PIETRO POV

A few minutes earlier

As soon as Erik closed the bathroom door, Pietro went about his business, which was a lot more difficult and time-consuming than normal, but he managed it.

He hobbled from the toilet to the sink, somehow managing to turn on the faucet by half-leaning, half-sitting on the counter. He washed his hands as best he could, but with his palms encased in bandages and one arm in a sling, it didn't go particularly well. He lifted his good hand to his mouth, tearing off the bandage with his teeth in frustration. And then, because he was still angry, he tore the bandage off his other hand too. It was more difficult because with his arm in a sling he couldn't lift that hand to his mouth, but, ever determined, he succeeded, the flash of pain in his wrist as he wrenched at his hand was a welcome distraction from the throbbing pain that—though it had dulled significantly—still remained in his head.

He examined his palms as the water continued to flow, they looked better than they had before and apparently they weren't so bad as to need stitches because they didn't have any, or maybe you couldn't put stitches in palms? Pietro didn't know, and he didn't particularly care. What was one or two more scars in his warehouse of them?

As he stared at his hands, they began to shake, vibrating at a speed that he knew would be disturbing to the eyes of any other. He clenched his hands into a fist, at first to stop them from shaking, and then because the pinch of his nails digging into his palm felt like an anchor, keeping him in the here and now, even if it meant he was at risk of reopening his wounds.

Pietro looked up from his hands to his face in the mirror and regretted it almost immediately. He didn't look as gaunt as he had in a distorted memory that came unwanted to the forefront of his mind, but he didn't look great. His hair was a mess—greasy looking and untamed—his eyes somewhat bloodshot, and of course his natural pallor wasn't doing him any favors. He looked a bit like a junkie who hadn't had his fix and desperately needed it . . . kinda like the Professor had when they first met, but worse.

At least, he thought it had been the Professor—Charles—Chuck—but in his mind the image of the man switched from a disheveled hippie-looking individual to a clean-cut sweater-wearing gentlemen, and Pietro wasn't sure which—if either—were accurate.

Pietro shook his head, staring at his pathetic excuse for a reflection once again. Nothing about his image should have surprised Pietro. He never looked great. Sure he cared about his clothes, was even particular about them when he could be, but his appearance beyond that . . . well that was another thing altogether. He knew what he looked like, plenty of people had reminded him over the years, but there was no fixing those things about himself, which was why he mostly tried to avoid mirrors on principle, and today was no different.

Pietro closed his eyes, wishing to escape the living breathing ghost in front of him, but the darkness brought on by his closed eyelids wasn't any better. In fact, it was worse. But still, Pietro gritted his teeth and tried to sort through the swirling images in his mind.

It was like someone had taken a sledgehammer to the brick wall that was his memories and then tried to rebuild that wall, and they had it standing again, but it was weaker and not put together properly.

No. That wasn't quite right. It was more like his memories—no his mind—were a puzzle. A puzzle that had been neatly and meticulously put together, until something—someone—had taken it apart, scattering the pieces. And then they'd rushed to reassemble it, but as happens with real puzzles sometimes when one returns to them after a time, some of the pieces have gotten lost, some torn, some have gone rough around the edges, and maybe even one or two have been jammed into the wrong place.

That's what it felt like.

So Pietro knew certain things. He remembered them even, but it was all . . . scrambled.

But there was one fact he couldn't get rid of. Something he couldn't shake no matter how much he wanted to.

He knew that Wanda—that Wanda—Wanda was—she was . . .

She was dead.

Once his mind grasped that knowledge, his chest started to ache, with not only pain, but emptiness. But even though he knew that she was dead and gone, flushed from existence. That's not what first came to mind when he thought of his twin. Instead, his first thought was that she was just away as she had been for some time, venturing out in the world alone because she believed she was a danger to him and everyone around her. But then he'd think about her some more, and he'd remember. That she wasn't just gone. She was Gone.

