Ficlet -- As Requested -- WatXM -- Mortimer, Pietro/Dominic
Title: Shut Up, I am Dreaming (of Places Where Lovers Have Wings) or Men With Faithful Hands, They Make Such Good Boyfriends
Verse: Wolverine and the X-Men
Word Count: Just shy of 2000.
Warning/Rating: Teen. Swears and slash, melodramatic-ness. The usual junk from me.
Characters: Toad POV, with Quicksilver, Avalanche, Domino, and Blob
Pairings: Established Pietro/Dominic, one sided Mortimer/Pietro
Disclaimer: Marvel’s, not mine.
Summary: As requested by the adorable death_star510 “You can't go wrong with Brotherhood team-fic... Though I have been wanting to see a Mort/Pietro/Dominic love triangle.” This ficlet either fits both or neither of those bills. XD.
A/N: Because, among other things, Pietro and Dominic are always staring at each other in the field and it is completely unprofessional of them. ::squeeeeeeeeeeeee::
---
Mortimer slumped his back against the rough wall, craning his neck to look up into the stairwell. It was their third plant of the night and, like the previous two, all was quiet on the western front. Not that Mortimer minded, he’d take being bored over being shot at any day. The Brotherhood were spending their evening bugging the secure phone lines of several foundries in the area, not strictly government owned but firmly in the government’s pocket; this place manufactured the castings for both Sentinel chest plates and Prowler leg joints. Mortimer’s job was to slime the cameras and watch the other’s backs. It was a relative cakewalk compared to some of the jobs they ran; the security at these places was pretty much non-existent during off hours.
Most of the other lines had been in the foremen’s offices, but this one was located in some kind of sub-basement, four staircases from each of the sprawling manufacturing wings leading down into a doorless concrete room that contained the clave. From a tactical standpoint, it was a nightmare.
“It looks very solid.” Dominic had frowned, going over the blueprints at the dinner table earlier that evening.
“Our fucking coffin is what it looks like,” said Neena, conversationally, around a mouthful of chicken tikka masala.
“What?!” Mortimer choked on his biryani, accidentally breathing in bits of rice in a way that was not at all comfortable. Pietro pressed a glass of water into his hands before he had even finished his first cough.
“Stop it, Neena, you’re scaring the children.” Pietro was idly ruffling his fingers through Mortimer’s hair. It felt nice, that; the warm pressure of his palm, the light drag of his fingernails. Mortimer knew Pietro didn’t mean anything by it, really; he was just hands-y with everyone on the team. Mortimer had made that mistake his first week, an awkward attempt on the living room sofa during movie night to return what he thought were Pietro’s advances, which had earned him a quizzical eyebrow raise from Pietro, a spine-melting glare from Dominic, and a pseudo-lecture on the rooftop from Neena about why the first two things had occurred. Utter mortification would have been an understatement, and it had firmly kept Mortimer from ever trying anything like that again. But it didn’t mean he couldn’t look, or secretly enjoy things like this and pretend the moments he had with Pietro were something more real (and file them away to think about later when he was alone in the shower and oh God, that was totally creepy, wasn’t it?) “It’s going to be fine, trust me. Security’s a joke.”
They were still, of course, supposed to be on high-alert. Mortimer took a quick glance at his teammates. Pietro was at the phone in the centre of the room, unscrewing the receiver at a normal speed, Neena had her gun swinging by her hip, one elbow propped lazily on the handrail that led up to the east wing, Fred was sitting at the bottom of the stairs for the south area, and Dominic had his arms spread wide across the doorway, his back to the north corridor, watching Pietro work. Pietro looked up, briefly, and he and Dominic shared a quick grin, impossibly intimate. For all their bravado, for all of Pietro’s extravagant flirting and for all of Dominic’s gruff posturing, there were small moments like these, real moments-over meals, during training sessions, even on missions-where they would look at each other like they were the only two people in the whole world. It made Mortimer’s chest ache. (Mortimer probably wouldn’t have even noticed if he wasn’t always still pathetically staring at Pietro. Pietro, who was smart and funny and handsome. Pietro, who would never look at Mortimer like that, not seriously, in a million years.)
“Hey, stop making eyes and get back to work,” came Neena’s call from across the room. And in that exact second, everything went to shit.
