locked onto him.
"I almost destroyed Genosha along with my father and my sisters. And now my father knows about it. So yes, Toad. I'm just peachy."
The tone made Mortimer writhe in his own self-hatred for almost a minute. He ducked under Pietro's gaze and reached for the glass at the man's elbow. He'd just . . . He'd just get the dishes and leave then.
His plot was foiled when Pietro abruptly snatched the glass and threw it at the wall, sending shards everywhere, but mostly onto the floor. The smash made Mortimer freeze like a rabbit spotted by an approaching hawk.
He and Pietro watched as the final shards hit the carpet and lay there glittering, waiting for someone's feet to find them. Mortimer swallowed after a long silence.
"Do you w-want me to get the v-vacuum?" he managed, not looking at Pietro.
"No, Toad. I don't care. Just leave it." Pietro's dull tone was back. His anger seemed to have vanished, but Mortimer didn't feel relieved. He felt worse.
"This is my fault," he blurted, again without thinking. That seemed to be his motto for the night: 'without thinking'. His shoulders slumped under the weight of Pietro's stare. "I shouldn't have gotten caught. Then I wouldn't have known about Nitro."
He also maybe shouldn't have begged or bargained with Pietro to let him come home. Instead he should have accepted their decision; should have watched more stoically as the man he . . . as Pietro walked away like he didn't matter. Mortimer couldn't bring himself to say it.
"You aren't the leader of this team. I am and I'm the one who listened and decided to take Nitro to Genosha. So the fault is mine. End of discussion." Pietro's hands were digging into the arms of his chair like claws.
Do you regret letting me come back? Mortimer wanted to ask, but for once his common sense kicked in before his mouth could open. Perhaps because it was a question he didn't want the answer to.
He walked over carefully and began to clean up the glass, collecting the shards in his hand.
"Thought I told you to nevermind that," Maximoff snapped harshly. His voice sounded strangely uneven and Mortimer stopped what he was doing to stare at him. Pietro looked away swiftly, looking furious at himself for the sign of weakness. "You should leave," was all he said.
What had Magneto said to him? Granted, anyone else's father would've yelled for a bit, but ultimately would have been glad his kid was alright. Mortimer's own dad hadn't been the father of the year necessarily, but that was mainly due to Mort looking the way he did. Who wanted to put pictures of that in their wallet?
But Pietro . . . Pietro was beautiful. He had probably been a beautiful kid; never going through that awkward teenager stage with the big ears and the knobby sharp knees and elbows and acne. Mortimer couldn't imagine him going through it anyway. Pietro was clever, fast, silver-tongued; he was a good leader, he was a good son.
So what the hell was Magneto's problem? Mort couldn't understand it. He moved to crouch beside Pietro's chair and reached up, touching his hand lightly. The action seemed to jolt Pietro out of whatever daze he'd gone into and he looked at Mort in a way that once again reminded him of who was the hawk, and who was the rabbit. The silly, stupid, scared rabbit who'd come out of a safe burrow because he'd thought the hawk looked sad without his supper.
Pietro's hand closed around Mort's wrist in a vise-like grip. It hurt, but it was Maximoff's cold blue eyes that had Mortimer's pulse kicking up in a panic. "Your fault, is it? Is that really what you want to think, Toad? That this is all your fault?"
The grip went tighter and Mort made a thin noise of pain, trying to pull his hand back. "Because that would mean that you owe me one, since I took the brunt of the blame. You owe me big."
Pietro's voice could grate ice into shreds and his eyes had gone predatory. His smile sent shivers down Mort's back, and not the good kind. He didn't look like Pietro anymore, he looked like a younger version of Magneto and it was terrifying. Mortimer struggled to reclaim his hand and found himself suddenly against the wall, both wrists pinned above his head and Pietro's mouth mere centimeters from his own.
"I warned you to leave," Pietro muttered, for just one second coming back to himself. Then his mouth crashed against Mortimer's, too hard and dominating. Mortimer arched against him, crying out and tasting blood - though it was from Pietro's lips as he uncaringly crushed them against Mortimer's sharper teeth.
Maximoff's teeth moved down, making light marks on his throat and that tender place where his shoulder met his neck. Mort squirmed against him helplessly. It felt alternatively good and then amazing, and then just painful; he never knew whether Pietro's mouth would come down in a kiss or a punishing bite. Returning the kisses in a frantically gentle manner did no good, though he still tried - in the hopes that he could convince the man to lay off a little.