But the details were fuzzy. He could see her lying on concrete somewhere, with blood all around her—so much blood—but he couldn't place the exact time or location. Had it happened a year ago? Yesterday? Somewhere in between?

And then there was Nina. Nina, who he knew was his sister, but still he couldn't quite figure out why or how that had come to be. How had he met her? Who was her mother? Where did she come from?

And Mila was a question mark too. He looked at Mila and knew who she was. Knew that she was older than him now because of something having to do with him being kidnapped, too long alone in a white room, and Wanda bending the rules of reality. But when he thought of Mila and he turned to look at her, he expected a little girl—his little sister—to be looking up at him, and not someone who if they stood back to back might even be taller than him. And it would take a moment for his mind to catch up and remember that no, he shouldn't be expecting a Mila in footy-pajamas asking for a piggy back ride before bed.

And finally, there was Erik.

His father.

It felt like old news, yet new and shocking at the same time. He simultaneously wanted to race out of the bathroom and tell him he was panicking, just so the man could reassure him that everything would be fine, that he'd fix it because he was Pietro's dad and that's what parents do. But another part of him, a stronger part in this moment, wanted to lock the door and not emerge from the room for the foreseeable future . . . until said man was gone.

But he didn't do either of those things, not exactly; instead, he stayed rooted to the spot, opening his eyes again to see the same face staring back at him, stubbornly bound to follow him wherever and whenever he went.

He wanted his dad, but at the same time, he didn't, because he was confused and—and he thought that Erik might be responsible for that confusion.

Because as Pietro sifted through his not-right memories—in the recent ones, or what seemed like should be recent ones—he saw Erik there often. Saving him, helping, talking to him, being his father—a Dad. And in doing so, Pietro felt a sense of safety wash over him, one akin to a feeling that he had really only felt from Wanda.

A flash of, not quite pain this time, but pure unadulterated sadness shot through his head at the thought of Wanda.

He knew that feeling of safety was derived from the knowledge that they both would fight tooth and nail to protect him. They would do anything to protect him . . . . anything . . . maybe even tamper with his memories . . . because he was too weak to handle them.

But if Erik had done something like that, he wouldn't have—he couldn't have done it alone.

Charles face popped up into Pietro's mind again. Once again his face first appeared scruffy and unkept, an image of someone who—as far as Pietro knew—was too high to use his mind-whammy powers, but then, the face morphed once more into the polished and sophisticated Professor and his brain hurt a bit more. He pushed through it though, trying to think logically, and concluding that the true present Charles wouldn't brazenly invade someone's mind without their consent, even if Erik attempted to bully him into it.

But someone else . . . someone younger and less sure of themselves, someone who—like everyone in his life who had good intentions—saw him and thought he had to be protected from himself, might just be pressured into it because they were convinced that it was what was best for him and his weak constitution.

Someone like Jean.

The girl's face materialized in his head, unlike Charles', Jean's image stayed constant in its appearance with her fiery red hair and kind eyes.

Jean?

Pietro called out within his own head on a whim, feeling a bit ridiculous as he did so.

There was no response, and he felt stupid for thinking she would be paying attention to him. But still, he tried again.

Jean.

One again, nothing.

But then after a moment, there was a reply.

Peter!

Peter physically flinched back from the strength of her reply. Jean must have noticed his discomfort in some way because her next thought was much softer and tentative.

Sorry . . . Peter, are you . . . do you—do you remember?

In response to her question images of Apocalypse standing over him menacingly and then Wanda covered in blood flashed through his head, whether by their own accord or intentionally in response to her question, he wasn't sure, but there they were all the same.

The images played through his mind, and he couldn't stop them as they picked up speed and settled only on his twin.

Wanda—small and innocent, peeking out from the other side of his aunt to give him a half-smile as they each held one of her hands.

Wanda—older, but still quite young, kicking a boy in the shin who said Pietro's hair made him look like an old man.

Wanda—a preteen now, throwing popcorn at him as they watched some old movie on tv.

Wanda—in a flash of fury utterly destroying his childhood tormentor in their kitchen.