Mortimer startled instinctively, assuming she was talking to him, and pivoted in her direction, away from the staircase, to assert his innocence. (Not that he hadn’t been watching Pietro instead of the west entrance, but still…) Pietro turned toward her as well (and Mortimer realized a bit too late that she had been directing her statement to Pietro and Dominic, and not Mortimer at all,) and then something sounded, the bumblebee hiss of a bullet shot through a silencer passing just over Mortimer’s shoulder, and Pietro was on his knees, hands clamped against the back of his calf, bright red blood seeping through his fingertips. There was a thunderclap of footsteps on the staircase behind Mortimer, and he could see the tops of shiny black shoes hammering down, and he could’ve spit slime, he knew, but his throat was too dry and Pietro was making a terrible keening sound and this was all Mortimer’s fault and he didn’t know what to do and whoever had shot Pietro was almost here, was right there, and he was going to shoot Mortimer, shoot them all, and it was all Mortimer’s fault and if Pietro would just stop making that noise he could think but he couldn’t, and now Neena was yelling and shooting and Mortimer was getting down on the ground like she said but she was still across the room and the guy with the gun kept coming and Pietro sounded like he was going to die, they were all going to die, oh God, this was all Mortimer’s fault, why did it have to be his staircase, why hadn’t he been paying attention, why was he so useless to everybody, why-
The ground heaved beneath him, a violent, shuddering tremor that made Mortimer’s bones clack and his lungs crumple. The gun came clattering down the stairs first, and then the security guard, a tangled roll of limbs that bumped and slammed its way to the floor and ended in an unmoving pile. It was only then that Mortimer remembered to breathe, drawing shaky, terrified air into his chest. Cheek still pressed into the concrete, Mortimer could see Fred was already standing next to him, nudging the guard with his foot to make sure he was indeed unconscious. (Mortimer hoped he was only unconscious; he didn’t like the thought of killing anyone, even though in meetings Pietro always said sometimes it was a necessary ris-Oh God, Pietro!) Mortimer lifted his head frantically and then immediately regretted it. From the center of the room, blocking Pietro from view, Dominic was staring at him, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched so tight that it looked painful.
“Why the hell were you not watching the stairs?” Mortimer had been yelled at by Dominic more times than he could count-during team meetings, during field missions, during the morning coffee run-a lion’s roar of vitriol that made Mortimer’s knees tremble, as though Dominic could somehow channel his powers through his voice when he was angry. This was not Dominic angry, this cold, hollow tone; this was something much worse. It made Mortimer’s throat close up with guilt, choke down the protests that Dominic had not been watching his door, either, so that they squirmed in his stomach and made him feel sick. This was Dominic worried. Dominic turned rapidly away from Mortimer on another groan from Pietro, and Mortimer was saved from answering. (“Because I suck at this.” “Because I suck at everything.” “Because I was too busy watching you and your sort-of-boyfriend-or-whatever-the-hell-you-guys-are having a moment and burning with jealousy instead of doing my job.”) Mortimer pulled himself shakily up.
Through Dominic’s legs, Mortimer could see Pietro, teeth gritted, sitting on the ground. Neena was pressing gauze into his calf, clucking impatiently, “Oh, suck it up Maximoff, it’s just a graze.”
Pietro’s eyes slitted open. “Yeah, hand me your gun and we’ll see how much you like a bullet in your leg.” Neena slapped on the dressing she had prepared a bit harder than was strictly necessary and Pietro grimaced.
Mortimer watched the tension in Dominic’s shoulders release by degrees as he knelt down. “You are okay though, yes?”
“Fucking peachy, Dom. Let’s do this every weekend.”
Dominic chuckled softly, easing himself into a sitting position on the floor by Pietro, hand resting on the thigh of his uninjured leg. Pietro head butted his shoulder, eyes slipping closed as he leaned his weight back onto Dominic. And Mortimer closed his eyes too, dropping his chin into his chest and swallowing hard, because he didn’t really want to watch this, because he didn’t really think he should be watching this. It was too private. It was a moment he was never going to be a part of.
“Another resounding success for the Brotherhood. Let's move it out, guys. I’ll take point, make sure nobody else is nosing around up there; Freddy, you’ve got the rear,” said Neena, her heels clicking efficiently across the concrete as she joined Mortimer and Fred on the other side of the room. She put a steadying hand on the small of Mortimer’s back, one brisk, firm rub that Mortimer knew meant ‘don’t worry about it, kid’; knew because that was what he always got, the consolation prize for screwing up. “How’s our rent-a-cop doing?”