He had trouble breathing within a minute of this torture and then Pietro abruptly peeled him away from the wall, having somehow unbuttoned his dress all the way down to his navel. Now he fairly ripped the garment off Mortimer's body, bruising his arms in the process and not seeming to give a damn. Again Toynbee's hands became useless weapons, wrists pinned behind his waist as Pietro backed him toward the bed.
Mortimer opened his mouth to protest the rough treatment (although this was disturbingly like a fantasy or two he'd had before, the reality was not as fun) and ended up squawking in surprise as his knees met the edge of the mattress. Knocked off balance, he was shoved down. The dress had vanished and Pietro hooked his fingers into Mort's boxers, sending them to join the crumpled black fabric somewhere on the floor.
"Ahhhn - Pietro, wait!" he cried, face darkening with embarrassment. He tried to curl up, but fingers dug into his pelvis and thighs, forcing his legs out and apart. Desperate, Mortimer dug his knees into Pietro's waist to try and keep him from going any further between them. "Don't do this -" he whined, squirming against Maximoff.
"You asked for it," was all Pietro said and he kissed him again. He dug his fingernails into Mort's wrist when his freed hand sought to push him away and roughly pinned it back to the bed. Mort's legs moved frantically, trying to bend up at an angle that would let him block Pietro's way. He didn't want it like this, but he also didn't want to risk hurting Pietro.
All that changed when he felt a finger touch him in a sensitive place and start to work its way in. Yelping, Mort twisted his hips almost instinctively and managed to get a foot braced against Pietro's stomach. Although he shoved more than kicked, it still resulted in Maximoff receiving a very rough landing against the dresser and then onto the floor.
Mortimer instantly curled his legs to his chest, swearing and breathing hard. That had felt weirder than he thought it would, and it had hurt.
As Pietro got up, cursing a rapid blue streak as well, Toynbee scrambled to get into a more defensive position. He was almost certain that a beating was heading his way and didn't care; the other option was worse.
Pietro made no immediate move toward him, just rubbed the aching small of his back and glowered at Mort. "What the hell is the matter with you? You want this. I've seen the way you look at me," Pietro said lowly, though there was the slightest tinge of uncertainty in his tone.
Mortimer flushed, thinking of every time he'd indeed been caught staring at Pietro. And every time he hadn't been able to look at Pietro, such as when the man was in his face and berating him for a job poorly done. Of course his feelings had been transparent to Maximoff; he should have known. At least he'd never been mocked for it in front of the others.
"So you want this." Pietro didn't put it out like a question, but rather an argumentative statement.
Mort flushed "No. I mean, yes - just not when you're pissed off," he pleaded. "Come on, man."
Pietro came closer, looking at Mort. "You're saying this should be more like a reward?" he said flatly.
"Well, it shouldn't be a punishment!" Mort snapped viciously, and was instantly appalled at himself. He looked at his hands gripping the edge of the mattress, posture still ready to spring out of Pietro's reach if he needed to. "I mean . . . I'm already being punished, aren't I? If you're angry at me, why don't you just hit me instead?" he suggested, voice trembling a little.
Pietro had never hit him before. Sure he'd been smacked upside the head more times than he could count by various team members, but never anything too painful. Mort didn't want Pietro to be the one to start down that road and was visibly frightened for even mentioning the idea. Such that he flinched when Pietro lightly touched his face.
"I am not going to hit you," Maximoff assured him quietly. He stroked Mortimer's jaw then smirked when Mort could not suppress a light whimper. Toynbee remained still, letting Pietro touch him and eventually turned his face to kiss Pietro's palm.
Something in Pietro's expression softened. He sat down on the bed next to Mort and put his hands harmlessly on the mattress. Mortimer near whimpered again at the loss of touch. Before he could ask, Pietro spoke.
"I hate who my father is sometimes. Not his ideals, but who he is. To me. He takes and he demands and he never gives." This was obviously very difficult for Pietro to say. Which was why he was rushing through it. "You know the type."
Mort bit his tongue.
"You know, because now you've seen how much like him I can be. That's why I wanted you to leave. You didn't want to know this about me. You wanted to keep on believing that I was perfect and that I could do no wrong. Maybe I wanted you to believe that too."
"But Pietro, I don't like you because you're perfect," Mortimer blurted out, interrupting. He flushed under the sudden weight of Pietro's stare. "I mean . . . you aren't. Not all of the time anyway. And I never am."
"I could so easily be like my father to you. I don't want to."
"Um . . . then don't?" Mort supplied.
"What, you think it's simple?" Pietro shot back.
"No, I don't think it's simple. Don't do it anyway. Pietro, I don't like you very much when you . . . when you make me feel worthless. Like just then, when it wasn't going to matter at all whether you hurt me or not, so long as you felt good. I've never done anything like that with another guy."
