{Author's Note: Sorry I've been M.I.A. I've been busy, stressed, and depressed, so ya know, the Big Three. But I finally finished this chapter, and I'm happy that I can share it. Updates will probably continue to be erratic.}

Sometime between leaving the kitchen that morning and trudging toward the back door of the school after aimlessly wandering across the grounds, the sun had retreated behind the horizon, and for the first time in a while, Peter wondered where the day had gone.

It seemed Erik had taken his request to leave him alone to heart, or if not, he hadn't been able to find his son. But if Peter had to guess, the former was more likely to be true than the latter because he was pretty sure that Erik had ways to find him faster than any resident telepath. And besides, it was really a foregone conclusion that Erik had chosen to give Peter some space based on the fact that Peter had seen Erik earlier while he was adrift and the man clearly had not been searching for him.

His father had been sitting on a bench by the pond, not doing anything really, just looking out toward the ever lowering sun as if hoping to lose himself within its dying light. He almost went to him, to apologize for earlier, to ask him what he was thinking about, to just . . . be by his side.

But he didn't.

Because as much as he pretended to be the guy who could bring levity to any situation, in reality, he wasn't that person.

What he was, was a coward.

He didn't want to be a talisman for his father's grief when he could barely carry his own, even with having years to come to terms with it—not that he ever had—but no matter what he felt, he still should've crossed the lawn to stand by his father's side and tell him that he felt it too, the weight of grief crushing down on him, an invisible pressure on his chest so heavy that at times he felt he couldn't breathe.

And yet, he hadn't, and now the resulting guilt felt like a new weight on his back, another ton of bricks he would never be able to discard.

But at the same time, why should Peter feel guilty about failing to comfort his father?

After his outburst in the kitchen, Erik could have followed him, could have chased him down, could have told him it was okay to be angry without really knowing why.

It was okay to scream at him for not being there, even if had no reason to know he should have been.

It was okay to feel guilty for experiencing a moment of happiness, knowing that they'd never get to feel the same.

It was okay to feel that sometimes the only thing keeping him going, was knowing that one day he too would be gone.

Yes, Peter had asked Erik to leave him alone. He hadn't yelled it. He'd even attempted an apology for snapping at his father, but still he had been clear that he didn't want company. And yet . . . Peter couldn't help but to be irritated by the fact that Erik had listened to him and left him alone. Weren't parents supposed to invade their children's space even when they didn't think that they wanted them too?

Then again, if Erik had followed him, Peter knew that too would have irritated him.

Because Peter didn't know what he wanted.

When he was with someone one, he wanted to be alone. But when he was alone, he wanted someone there, to share in the aloneness. His expectations were unreasonable. Illogical. He knew that. He knew he had put Erik in a no-win situation. He was doomed from the beginning.

It wasn't Erik's fault.

It was his own, because—if he was being honest—he did know what he wanted. Or rather, who he wanted. He wanted someone by his side who was never coming back, and if he let Erik stand in her place, it felt like he was betraying her in some way. And he was afraid too, afraid that when Erik looked at him . . . he felt the same way—that Peter was no more than a flawed replacement, no more than a distorted, unwanted consolation prize, one that he would eventually grow bored of, discard, and leave behind.

Obviously, he had abandonment issues. Peter wasn't so dense as to not be able to recognize that, but, unfortunately, recognizing that he had issues, didn't make them go away.

If it did, then Peter would have approached his father and spoken all the right words, but instead, it wasn't until hours later that Peter made his way up toward the school's back steps, his arms aching from using his crutches not-quite-correctly, still hesitant to put too much weight on his right arm, which continued to ache every so often without warning, just one more remnant from his failed attack on En Sabah Nur.

As he maneuvered awkwardly up the stairs, not quite sure if he was supposed to put his 'good' foot or his crutches on the step first, he realized he should've just taken the ramp, but by the time that realization crossed his mind, he was already committed to the stairs, so he soldiered on, just barely managing to make it up them without falling, which would have been the cherry on top of a shit day, not to mention utterly embarrassing.

Peter blew out a breath, not really winded, just tired—if you could apply that term to him—of feeling like shit.

He readjusted the crutches beneath his arms, hoping no one had seen his awkward struggle up the steps, and then opened the back door.