Fred shrugged. “Looks like Petrakis layed him out pretty good.”
“My hero,” Pietro laughed, flippantly and a bit labouredly, leaning heavily on Dominic as they both stood and made their way toward the staircase. Dominic rolled his eyes at him and grinned indulgently, sliding his arm around the broad section of Pietro’s back. Mortimer bit his lip and stared at the ground. Pietro was being sarcastic, yeah, but he was right. Dominic was so... Dominic. He was strong and good at his work and attractive when he wasn’t being terrifying, he made Pietro laugh and he never screwed up and he would always be there to save Pietro if he needed it. He was everything Mortimer wasn’t and would never be.
“Hey, Mort, give Dom a hand getting me up these stairs before he gives himself a heart attack in his old age.” Pietro was smirking, some of the colour already returning to his face.
“I am thirty-two; you are only four years younger than me. I hardly qualify for a walker.” Dominic grumbled amiably, shifting Pietro’s weight as Mortimer ducked in obediently under his other shoulder. Pietro was heavier than he looked. “You are the one with grey hair.”
“See, he’s already getting crotchety.” Pietro winked at Mortimer conspiratorially, and squeezed his side. Mortimer’s heart skipped. It was pathetic of him, really, to live for, to live between, these moments of rationed affection. But they were all Mortimer had, the stitched together, make-believe bond. Their moments weren’t the same as Pietro and Dominic’s and it hurt. The seams were too obvious. (Neena, smoking with him up on the roof. ‘It’s just a crush, Toynbee, trust me. You’ll be surprised at how quick you get over it when you get a little older.’ Mortimer sincerely doubted it.) “You know, it’s not all the time that I get to have two guys hanging off my arm, Mort. I should get shot every day.”
And Mortimer laughed because he was supposed to, because it covered up the miserable little sob that escaped out at the thought of getting Pietro shot, because they were just being friendly and this didn’t mean anything between them, at least in Pietro’s eyes, it would never mean anything to him and Mortimer was supposed to laugh because what else could he do?
Neena turned at the top of the stairs, aiming a withering glare at Pietro. “You know, I can arrange for that, Maximoff.” The look she quickly flicked to Mortimer was sympathetic. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
Verse: Wolverine and the X-Men
Word Count: Just shy of 2000.
Warning/Rating: Teen. Swears and slash, melodramatic-ness. The usual junk from me.
Characters: Toad POV, with Quicksilver, Avalanche, Domino, and Blob
Pairings: Established Pietro/Dominic, one sided Mortimer/Pietro
Disclaimer: Marvel’s, not mine.
Summary: As requested by the adorable death_star510 “You can't go wrong with Brotherhood team-fic... Though I have been wanting to see a Mort/Pietro/Dominic love triangle.” This ficlet either fits both or neither of those bills. XD.
A/N: Because, among other things, Pietro and Dominic are always staring at each other in the field and it is completely unprofessional of them. ::squeeeeeeeeeeeee::
---
Mortimer slumped his back against the rough wall, craning his neck to look up into the stairwell. It was their third plant of the night and, like the previous two, all was quiet on the western front. Not that Mortimer minded, he’d take being bored over being shot at any day. The Brotherhood were spending their evening bugging the secure phone lines of several foundries in the area, not strictly government owned but firmly in the government’s pocket; this place manufactured the castings for both Sentinel chest plates and Prowler leg joints. Mortimer’s job was to slime the cameras and watch the other’s backs. It was a relative cakewalk compared to some of the jobs they ran; the security at these places was pretty much non-existent during off hours.
Most of the other lines had been in the foremen’s offices, but this one was located in some kind of sub-basement, four staircases from each of the sprawling manufacturing wings leading down into a doorless concrete room that contained the clave. From a tactical standpoint, it was a nightmare.
“It looks very solid.” Dominic had frowned, going over the blueprints at the dinner table earlier that evening.
“Our fucking coffin is what it looks like,” said Neena, conversationally, around a mouthful of chicken tikka masala.
“What?!” Mortimer choked on his biryani, accidentally breathing in bits of rice in a way that was not at all comfortable. Pietro pressed a glass of water into his hands before he had even finished his first cough.
