X-Men Oneshots

Beneath the Speed (Peter Maximoff)

Peter's POV

I've always been fast. Fast enough that sometimes it feels like the whole world is standing still while I zip through it. It's like living in slow motion, everyone else a blur while I'm stuck with my thoughts racing faster than anything around me. And right now, as I stand at the entrance of the basement, watching Y/N sink into the couch with that faraway look in her eyes, I'd give anything to slow down.

Something's wrong. I can tell. The air between us feels off, heavy in a way that makes me fidget. She's usually the one who keeps me grounded, the one who makes the world feel normal when everything's spinning. But today, she looks lost, like she's carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, and I'm just standing here, powerless to help.

"Ah—hey babe, what's happening?" I ask, trying to sound casual. I flash her a quick grin, the one that usually makes her roll her eyes and smile back. But today, there's no eye roll. No smile. Just that look—soft and melancholy, like she's staring through me.

I zip over to the couch in a blink, slumping down next to her with my usual swagger, hoping it'll break through whatever fog she's in. But she doesn't react. Not in the way I expected, anyway. Her eyes flick to the television for a second, then back to me, and she hesitates before speaking.

"Oh, uh—" she starts, her voice trailing off as her eyes drop to her hands. There's something she's not telling me, and it's making the anxiety in my chest build. I lean back, trying to play it cool, but my mind's already racing.

What happened? Why does she look like that? My stomach twists with worry, but I force a smirk onto my face, hoping she'll open up if I stay calm.

Her frown deepens, and she stares at the floor, avoiding my eyes. "...What's up?" I ask again, my voice softer now, gentler. I need to know. The not-knowing is killing me.

When I land next to her, the sudden movement shakes the couch a little, and she winces. It's a small, barely noticeable thing, but it hits me like a ton of bricks. She's in pain. Something happened, and I wasn't there to stop it. My smirk falls away, and I'm left staring at her, feeling more helpless than I've ever felt in my life.

The shadows of the basement loom darker now, like they're swallowing up the space around us. Normally, this place is my escape. Down here, I can relax, be myself. But now, it feels suffocating, like the walls are closing in, and all I want is to figure out what's going on with her.

She still won't look at me, and it's breaking my heart. I'd move mountains for her, if she'd just tell me what's wrong. But right now, it feels like there's a wall between us that I can't break down.

"Hank and I... there was a mission, sorta thing," she finally says, her voice so quiet I almost miss it. She scratches at her neck, her fingers nervous and restless, like she's trying to calm herself down.

"You're scaring me," I whisper, and it's true. I don't try to hide the fear in my voice. The thought of something happening to her—something bad—it's more than I can handle.

"There were some protesters. It got rough. Nothing we couldn't handle, but..." Her words trail off again, and I feel a cold pit form in my stomach.

But what?

I sit up straighter, every part of me focused on her now. I'm fast enough to handle almost anything, but this—sitting here, waiting for her to finish—this is the hardest thing I've ever done.

"Did someone hurt you?" I ask, my voice barely more than a breath. My heart is pounding so fast I'm surprised she can't hear it.

She nods slowly, and just like that, my world tilts off its axis.

Earlier That Day: Y/N's POV

The mission wasn't supposed to go this way. It was just supposed to be a simple show of presence, a way for Hank and me to step out, assess the situation, and keep the peace between the mutant rights groups and the local protesters. We've done this before—calm a crowd, de-escalate tension. No big deal.

Except today was different.

The yelling had started as soon as we got there. At first, it was the usual stuff—signs, chants, the same old hateful slurs. Nothing I haven't heard before. I could handle that. But then the atmosphere shifted. The crowd got angrier, more aggressive, and Hank's calm voice in my earpiece started to sound less certain.

"We should pull back," Hank had said, his voice tight with concern. "It's getting out of hand."

I wanted to agree, but before we could retreat, something happened. Someone threw a bottle. Then another. And then, chaos.

I remember Hank pulling me away, trying to get us out of there, but I didn't move fast enough. One moment, I was trying to get through the crowd, and the next, a hand was on my arm—tight, forceful. I didn't even see who it was, just some guy with too much hate in his eyes and too much strength in his grip.

I fought back. I've trained for moments like this. But there was something about the way he grabbed me, the way he held on for just a second too long, that shook me to my core.

Back to Peter's POV

"Some guy in the crowd—he grabbed me," she says, and it's like a knife to my gut. I feel the rage rising up inside me, this uncontrollable, burning fury that I barely know how to contain.

"Did you..." I start to ask, but my voice cracks. I can't even finish the sentence.

"I fought him off," she says quickly, her voice still trembling. "I'm fine. Really, I am. It's just... I don't know. It messed with my head, Peter. I hate feeling like this."

I don't know what to say. I'm not used to feeling helpless, but right now, I do. I could have been there. I could've stopped it. But I wasn't, and that's eating me alive.

I grab her hand gently, trying to ground myself in her touch. "You're not alone, Y/N. You're never alone. I'm here."

She finally looks up at me, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. "I know," she whispers, her voice breaking. "I just... I feel weak."

"You're not weak," I tell her, my voice steady and sure. "You're the strongest person I know. And yeah, what happened sucks. It's unfair and it's awful. But you're not defined by this. We're gonna get through it. Together."

For the first time since I walked into the room, she smiles—just a small one, but it's enough. It's enough to make me believe that maybe, just maybe, everything's going to be okay.

She leans her head on my shoulder, and I feel her relax a little. The weight of the moment starts to lift, and the basement doesn't feel quite so cold anymore.

We sit there, side by side, not needing to fill the silence with words. For now, this is enough.