Someone had left the entry hall light on—either waiting for him or another nighttime wanderer—but it still took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the artificial light. When they did, they found an out of place end table pushed up near the back door with a bowl sitting on top of it. Based on its contents, it wasn't hard to guess who had left it there, hoping he'd return sometime before the end of the night.

Peter reached for one of the protein bars in the plastic bowl—Peter didn't even know that Charles owned anything besides Waterford crystal or gold leaf finished dishware—on the table, stopping when he saw a note tapped to the side, confirming his assumption.

Peter,

Added more peanut butter. Please eat.

-Hank

A hint smile of smile crept onto Peter's face. Hank was too thoughtful for his own good, no wonder he worked at a school because you had to be impossibly selfless to deal with children and washed up rejects like him. Peter started to take a bite of the protein bar, but paused when he noticed that someone else had scribbled in the corner of the note in purple ink and loopier handwriting.

Or, better yet, check the drawer.

Frowning again, hesitantly, Peter opened the end table's small drawer, cracking it open slowly fully expecting something to pop out at him, not that he anticipated a legitimate threat, but kids could be little shits—he should know, it wasn't that long ago that he was one—and any number of them—Scott—could have motive to prank him.

But he needn't have worried.

Peter grinned, snatching up the box of Twinkies from the drawer, barely registering the sticky note stuck to the box with just one short salutation, and he certainly did not take notice of the fact that the last letter of the signer's name formed a neat heart instead of the natural curve of a y—

Enjoy.

- Remy

But Peter did feel another twinge of guilt, realizing that perhaps he'd judged the newest houseguest a little too quickly, so he told himself he'd be nicer the next time their paths crossed.

Not wasting any more time, Peter tore one Twinkie open with his teeth, crumpling the wrapper tightly in his palm. He very nearly ignored the protein bars completely at that point, but he knew Hank would be disappointed if he didn't at least try them, and Peter was tired of disappointing people, especially when all Hank had been doing recently was taking care of him. So, Peter grabbed two bars, sniffing one cautiously—which did smell more potently of peanut butter than past batches—before taking a bite. It was no Twinkie, but he had to admit, the new recipe put them much closer to being enjoyable from their current position of simply being palatable.

Peter finished the bar and then another in quick succession before abandoning the rest of the batch and just barely managing to figure out a way to clutch the Twinkie box in one hand while still navigating on his crutches.

Once confident that he wasn't going to drop the Twinkies, Peter headed down the hall, two Twinkie wrappers now held in his free hand between his palm and the handle of his crutch. As he moved down the hall, he heard voices filtering through the air, emanating from a room whose door was cracked just ahead of him. Most of the voices were indistinguishable, but among the chatter, he thought he recognized Jean's laughter.

Feeling a bit like a creep, but nonetheless careful to stay in shadow, Peter peered through the partly open doorway. As he suspected, the laughter did indeed belong to Jean. She was leaning casually against Scott, perfectly comfortable on the couch. The television in the room was on, but neither she nor Scott were paying it any mind. Instead, Jean was throwing popcorn randomly into the air, and both she, Scott, and the other occupants of the room beyond Peter's line of sight laughed and cheered as Kurt bounced across the room, trying to catch each piece in his mouth.

He tore his eyes away quickly, but not quickly enough to spare himself the pang of loneliness that settled in his gut at the easy comradery in the room.

He knew he could join them if he wanted. The action itself would be simple. All he would have to do is push the door all the way open and walk through. Everyone—except Scott—would more likely than not be welcoming, or at least polite enough to appear as such. But as simple as it would be to open the door, he still couldn't force himself to do it.

It would be weird for him to join. He figured he was at least ten years older than the oldest of them. He should be—but he wasn't—a stage ahead of them in life. They might try to make him feel welcome, but he never really would be.

Maybe it would be different if they'd asked him to join them, but they hadn't. Of course they would have had to have found him first, but even if he had been around, he was certain the only invite he would've received would have been out of politeness, or worse, pity.

Wiping his eyes with the back of one hand, Peter retreated quietly from the doorway, angry at himself for feeling jealous of a bunch of teenagers who were just enjoying a night with their friends. But he couldn't help but be jealous of something that he never really had. The few friends from school that stuck by him after mutants had been revealed to the world—after his father had revealed mutants to the world—had been fine, but none of them had ever truly understood him. And the one person who had understood him, had left him alone to answer the unanswerable question of what the fuck was wrong with him.