“Stop it, Neena, you’re scaring the children.” Pietro was idly ruffling his fingers through Mortimer’s hair. It felt nice, that; the warm pressure of his palm, the light drag of his fingernails. Mortimer knew Pietro didn’t mean anything by it, really; he was just hands-y with everyone on the team. Mortimer had made that mistake his first week, an awkward attempt on the living room sofa during movie night to return what he thought were Pietro’s advances, which had earned him a quizzical eyebrow raise from Pietro, a spine-melting glare from Dominic, and a pseudo-lecture on the rooftop from Neena about why the first two things had occurred. Utter mortification would have been an understatement, and it had firmly kept Mortimer from ever trying anything like that again. But it didn’t mean he couldn’t look, or secretly enjoy things like this and pretend the moments he had with Pietro were something more real (and file them away to think about later when he was alone in the shower and oh God, that was totally creepy, wasn’t it?) “It’s going to be fine, trust me. Security’s a joke.”
They were still, of course, supposed to be on high-alert. Mortimer took a quick glance at his teammates. Pietro was at the phone in the centre of the room, unscrewing the receiver at a normal speed, Neena had her gun swinging by her hip, one elbow propped lazily on the handrail that led up to the east wing, Fred was sitting at the bottom of the stairs for the south area, and Dominic had his arms spread wide across the doorway, his back to the north corridor, watching Pietro work. Pietro looked up, briefly, and he and Dominic shared a quick grin, impossibly intimate. For all their bravado, for all of Pietro’s extravagant flirting and for all of Dominic’s gruff posturing, there were small moments like these, real moments-over meals, during training sessions, even on missions-where they would look at each other like they were the only two people in the whole world. It made Mortimer’s chest ache. (Mortimer probably wouldn’t have even noticed if he wasn’t always still pathetically staring at Pietro. Pietro, who was smart and funny and handsome. Pietro, who would never look at Mortimer like that, not seriously, in a million years.)
“Hey, stop making eyes and get back to work,” came Neena’s call from across the room. And in that exact second, everything went to shit.
Mortimer startled instinctively, assuming she was talking to him, and pivoted in her direction, away from the staircase, to assert his innocence. (Not that he hadn’t been watching Pietro instead of the west entrance, but still…) Pietro turned toward her as well (and Mortimer realized a bit too late that she had been directing her statement to Pietro and Dominic, and not Mortimer at all,) and then something sounded, the bumblebee hiss of a bullet shot through a silencer passing just over Mortimer’s shoulder, and Pietro was on his knees, hands clamped against the back of his calf, bright red blood seeping through his fingertips. There was a thunderclap of footsteps on the staircase behind Mortimer, and he could see the tops of shiny black shoes hammering down, and he could’ve spit slime, he knew, but his throat was too dry and Pietro was making a terrible keening sound and this was all Mortimer’s fault and he didn’t know what to do and whoever had shot Pietro was almost here, was right there, and he was going to shoot Mortimer, shoot them all, and it was all Mortimer’s fault and if Pietro would just stop making that noise he could think but he couldn’t, and now Neena was yelling and shooting and Mortimer was getting down on the ground like she said but she was still across the room and the guy with the gun kept coming and Pietro sounded like he was going to die, they were all going to die, oh God, this was all Mortimer’s fault, why did it have to be his staircase, why hadn’t he been paying attention, why was he so useless to everybody, why-
The ground heaved beneath him, a violent, shuddering tremor that made Mortimer’s bones clack and his lungs crumple. The gun came clattering down the stairs first, and then the security guard, a tangled roll of limbs that bumped and slammed its way to the floor and ended in an unmoving pile. It was only then that Mortimer remembered to breathe, drawing shaky, terrified air into his chest. Cheek still pressed into the concrete, Mortimer could see Fred was already standing next to him, nudging the guard with his foot to make sure he was indeed unconscious. (Mortimer hoped he was only unconscious; he didn’t like the thought of killing anyone, even though in meetings Pietro always said sometimes it was a necessary ris-Oh God, Pietro!) Mortimer lifted his head frantically and then immediately regretted it. From the center of the room, blocking Pietro from view, Dominic was staring at him, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched so tight that it looked painful.