Mort flushed; that wasn't exactly the truth. "Well, I mean, you know, when I lived on the street sometimes I'd do . . ." He made awkward motions involving his mouth and hands, and flushed even deeper. "For money. But never --"
"Yeah, okay, I get it," Pietro said, smirking faintly and pushed Mortimer's hands down. "No need for visual aids, thank you."
His hands lingered on top of Mort's, which were incidentally resting on his bare thighs. Oh right, he was naked while Pietro was still fully clothed. The heat in Mort's face was turning almost unbearable now.
He shifted uncomfortably, seeking for a pillow to cover himself up with. Pietro squeezed his hands lightly, preventing him.
"So, you've never done something like that before," he said quietly. "Are you interested?"
"Uhhh . . ." Mort was flustered, clearly. Pietro's hand was moving slowly up his chest, sending the burning feeling in his face southwards and quickly.
"Is there anything you would like me to do?" Maximoff asked, leaning in. His breath tickled against Mort's throat. So this was Pietro being seductive? Mortimer's pulse was kicking up again.
"T-Take off your shirt?" he suggested. Pietro's bare chest was pressed against his in the next instant, even before Mortimer heard the garment land on the chair behind them. His weight lowered the both of them down onto the bed as he delivered kisses to Mort's chest and throat, so light they felt like the wings of a hummingbird beating inches from his skin. Mortimer could not help shivering.
Realizing a little belatedly that he should be touching back, he reached up and trailed his fingers through Pietro's hair. It was softer than it looked, almost downy. He wrapped his arms around Maximoff's neck, kissing the man's shoulder cluelessly as Pietro's hands seemed to know precisely where to go and what to do when they got there.
Mortimer had bit his lips at first, determined not to make any noise. This seemed so wrong; he should be the one making Pietro feel like this - not the other way around. It was achingly hard, but Mortimer started to shift himself into a sitting position. Pietro sat up with him. "What? What's the matter?"
"Pietro . . I . . . I just . . ." His words were failing him. Angry at himself, he slipped off the bed and positioned himself between the other man's knees. Pietro's hand slipped beneath his chin, making Mort look up at him.
"Hang on. Do you actually want to do this?"
"I can do it. Just let me. It'll feel great, I promise," Mortimer assured him. His fingers went to Pietro's jeans, attempting to unbutton them. Pietro made no move to help.
"This isn't because you're afraid, is it?" Maximoff's tone was gentle. "I won't hurt you. You have my word."
"It's not that," Mortimer said, giving up and frowning at the designer jeans. Everyone else had always undone their trousers for him, or had ridiculously too-large jeans which were easily lowered. His claws were making this difficult for him. "I . . . I don't know what else to . . ."
"All you have to do, Mortimer, is trust me," Pietro murmured quietly, and he unbuttoned his jeans. Rather than letting Mort get on with it though, he lifted Mortimer by the elbows while kicking both jeans and boxers off. Ignoring the shy protests of the younger mutant, Pietro once again laid Mort on his back and slid a palm down across his belly.
Even at that light touch, Mortimer arched and whimpered as all arguments died on his lips. He wanted this - he did. He just wished he knew what to do in order to earn it.
A hand wrapped around him and squeezed lightly, causing him to bite his lips against a squeal. Mort forced himself to swallow it, shaking a little as his legs were coaxed apart further. Pietro's hands did their magic, fingers stroking the inside of his thighs and various other places while his mouth continued its work on Mortimer's throat and chest. It was almost too much and he was terrified of coming too soon.
Pietro was suddenly back again before Mort even realized he'd gone. Distracted by a warm mouth traveling along his jaw line and to the ridges of his ear, he barely noticed when a cool wet fingertip pressed against his entrance. "If it hurts, tell me and I'll stop," Pietro whispered and Mort braced himself immediately.
There was very little discomfort and he was surprised, until the first finger was joined by a second, and then a third. Mort grit his teeth, determined not to make a noise even if it did hurt; he didn't want Pietro to give up on him. Being interrupted three times in one session would be a little much for anyone.
He kept quiet, until Pietro purposely brushed against something Mort didn't even know was there. His body jerked as if electricity was going through his spine and the most unlovely noises issued from his throat. Humiliated, Mort turned his face into Pietro's neck and wrapped his arms around the man's shoulders.
To his credit, Pietro didn't laugh. He kissed him soothingly, probing and brushing against that bundle of nerves until Mortimer got used to the shock of pleasure, and started unconsciously angling his hips to receive it better.