Peter took a moment to scratch at his heel. His foot itched. He knew he should find Hank to change the bandage resulting from his poor choices, but first, nature called.

Peter continued through the school, headed to the teacher's wing, wisely choosing to avoid the stairs this time and instead opting for the elevator. He felt a bit guilty that he had his own room, and to be honest, he wasn't sure why Charles had stuck him in the teacher's wing—because he definitely wasn't a teacher—but he supposed it would be weird to have a grown-ass man, swiftly approaching thirty, room with a teenager, so that didn't leave too many options.

But whatever the reason, there were perks to being grouped with the adults—one being that he had his own bathroom. He could've dealt with sharing of course. He had to share one bathroom with two sisters growing up after all, but still, it was nice to be past that stage of his life. A lot of things sucked about adulthood, but graduating from community bathrooms to a solo bathroom was not one of them.

After what felt like an eternity, Peter made it to his room, crumpling the Twinkie wrappers further and chucking them into the trashcan across the room. They landed in the center of the basket, never even touching the rim. He placed the box of Twinkies carefully in his sock drawer, not wanting an inquiry as to how he had acquired them or a lecture from Hank that there were much better ways to reach his necessary caloric intake.

After that, Peter headed to the en suite bathroom.

A few embarrassing minutes later—you'd think by now he'd have gotten better at taking care of his business while on crutches, but apparently the one week Wanda had become obsessed with Yoga had not giving him a lifetime center of balance—Peter was washing his hands in the sink, wondering absentmindedly who picked out the soap for the school. Did they have a supplier? Did Charles have a list of scents to choose from each time he placed an order—this month lavender, next month sage!

These were the kind of things that crossed one's mind when you had a full twenty-four hours alone with your thoughts every day.

Peter shook his hands off over the sink, careful to do so gently so he wouldn't get anything on the mirror. His mom had trained him well in that regard at least. He shut off the faucet, reached for a towel, looked up at the mirror above the sink, and then—

He screamed.

There was a woman in the mirror, red hair floating unnaturally around her head as if it had a life of its own, barely contained by a headdress that looked more like a crown than a headband. Her eyes glowed even brighter red than her hair, as if a collapsing sun were contained within them, rather than irises. Just as Peter's body was deciding between the fight or flight response—break the mirror or bolt—a hand with blackened finger tips reached out toward him from the mirror and—

Peter screamed again, falling back on his ass, hitting his head against the wall behind him with a thunk.

Disoriented and breathing heavily, Peter couldn't say whether minutes or seconds had passed, but the next thing he knew, the bathroom door was being thrown in, swinging on its hinges hard enough to leave a mark in the wall, but not hard enough to break, so probably not Hank.

Peter looked up from his heap on the floor to see Raven, posed for a fight, eyes scanning the room for a threat, but finding only Peter . . . who was never a threat.

"What happened?" Raven demanded, still on edge, eyes once again darting around the room, but with the shower curtain already pulled back, unless there was an invisible mutant—possible but not likely—there was nowhere in the room a foe could be hiding.

Or almost nowhere, Peter thought as he looked up, eyeing the mirror warily but not seeing anything from his angle on the floor other than the wall reflected behind him.

Peter knew he should answer Raven because each second he failed to, the more he was freaking her out, but he couldn't answer, not until he could see for himself.

Not waiting for Raven to help him and ignoring the pain in his foot, he stood up quickly, and oh boy did the room spin with him for a moment as he moved. But when he was finally standing, fully facing the mirror, the only thing reflected back at him was a skinny kid that looked like he had missed a few too many meals and could use a couple days out in the sun, and an angry blue lady studying him from behind, yellow eyes narrowed, trying to meet his in the mirror.

"Peter?" Raven prompted again.

"N-nothing, happened." Peter said finally. "I tripped. Guess the floor was wet. There was a spider."

"The floor was wet or there was a spider?" Raven asked immediately suspicious.

"The floor was wet and I thought—I saw a spider." Peter tried to recover and doubled down on his flimsily excuse, but he was sure Raven wasn't buying it.

