Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.

Author's Notes: I apologize for the time between updates. You ask, I deliver; the next chapter was supposed to be more Wanda, but people wanted a Pietro's-Eye View. I give you this. Please enjoy.

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Slam. Lock.

Only once the door was shut and he was shielded from probing eyes, when he was sealed away from an angry world, when he had a flimsy wooden partition separating him from reality, only then did Pietro allow himself to break down.

He slid to the floor with his back pressed up against the bathroom door, arms splayed out along the wall as though he were bracing it, almost as if he anticipated Lance to follow him and barge in to continue his prying. Damn him for being concerned.

Dropping his head backwards, he hardly noticed the crack as it made contact with the wood; his eyes half-lidded and rolled back in their sockets, his teeth chattering. He didn't know whether they chattered from cold- the air was suddenly frigid-, or from fear.

Fear.

Clenching his fists, he rolled up to his feet and stood panting. His eyes glanced upon his haggard reflection in the mirror. He glared at it, making eye contact with the figure in the looking glass and hating him for being a weakling. For almost buckling down in front of everybody.

"I am not afraid."

The hiss was full of anger, but not confidence. Tension rippled through him, his teeth clenched, his muscles straining and taut until a vein stood out along his neck. Still, the image in the mirror looked only half-real; a phony, a poser, an imposter.

"I'm not afraid!"

He punched at the mirror then, not breaking the glass but certainly bruising his knuckles. Jerking back with a yelp, he put the wounded hand to his mouth and sucked on it, startled by how much that had hurt. Glancing back at the mirror, he gave himself a weary smile.

"You're also a terrible liar."

The Pietro in the mirror looked offended, and slapped a hand to his forehead melodramatically, feigning a swoon with such overdramatic style that Shakespeare would have been proud.

Pietro laughed at him.

"Yeah, I'm talking to you! You big fat liar."

Mirror-Pietro laughed right back and crossed his arms, rocking back and forth on his heels with a superior smirk.

'I know you are, but what am I?'

"Shut up."

'You shut up!'

"Yeah, well, you're ugly."

'You're stupid.'

"You're slow."

'I am the rubber, you are the glue…'

Pietro was pressed up against the mirror now, his breath fogging the glass as he laughed at that little fellow in there, arguing with the man in the looking glass in a playful game. He actually saw a separate being in there, an image of himself before the day of Sentinels, a carefree and manic teenager with nothing more to worry about than a bad hair day.

"Don't you give me that shit, ya little weasel!"

It was all in fun; he meant offense to the boy in there. In fact, he liked him quite a bit, and really wished he would stick around for a while…

'What shit? I'm not giving any shit…'

The figure purred like a cat, an innocent smile on his face as he batted his eyes furiously.

"Hey, you're weird. But I like that."

'You just like me because I'm not coward.'

Pietro blinked, the smile fading from his face as the person in the mirror suddenly looked very mean, his eyes glinting with a cruel edge as he advanced towards the glass.

'You want me to stay, don't you? You want me to stay because you like me more than yourself.'

"No. Go away…"

Edging away from the mirror, Pietro stared in horror as the image of himself was right up against the glass, so close that his breath was creating a fine mist.

'Well, guess what, champ? I can't stay. And it's all your fault.'

"What are you talking about?"

Pietro's voice trembled with terror, his back pressed against the wall. The figure turned and walked away slowly, revealing a dagger embedded in his back.

'Because… you killed me.'

"I didn't…"

'Only one person could put that dagger there, buddy. You. You stabbed me in the back. Everybody liked me. Nobody likes you. Why'd you do that? Were you jealous?'

"Go away… I didn't kill you…"

'But I'm not mad. Oh, no. You're going to have to pay for that. You're going to have to live with the guilt.'

"Stop! Stop it!"

'Because you killed yourself.'

The figure turned back and stared out of the glass, his eyes literally burning with white fire.

'So thanks… for nothing!'

He raced towards the glass, lifting up in the air for a flying kick, one foot filling the whole mirror as it made contact and shattered…

Screaming, Pietro threw himself at the mirror.

And froze.

His own reflection stared back at him, gasping for air and with tears streaking his face. Lifting trembling hands to the smooth surface, he cautiously ran his fingertips along it. No one there. Only a sniveling, crying coward who couldn't even face himself.

He about had a heart attack when someone pounded on the door. Clutching his chest and whirling around, he heard Lance's worried voice.

"You okay in there? I heard a yell…"

"I'm fine! Leave me the hell alone, Alvers!"

"Whatever, Maximoff!"

Grateful for having someone to vent his rage on, he occupied his mind with anger for Lance as he ripped off his shirt and threw it in the corner. Another glance in the mirror revealed that he was covered in sweat. Muttering darkly, he turned on the shower and listened to the water running. Had to keep himself occupied… couldn't stop and think…

Peeling off his shoes, socks, and jeans, he jumped into the shower and let out a hissing gasp as the hot water made contact with his body. It felt scalding; a wild look to the handle confirmed that it was at the line between hot and cold. It should be barely lukewarm…

"Damn!" He yelped.

The water was tearing into his skin. He switched the handle down to be at its' absolute coldest. Only then did it begin to feel tolerable.

Great. Another thing freaking out in his body. What else could go wrong?

Slamming his hands against the wall, he let his head drop between his shoulders and hang there, watching the water swirl down the drain. For a moment, he fancied he could hear it crashing down through the pipes like a waterfall.

Throwing his head back, he let the water splash over his face and run down his body.

Wash me clean…

His shoulders were aching from tension. He tried rolling them backwards; that only hurt more. Rolling forwards… no better. Damn it all.

He contented himself with standing under the refreshing water until he had lost track of the time. Just… standing there, feeling a need to be clean and to have all the sweat and blood of the day washed from him.

Stepping out of the shower and wrapping a towel around his waist, he chanced one fleeting look into the mirror. The weakling he saw in there filled him shame.

"That's not me…" he whispered to the empty room. "That's not me…"

He looked away, mourning the loss of the one he had killed.

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