Mortimer was unable to stop the embarrassing sounds he was making and he made yet another one when Pietro withdrew his fingers. They went to his hips instead, lifting him slightly. Mort breathed against Pietro's collar, feeling the slight vibration in the man's throat as he murmured a question. In answer, he kissed him and then had to turn his face away to avoid accidentally biting Pietro's lips as the man pushed in.
Thoughtfully, Pietro gave him some time to get adjusted before he started moving. For at least thirty seconds, Mort did not have the presence of mind nor the breath to cry out. He still slightly panicked at the realization that he was doing none of the work and feeling so good - right up until he heard Pietro's low keening moan against his ear. Mort breathed a little easier and he turned his face to kiss at Pietro's throat.
He felt Pietro's grin against his cheek, then gasped raggedly as the man started to pick up speed. Mortimer arched his back, locking his ankles around the man's waist to keep him there. After a moment, the speed increased again and pleasure spiked into pain. Mort cried out and unthinkingly dug his nails into Pietro's back. "Not so fast," he begged, pulling Pietro down against him.
"Owowowowow! Takeiteasy," Pietro complained. Mortimer let go of him instantly, gut twisting as he realized he'd possibly ruined everything. The man only kissed his temple and resumed at a more comfortable pace.
It was the only interruption at that stage and Mortimer came first, hiding his face against Pietro's shoulder as he shuddered and made inarticulate noises. Pietro finished soon after, kissing him shakily before he pulled out and collapsed beside him. He was the first to catch his breath, content to lie there and listen to Mort still trying to.
Unlike his counterpart on the bed, Maximoff was used to this. He'd had it harder, longer, shorter and softer . . . so this alone wouldn't mean anything to him, except that it had been different. He had the scratches on his back, that he somehow wasn't angry about, to prove it.
So when Mortimer turned on his side to rest his head on Pietro's shoulder, he allowed it -even wrapping an arm around the green mutant's waist. He wouldn't have done so for anyone else. This was potentially disastrous.
Thankfully, Mortimer was no fool. "You want me to leave before morning?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"The others would not be amused," Pietro agreed. "And they'd take it out on you. Or just leave. Then we'd have to wear caped costumes and strike out on our own as vigilantes for mutant justice."
"Huh. That wouldn't be so bad," Mort pondered.
"Yes it would. Magneto is the only one who's allowed to pull off cape-wearing in this family. If I were to look dashing in one, there would be a fashion war declared between us. Many deaths. Tragically, it would all lead to more bad poetry in Genosha."
Mortimer snorted, hiding his laughter behind a hand.
"So you see, Mort, why we must always hide our love?" Now even Pietro was having a hard time not grinning.
"Our tainted love?" Toynbee could not seem to help suggesting.
"Yes, you eighties dork. Our tainted love," Maximoff agreed, resting his cheek against Mort's. With a yawn, Mortimer curled closer against him and fell into sleep. Not wishing to be left awake with any thoughts of his father, Pietro followed shortly.
----------------------------------------
Toynbee was good on his word. The next morning the dishes, the broken glass, and Mort had been cleared out of his room. Pietro laid in bed for several more minutes then got dressed. Glancing at the clock, he discovered that he'd slept in, something that he rarely did. Breakfast probably had been made and mostly eaten by now. Pietro didn't know whether to feel gratified or indignant that his team had known he needed the sleep.
There was coffee left over, praise God, and cold toast. Pietro spread jam on the toast, poured himself coffee, and sat at the table - all without looking at anyone in the kitchen. He was intent upon sucking the life from his coffee mug and would be useless until he'd drained at least one cupful.
Which is why Neena waited until Pietro had paused to cram toast in his mouth before she cleared her throat pointedly. She was the first person in the kitchen that popped into existence for him at that moment and he seemed genuinely surprised to see her. Her eyes flicked to the sink and she cleared her throat again.
Pietro looked and saw Mortimer, shoulders tightly hunched and once again wearing that damned dress. He was scrubbing the pot and shaking lightly and Pietro wondered what the problem was until Dominic walked back into the kitchen.
"And you missed this last night." He threw something into the dishwater and Mort flinched at the angry noise of cutlery more than the splash in his face. "You did not mop the floors either, and did you even bother finish cleaning that oven? What did you do all night, watch television and lay around?"
"It was midnight and I was tired," Mort pleaded. He had been yelled at all morning, judging from the uneven sound of his voice. And yet he did not look pleadingly at Pietro. Not once.