Raven moved past him, looking at the floor and walking around it in her bare feet. "The floor doesn't seem wet to me." She said finally, narrowing her eyes at Peter. "And I don't see a spider."

"Well, obviously I dried it with my body when I fell because I'm helpful like that." Peter replied, leaning wobbly against the wall. "And the spider clearly ran away because it has self-preservation instincts."

Unlike some people.

"That didn't sound like a yell from falling or seeing a spider, that sounded like a scream of terror in response to something life-threatening, and I've got a lot of experience in knowing the difference between the two." Raven said calmly, boring holes into his head with a penetrating glare.

Okay . . . not sure he wanted to know what that meant.

"Well sorry my scream—my yell wasn't manly enough for you." Peter corrected, trying to glare back at her, but the action only increased the pressure in his head, and try as he might, he was pretty sure his attempt at an intimidating gaze wasn't as effective as Raven's.

"Whatever it was—scream or yell—you did it twice. What scared you twice?" Raven asked, not ready to let the matter drop.

"Uh the floor was wet and I saw a spider—two events." And then, because he thought it might be more believable, he added "Leave me alone already; I can't give you a play by play, okay?! it was a hard fall."

And, at that point Raven did leave him alone, but only because Hank showed up, filling the bathroom doorway and blocking any chance of escape.

He looked a little disheveled, like he had run through the school to get there, and knowing Hank, he probably had. "Charles said Peter was panicking. Is everything okay?" He asked, eyes darting from Peter to Raven and back again, trying to use that genius intellect of his to figure out what was going on.

"Peter fell—hard." Said Raven by way of explanation, crossing her arms and giving Hank a pointed look, and Peter wished he could melt into the floor.

Perhaps he should have let the mirror lady take him.

"It wasn't that hard." Peter said quickly trying to backpedal, afraid one way or another this was going to lead to him being back in the infirmary.

Before Hank could reply, somewhere behind him a floorboard squeaked, and Peter looked past him to see a crowd of young faces poking their heads curiously into his room.

Great. Just what he needed—an even larger audience for his slow descent into insanity.

Behind him, Raven's stare must have been something fierce though because they quickly retreated out of sight, practically tripping over each other to get out of sight, though Peter had no doubt that there was still a crowd gathered just outside his bedroom door, wondering what trouble the resident speedster had gotten himself into this time.

"Did you hit your head?" Hank asked, stepping forward, eyebrows knitting together in concern behind his glasses, oblivious to the comings and goings of the spectators behind him. "You look like you hit your head."

Peter, touched the back of his head quickly, you know, just to confirm that he wasn't bleeding and didn't have gaping wound in the back of his skull since—given the way it was throbbing—he could've believed that, and he wasn't sure what Hank met when he said he 'looked like he hit his head'. But thankfully, when he brought his hand back down, it came away clean, so—like he had with Raven—he attempted to dispel Hank's concern. "Phfft, how does one look like they hit their head when they're not even bleeding? Which I'm not." Said Peter, holding out the hand that he had touched his head with, then moving away from the wall to try to lean casually against the bathroom counter. But given his luck—or the head injury—he completely missed the vanity and barely managed to regain his balance and keep from ending up on the floor again.

"Okay. I see where you're coming from." Peter continued, holding up a hand to try keep them both back. "But I have an alternative theory for you—I'm just not that graceful."

Raven huffed. "Says the boy that must have done some crazy gymnastics to save everyone from an exploding building."

Peter frowned. "Man. I'm a man. Manly man. Person. Adult dude here. Not a boy. I see three adult persons in this room, which is just really too many people actually."

"Right." Said Raven, with what Peter felt was just a bit too much sarcasm. "You got this, Hank? Head injuries are a bit beyond me. I'm going corral the rest of the kids back to bed. Yell—or" and she gave Peter a pointed look as she exited "scream—if you need me. And he's lying about more than just hitting his head, so keep that in mind."

Hank nodded, but Peter could tell by their intense eye contact that as soon as they had the chance to be alone together, they were going to talk about him . . . or maybe rip each other's clothes off (or well just Hank's, since Raven was all natural at the moment), but Peter would put money on the fact that they were communicating one of those two things, which, honestly, Peter would be grateful if Raven was moving on from his dad.

Peter heard Raven shut his bedroom door behind her as she left, and Hank turned his attention back to him, his face clinical once more.