“Why the hell were you not watching the stairs?” Mortimer had been yelled at by Dominic more times than he could count-during team meetings, during field missions, during the morning coffee run-a lion’s roar of vitriol that made Mortimer’s knees tremble, as though Dominic could somehow channel his powers through his voice when he was angry. This was not Dominic angry, this cold, hollow tone; this was something much worse. It made Mortimer’s throat close up with guilt, choke down the protests that Dominic had not been watching his door, either, so that they squirmed in his stomach and made him feel sick. This was Dominic worried. Dominic turned rapidly away from Mortimer on another groan from Pietro, and Mortimer was saved from answering. (“Because I suck at this.” “Because I suck at everything.” “Because I was too busy watching you and your sort-of-boyfriend-or-whatever-the-hell-you-guys-are having a moment and burning with jealousy instead of doing my job.”) Mortimer pulled himself shakily up.
Through Dominic’s legs, Mortimer could see Pietro, teeth gritted, sitting on the ground. Neena was pressing gauze into his calf, clucking impatiently, “Oh, suck it up Maximoff, it’s just a graze.”
Pietro’s eyes slitted open. “Yeah, hand me your gun and we’ll see how much you like a bullet in your leg.” Neena slapped on the dressing she had prepared a bit harder than was strictly necessary and Pietro grimaced.
Mortimer watched the tension in Dominic’s shoulders release by degrees as he knelt down. “You are okay though, yes?”
“Fucking peachy, Dom. Let’s do this every weekend.”
Dominic chuckled softly, easing himself into a sitting position on the floor by Pietro, hand resting on the thigh of his uninjured leg. Pietro head butted his shoulder, eyes slipping closed as he leaned his weight back onto Dominic. And Mortimer closed his eyes too, dropping his chin into his chest and swallowing hard, because he didn’t really want to watch this, because he didn’t really think he should be watching this. It was too private. It was a moment he was never going to be a part of.
“Another resounding success for the Brotherhood. Let's move it out, guys. I’ll take point, make sure nobody else is nosing around up there; Freddy, you’ve got the rear,” said Neena, her heels clicking efficiently across the concrete as she joined Mortimer and Fred on the other side of the room. She put a steadying hand on the small of Mortimer’s back, one brisk, firm rub that Mortimer knew meant ‘don’t worry about it, kid’; knew because that was what he always got, the consolation prize for screwing up. “How’s our rent-a-cop doing?”
Fred shrugged. “Looks like Petrakis layed him out pretty good.”
“My hero,” Pietro laughed, flippantly and a bit labouredly, leaning heavily on Dominic as they both stood and made their way toward the staircase. Dominic rolled his eyes at him and grinned indulgently, sliding his arm around the broad section of Pietro’s back. Mortimer bit his lip and stared at the ground. Pietro was being sarcastic, yeah, but he was right. Dominic was so... Dominic. He was strong and good at his work and attractive when he wasn’t being terrifying, he made Pietro laugh and he never screwed up and he would always be there to save Pietro if he needed it. He was everything Mortimer wasn’t and would never be.
“Hey, Mort, give Dom a hand getting me up these stairs before he gives himself a heart attack in his old age.” Pietro was smirking, some of the colour already returning to his face.
“I am thirty-two; you are only four years younger than me. I hardly qualify for a walker.” Dominic grumbled amiably, shifting Pietro’s weight as Mortimer ducked in obediently under his other shoulder. Pietro was heavier than he looked. “You are the one with grey hair.”
“See, he’s already getting crotchety.” Pietro winked at Mortimer conspiratorially, and squeezed his side. Mortimer’s heart skipped. It was pathetic of him, really, to live for, to live between, these moments of rationed affection. But they were all Mortimer had, the stitched together, make-believe bond. Their moments weren’t the same as Pietro and Dominic’s and it hurt. The seams were too obvious. (Neena, smoking with him up on the roof. ‘It’s just a crush, Toynbee, trust me. You’ll be surprised at how quick you get over it when you get a little older.’ Mortimer sincerely doubted it.) “You know, it’s not all the time that I get to have two guys hanging off my arm, Mort. I should get shot every day.”
And Mortimer laughed because he was supposed to, because it covered up the miserable little sob that escaped out at the thought of getting Pietro shot, because they were just being friendly and this didn’t mean anything between them, at least in Pietro’s eyes, it would never mean anything to him and Mortimer was supposed to laugh because what else could he do?
Neena turned at the top of the stairs, aiming a withering glare at Pietro. “You know, I can arrange for that, Maximoff.” The look she quickly flicked to Mortimer was sympathetic. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”