Pietro watched, letting it play out. He glanced back at Neena who had her eyes open a little wider, urging him to do something. Mort aggravated her just as much as anyone else, but she was known for being soft on him when everyone ganged up on the guy. The only reason she was not defending Mort right now was because she expected Pietro to break up any fights, as was his right. He appreciated the deference, but not the fact she felt the need to actually prod him into his duty before a third cup of coffee.
Maximoff winked at her and finished his second cup. He went back to watching the Toynbee and Petrakis show. Pietro knew there was no way to do what he wanted to do, which was to tell Dominic off. He was the leader and there had to be a reason. That reason was approaching in ten, nine, eight . . .
"You were tired?! I am tired! We are all tired of having to fish your ass out from MRD prison camps because you cannot follow the simplest instructions! You were supposed to go out the back window, not the front door of the building! Don't you have any common sense at all? And you can't clean dishes worth crap either! I don't even know why you're on this team, you worthless -" Dominic trailed off into Greek insults and Mort turned away, on the verge of tears and clutching the dish against his chest too hard.
Pietro put down his cup and appeared inches from Dominic's face, startling him. "He's on the team, Petrakis, because I asked him to be. And I don't remember putting you in charge of his punishment."
"What - yes you did, you said -" he began to argue.
"Oh, that. Yeah, I said you could pick it out. But I never said you could enforce it. That's my job. And as of now, I think it's gone a little too far. For one, that dress you picked out is hideous. Not to mention severely unwashed and ill-fitting. In short, it's an eyesore and I don't want to see it after today. Second, you have some chores you could be doing right now, isn't that correct? You said Toad's in charge of cleaning the house, whereas you have to flush our jeep's transmission and brake fluid, then change the oil. You don't look nearly dirty enough to be done with that."
Pietro looked over his shoulder at Mortimer and caught him scrubbing at his face. He hitched and dropped his hand self-consciously. "Well, you heard me. Get out of that dress right now."
Mort blinked. "R-Right now?"
"Well, not here in the kitchen, obviously. I don't think the ladies would appreciate that." Pietro grinned, watching Mort turned red as he caught the double meaning; the girls wouldn't but there was someone in the kitchen who wouldn't mind in the least. "Now shoo. Go get pants."
"Pants?!" Mortimer echoed, excitedly.
"Yes, pants," Pietro assured him. With a whoop, Toynbee dumped the dish into the sink and ran out of the kitchen past a chastened Dominic. "And make sure to destroy that dress! We could use the rags!" he called after the retreating mutant.
Pietro didn't fully hear Mort's enthusiastic reply, but he smirked regardless. Dominic's expression was sour, although he was confident the Greek would not give Toynbee any more hell. Almost confident.
"Why do you reward his failure?" Petrakis demanded.
"Hey, I gave you your fun," Pietro said, unaffected by the surliness. "We don't want him to leave, do we? He's already learned his lesson for this time."
"And the next time we leave him in the MRD cells, yes?"
"No."
"WHAT? But earlier you said-" Dominic started angrily. Pietro cut him off.
"Forget what I said! We are public enemy number one right now - we just destroyed the MRD Archives, remember? If Toad gets captured again and left there, Wraith will have ample time to make him sing like a bird. Do you want to move our headquarters that badly?" Pietro demanded.
He hated saying that; the thought of Mortimer facing torture by that bastard's hands was not something he ever wished to contemplate. It was now unfortunately a real possibility.
"Eh. You have a point. I concede." Petrakis shrugged it off, apparently satisfied that it was shrewd reasoning rather than a sudden bout of soft-heartedness keeping Toad with them. He ducked out of the kitchen's doorway and Pietro visibly relaxed.
He glowered at the table when he realized the girls were staring at him . . . and both were smirking knowingly. Pietro felt a small stab of panic in his gut.
"What?"
"Nothin'. That was just very well played is all." Rogue folded the newspaper to a new page. She was still smirking, damn her.
Pietro relaxed. "Hey, it's a leader's job to keep the peace around here, Rogue. You see the things I have to do?"
"Aw, poor you," Neena replied, full of smarm. Pietro scowled and poured a fourth cup of coffee. He heard the giggling and ignored it as he took the extra seconds to add sugar and cream to his cup. Girls. What did they know, anyway?
As he sipped the beverage, his mind wandered to the way Mortimer had looked after sex; rumpled, undemandingly sweet, and so content to lie beside him when nobody else could know about them the next morning.
And if they did find out - if his father found out - there was this tiny voice in his head that insisted Mort could be worth it. Worth losing everything. He was both frightened and surprised to find that he agreed with it.
This was so very potentially disastrous.