"May I?" Hank asked, gesturing to Peter.

And Peter—perhaps because he had hit his head, or, perhaps because he just wasn't that good at reading people as he thought—thought Hank was asking whether he could examine his foot and probably rebandaged it, so Peter replied. "Uh, yea I guess, go ahead."

Peter looked behind him, checking that he had put the toilet seat lid down before he tried to get up to sit on it, but clearly he and Hank were not on the same wavelength because a moment later, Peter's legs were flying out from underneath him, and in the next moment, Hank was holding him bridal style in his arms like he weighed barely as much as one of the youngest students.

Fortunately, Peter managed to stifle a yelp of surprise, which surely would have made him look even less manly in this situation.

Hank carefully deposited Peter onto his bed, setting him down so his legs hung off the side of the bed, and felt an awful lot like he was going to be scolded, but it turned out that he just wanted to test his cognitive faculties—classic Hank—though he didn't catch onto that right away.

"Peter, Can you tell me where you are?" Hank asked, peering at Peter attentively through his glasses.

"Uh the school?" Peter answered, not exactly sure what the 'correct' answer was supposed to be, but figuring that was a good enough place to start, somewhat wondering if Hank had lost it.

"What school?" Hank prompted gently but firmly.

With that question Peter realized Hank was still much saner than him, and all he was doing was testing him for a concussion.

"Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters." And then, before Hank could ask him another question, Peter continued. "What sort of name is that for a school anyway? First of all, who open's a school and names it after themselves? Aren't you suppose to name school's after famous dead people? Like, in D.C., all the schools are named after presidents and poets and people like that. Kind of pretentious of Chuck wasn't it?"

Hank chuckled a little at Peter's rambling. "Maybe." He agreed, but quickly put his serious face back on. "And can you tell me where Xavier's School for Gifted Youngers is located?"

"1407 Graymalkin Lane, Salem Center, Westchester County, New York." Peter recited the address from Chuck's business card that he had long ago memorized.

Hank seemed surprised that Peter knew the exact address, but at least it also seemed to reassure him that maybe Peter was okay, which—despite the pressure building between his eyes—was ultimately what Peter wanted.

"Good. That's right, Peter. Now, can you tell me—does your head hurt at all?" Hank asked, studying Peter's eyes closely, though, Peter wasn't sure what he was looking for. "Do you feel dizzy or nauseous?"

Yes. Yes. And Yes.

"Nope." Peter said aloud, but unfortunately for him, the game was up when a moment later, his body betrayed him when he felt his stomach clench and his mouth begin to fill with saliva.

Before he could vomit all over Hank, he quickly zipped over to the trash can across the room, the pain that shot through his foot and up his leg barely bothering him with his head and stomach taking most of his attention. He leaned over the trash, emptying the contents of his stomach.

Fuck.

Now everybody was going to give him even more shit about not getting enough to eat.

"Maybe a little." Peter commented sheepishly, once he finished heaving his guts out, looking up at Hank—who had joined him at the trash—and feeling repulsive as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Well, I hoped it wasn't the case, but this confirms it. You definitely have a concussion." Hank said with a frown, helping Peter back to the bed, and despite his diagnosis, allowing Peter to lean against the older mutant this time rather than Hank simply carrying him.

"Super." Said Peter, sarcastically.

Hank frowned, clearly not appreciating Peter's sarcasm, but perhaps not sure whether the concussion was making Peter brush aside the seriousness of a head injury or if Peter was just being Peter. Hank opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, there was a knock on the bedroom door.

"Come in." Hank said at the same time Peter called out "Go away!"

Unfortunately the intruder chose to listen to Hank over Peter, and Raven propped open the door and slid inside the room.

"Oh good, you do know how to knock." Peter muttered, folding his arms across his chest.

Raven ignored him and addressed Hank. "How is he?"

"He has a concussion. A mild one, I hope. It's good you're back actually. Can you sit with him? I'm going to get him an ice pack and my penlight to check his pupillary light reflex." Said Hank, like everyone knew what he was talking about. He could guess, obviously, that he meant to test the his pupil dilation response time to make sure his brain wasn't like bleeding profusely from within but couldn't he just say that?

Raven nodded her assent to acting as Peter's babysitter.