Wanda—older still, sitting next to him on the hood of beat up old Volkswagen

Wanda—as he last remembered her, laughing with him as Jubilee and Jean tried to explain the concept of Star Wars without giving away major plot points.

Wanda—bleeding out on a non-descript street.

Wanda—unmoving and—

Peter! Peter! Stop! It's too fast. Peter!

Peter wrenched his eyes open, not realizing he had shut them again, but with the distinct impression that Jean had been calling his name for some time. He was grateful this time to see only his tearstained face looking back at him and not Wanda's lifeless body.

Jean?

Peter called out silently. His head was pounding again, and he figured that if she had been honed in on his mind, then Jean's probably was too, not because she too was dealing with a fractured mind, but because she couldn't keep up with the speed of his thoughts.

I'm still here, Peter. Are you okay?

Peter pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, and watched his reflection do the same. In a brief flare of curiosity, he wondered if Jean could see through the eyes of those she was communicating with telepathically. That is, he wondered if she was seeing his haunted image too.

He hoped not.

Jean . . . did . . . did you do this to me? Did you take my memories?

There was silence on the other end of their connection, but Peter somehow knew she was still there. And when she did 'speak' again, he could tell that she was crying.

I—I didn't take them. I just—I hid them. I tried to hide them. You were so . . . sad doesn't nearly begin to cover it. I'm sorry. I was worried. But you seem . . . different now. HE gave them back to you, didn't he? I saw him grab you. But it's not—he didn't do it properly—they're not quite right, are they? He made you remember, and he gave them back to you; but I made you forget. It's my fault. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Peter. I shouldn't have done it.

Peter rubbed one eye on with the heal of his 'good' hand, a million emotions passing through him. After a moment he looked into the sunken brown orbs that were his own eyes in the mirror, took a deep breath, and replied.

It's not your fault, Jean. You didn't do it on your own, did you? It wasn't your idea.

Her silence spoke volumes, but eventually she did respond.

No one made me do it. No one can make me do anything, Peter. It was my decision.

Despite the grimness of the conversation, Peter's lips tugged up slightly at the corners as Jean's resolve reminded him of Wanda.

But he asked you to, didn't he? My da—Erik—asked you to make me forget her. Forget Wanda.

The knuckles of the fingers of Peter's less injured hand turned white as he asked the question while he gripped the bathroom counter, and if their conversation had been out loud, he knew he would've struggled to get the words out.

No, Peter. Not, Wanda, just . . . just what happened to her. And not forever. It was never supposed to be forever. Just until things settled down. Just until he could help you. Until we could help you through . . . through her loss.

So that was the truth then. His own father thought he was too weak to handle Wanda's—Wanda's—

Jean must have sensed the path he was driving toward, even if he didn't think she could properly read his mind because of the nature of his powers unless they were both focusing on each other, because she hurried on.

You can be angry, Peter. You should be angry. But be angry at me, not him. You can't know, because you haven't seen into his mind like I have, but he loves you, Peter, so much, just as much as Wanda did. It was wrong of us to do what we did. I know that, but . . . he was only trying to protect you. You . . . Nina . . . you both mean more to him than anything in the world. He's terrified of losing you.

Peter took in a shuddering breath, holding back tears whose source he couldn't quite pin down—anger, sadness, that traitorous feeling of safety; it could very well have been a result of all three.

"Pietro—Peter, are you . . . are you alright?" Peter heard Erik's muffled voice from the other side of the bathroom door.

He gritted his teeth as the sound of his father's concern threatened to shatter his barely contained composure. "I'm—I'm fine. I just, I need a minute." Said Pietro, he could hear that his voice didn't sound quite right, not that his voice ever sounded normal—nothing about him was normal, but he hoped it was calm enough to keep the temporary distance between them. At the same time, he realized he hadn't turned off the faucet completely—a testament to just how out of it he was. Feeling guilty for wasting water, Pietro rushed forward hissing in pain as his palm collided too roughly with one of the handles, but ultimately managing to seize the water flow this time.