"Why do I feel like everyone is always talking around me and not at me? I bumped my head, I'm not in a coma. And I really don't need a babysitter." Peter muttered, but still spoke loud enough for them both to hear him.

"I'd take the same precautions for any student, Peter." Hank stopped to add.

"Not really a student." Peter mumbled, but Hank ignored him to address Raven again.

"Maybe you could take care of the trashcan and give Peter some water from the bathroom too? He threw up a moment ago and might want to wash out his mouth."

"Ah jeez, Hank, I'll clean it up. Nobody wants to clean up my puke, least of all Raven."

Peter made to get up, embarrassingly slowly, but Raven held him back with one foot.

Were most people that flexible? Shit. Maybe he needed to stretch more?

"Relax. I've dealt with far worse than a little vomit." She said, shoving him back against the pillows gently. "But don't get used to it. I'm not your maid or your mother."

Thank goodness for that. If his parents ever cross paths again, it probably wouldn't be a great time for anyone, but he was pretty sure they wouldn't literally try to kill each other like Erik and Raven had . . . or hook up in a closet . . . also like Erik and Raven.

"Duly noted." Said Peter, leaning his head back to stare at the ceiling, trying not to think about the fact that the flush of the toilet was Raven dealing with his vomit.

"You're not going to, like, tell Erik about this are you?" Peter asked, pulling himself up on the bed so he wasn't completely horizontal and could look at Raven again. She handed him a paper cup of water once he was sitting up. He took it and swished the water around in his mouth and spit it back into the cup. Before he could figure out what to do with it, Raven took it without complaint, and disappeared back into the bathroom.

"Tell him what? That based on your vomit, I'm pretty sure your most recent meal wasn't vegetables? Or that I cleaned up said vomit?" Raven asked, returning to cross her arms and raise an eyebrow at him.

"Well any of that really, but I meant the whole head injury thing mostly." Peter said, gesturing to his head a little too zealously. "It'd just be better for everyone if you don't mention it because I don't think he'd take it well."

"Oh do you think Erik would overreact?" Raven asked sarcastically. "That doesn't sound like him at all."

Peter giggled a little manically, which had to be a side effect from hitting his head because Peter did not giggle. "He is like really dramatic, isn't he? Like when does one wake up and decide to don a cape? He could do everything he's done just the same without a cape, but he's like, nope—cape. Gotta have it. When did he start wearing that anyway?"

In spite of herself, Raven gave a short laugh. "Good question. He used to be much more of a turtleneck guy. I don't exactly remember when he traded those in for an on the go blanket."

"He should have stuck with turtlenecks. I like turtlenecks. They keep your neck warm, and I'm always cold." Said Peter, unconsciously snuggling down on to the bed comforter, part of him wishing he was under it. "But, you're right. I cape really is just a blanket if you're innovative enough, so I guess a cape could theoretically keep your body warm too. So maybe capes should win out over turtlenecks. Hey! Maybe that's the answer! Maybe Erik's just naturally cold! I run cold too."

"For some reason, I don't think that's it." said Raven, sitting down on the side of the bed, and then she chuckled again. "You should've seen his first Magneto outfit."

"You mean the one he wore during the Attack on the White House?" I like that one a lot more than the one he wore with—the one he wore more recently. The new one was . . . I don't know, scarier I guess, which was maybe the point I suppose." Peter pondered, trying not to picture his father's lifeless eyes staring at him with no hint of emotion, while Peter thought he was about to die at the hands of a madman.

"No neither of those." Said Raven, shaking her head. "Before that, what he wore in the 60s. it was not flattering."

"The 60s. Man. I forget how old you guys are sometimes." Said Peter a little bit in awe, thinking about the fact that Raven and Erik, were fully formed people out doing crazy shit in the 60s, while he was basically barely out of diapers.

"Shut it." Said Raven, nudging his leg harmlessly. "You're lucky you've got a head injury because if you didn't, I'd smack you for that comment."

"But you really won't tell him, will you? My dad?" Said Peter, brushing off Raven's threat.

"You know Peter's father?" Hank asked suddenly from the doorway, having returned to the room with an ice pack and small flashlight in hand.

"Shit, Hank, wear a bell!" Peter started, giving Raven a panicked look—Lie. Lie. Lie.

"I did," Raven said carefully, glancing briefly at Peter while he tried to keep his face blank, but was silently panicking. "a long time ago. Can't say I really do anymore."

"Oh. I didn't think—you've never talked about your, dad." Said Hank, setting the ice pack on the end table for a moment while he switched places with Raven to sit by Peter. "I guess, I didn't think he was in your life."

"He . . . wasn't. We connected—or like reconnected I guess—pretty recently . . . . Sorry, can we not talk about this?" Peter said, wondering just how hard he had hit his head or how messed up he was if he was freaking out more about talking about his father than about the fact that he was seeing people who may or may not be real.

"Of course." Said Hank, fumbling unnecessarily with the penlight, and Peter realized that the conversation had become awkward for Hank too. Did Hank think he was mad at him now? Should he ask about Hank's parents? Would that be weird?

Fuck his head hurt.

"I'm going to shine this light in your eyes really quick, Peter, alright?" Hank asked, holding up the pen light.

"Okay." Peter responded with his assent, feeling unnecessarily nervous. Like if his eyes didn't respond properly, it would be his fault.

Hank held the light up to Peter's left eye, then his right.

"Good. That's good." Said Hank a moment later. "Your pupil dilation is normal. Now, I want you to track my finger without moving your head, okay?"

Peter nodded, as Hank held up his index finger, and moved it painfully slowly back and forth in front of his face. Peter felt a bit silly and bored, having to keep his eye movements at a pace perceptible to Hank, but if it meant Hank would give him a clean bill of health, he'd suffer through it.

"Perfect, Peter. Did that bother you at all?" Hank asked, lowering his hand. "Did it make you feel dizzy or give you a headache?"

"Not really." Said Peter, failing to mention that he already had a headache.

Hank studied Peter's face closely, but Peter must've done a better job at lying than he expected because after a moment, Hank seemed to take his answer at face value.

"Well, the fact that you vomited is definitely a concern and a sign of a concussion, but pupillary light reflex is functioning properly as is your coordination, so I don't believe it's an extremely serious concussion. But any head injury is concerning. If your foot wasn't injured, I'd check your balance, but the best advice I can give now is to get some rest, and if you feel nauseous again, dizzy, or your head starts to hurt, you need to let me know. Immediately."

"Yeaokaygotit." Peter replied, in retrospect, too dismissively.

"I'm serious, Peter. There are a lot of people here that care about you, myself included, and well, your track record for injuries is . . . really beginning to pile up." Hank answered hesitantly.

"Okay but you can't count the ones battling a supervillain. Those weren't really my fault." Peter responded with a defensive pout.

Hank narrowed his eyes at Peter, adjusting his glasses as he did so. "Regardless of who's to blame, unfortunately, they still count as injuries."

"Yea, they definitely do." Raven added as she rubbed her neck briefly with one hand, clearly remembering her own injury.

"Alright, calm down. I get it." Peter conceded, and then, after a moment's hesitation, he added. "So if I start seeing . . . things, I should let you know?"

"Why? Are you seeing spots?" Hank asked, concern crossing his face again as he reached for his pen light once more. "Or is your vision blurry?"

"No. Nope. No I'm not. It's not." Peter adamantly denied, pushing Hank's hand away before he could blind him again. "I just remembered that that might be something that could happen when you hit your head."

That was all. He definitely wasn't seeing spots or having blurred vision . . . or seeing strange visions of women with glowing eyes.

No. Nope. Nu.

Hank eyed him suspiciously, but didn't press him further. "That's good, but yes, if you start seeing things like that, let me know right away."

There was no way Peter could tell Hank or Raven—or anyone—what he had seen. They would all think he was crazy. And, he was pretty sure that Charles, for one, already thought he should be medicated, and if he could figure out the correct dosage, Hank probably did too.

But maybe he was crazy. Or at least on the path to Crazytown. No sane person saw visions of mystical looking women trying to seize them through a household mirror.

But if he wasn't crazy, then what was the alternative? Were his powers to blame? Was he suddenly going to start having visions as a result of years of seeing time and reality in a way that was different from everyone else?

Maybe that was what had happened to Wanda. Maybe she had started seeing things in the weeks or days before she . . . .

Or maybe, this was a problem uniquely his own.

Only time would tell.

{Author's Note: Plot has arrived. Thank you for your time.}