"O-K. A minute." He heard Erik answer back, still sounding tense.

Peter pushed the thought of Erik from his mind and 'turned' back to Jean.

Can you fix me? He asked finally.

I don't know . . . But I won't try, Peter. I can't, because you're asking me to fix you, but I'm broken too. What I did to Apocalypse . . . I don't—I don't know how I did that. I understand my powers even less now than I did before, but now, what I do know, is that I was right to fear them, and I was wrong to mess around with your head. I won't risk making you worse. I'm sorry. I can't help you. I should never have tried. And you could ask the Professor for help, but . . . your brain is unique, Peter. You're unique. Just speaking to you this way is a challenge for me. And the Professor may have many more years of experience with his powers than I do, and he's powerful, but—as much as it frightens me to admit—he's not as powerful as I am. He could hurt you even more than I have if he tried.

So that was it then? He was doomed to a lifetime of twisted memories? Never quite knowing what was real and what he had imagined? It made him angry, furious even. But how could he even be mad at Erik, when Erik was right? It was Peter's fault that he was too fragile to handle Wanda's death, but more importantly, Wanda's death was his fault. What was the point of being fast, when he was never fast enough. And how could he blame Erik, when not so long ago, if Peter was remembering correctly, he'd asked Wanda to do the same thing—to take his memories, memories of a white room, a prison, of pain and fear, and make them disappear forever.

Pain and fear that now paled to what he felt when he searched—not so much with his mind, but with his soul—for someone that should be there, that had always been there, even when he couldn't see her, but who now was agonizingly absent.

Peter shoved his make-shift crutch to the ground, for no other reason than that it had the audacity to stand there upright when he felt like the world was crashing down around him. It made a clatter that reverberated throughout the room when it hit the tiled floor.

Peter stared at it, entirely unsatisfied.

Peter! "Peter!"

There was Jean again. No, there were two voices, and one was not in his head but out loud.

I've got to go Jean.

Pet—

Jean tried to reach back out to him, but he purposefully started chanting (and he hoped projecting) the lyrics to Rapid Roy (That Stock Car Boy), well rapidly, which seemed to do the trick because he didn't 'hear' her again.

Peter rushed to retrieve the crutch from the floor and through a combination of luck and amateur gymnastics he managed to grab it, then he quickly hustled to the bathroom door at a speed both his mind and body protested for different reasons, regretting the pace a moment later. But, having reached his destination, he wrenched the door open to see Erik—unsurprisingly—practically poised to break it down.

He tried to calm his breathing which seemed entirely too fast, but whether it was from his emotional breakdown or his recent exertion, he couldn't say.

Realizing he needed to say something or Erik might think he had truly lost it, he leaned heavily on the crutch, gripping it beneath his armpit and held up his good hand as high as he could manage.

"My bandages came off." Said Pietro as he stared at Erik, purposefully trying to keep his face devoid of emotion because he couldn't think about if he was angry or sad or spiraling because any one of those things could push the man away. His father might find that dealing with an emotionally compromised kid that he had never asked for was too much and, as much as he didn't want to be around other people, he also didn't know if he wantto be alone, and he figured, it was harder to pull someone back than it was to push them away.

"Okay." Said Erik, looking a bit relieved as he took the crutch from him and took his weight instead. Peter could tell that he hesitated at the close contact, and honestly, Peter wasn't sure if he wanted to breakdown and cry in his arms or pathetically attempt to shove him away. But he did neither, simply allowing his father to help him without comment.

"I can fix that." Added Erik when it was clear that Peter wasn't going to resist his help.

But you can't fix me, can you?


{Author's Note: I know Peter's not completely in that headspace, but I still may or may not have been listening to Wake Up from Julie and the Phantoms on repeat while writing this chapter.

Don't judge me.

Also here's to wishing Peter had Wanda's powers like in WandaVision to just be like—NO, and reset reality.}