Petra Rasputin the metal hardened Russian baddie?

Ever since you joined the X-Men, Petra had made it her personal mission to know everything about you. Not in the obvious way, not the way Bobby or Kurt asked nosy questions in the kitchen. Petra watched. She catalogued the way you moved, the small habits you didn't notice yourself doing, the way your abilities unfolded in the field like something she'd never quite seen before. She told Illyana once, quietly, in the locker room, that she'd never seen anything so strange and lovely as watching you fight.

Illyana had rolled her eyes.

"You have a crush on the new recruit. Just say it."

"I did not say crush."

"You didn't have to."

The training session that afternoon was supposed to be simple. Scott had paired the three of them for a coordination drill, Petra's raw strength, Illyana's teleportation, and you, still learning how the Danger Room's simulated chaos would respond to whatever it was you could do. For most of the session Petra stayed in her armored form, steel plating catching the overhead lights, a half step closer to you than strictly necessary, shoulder angled like a shield whenever a training drone swept too near.

Illyana appeared at Petra's elbow between rounds, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her mouth.

"You're doing the thing again."

"What thing."

"The hovering thing." Illyana tilted her head toward you, who was recalibrating something across the room, unaware. "It's kind of embarrassing."

Petra's cheeks, or what passed for them beneath the organic steel, seemed to darken faintly.

"I am not hovering. I am spotting."

"Sure." Illyana didn't sound convinced. She glanced at the clock readout on the far wall, made a small, bored sound in the back of her throat, and stretched her arms overhead. "You know what, I'm done. This is the fourth drone wave and I've teleported into worse places than this room. I'm bored."

"We still have twenty minutes."

"You still have twenty minutes." Illyana was already tracing a rune in the air, gold light gathering at her fingertips, the telltale shimmer of a stepping disc unfurling beneath her boots. "Have fun, you two." The look she gave Petra before she vanished was somewhere between fond and wicked, the look of someone who had been waiting for an excuse to leave the room exactly like this.

And then it was quiet.

Petra stood very still for a moment after the disc closed, steel fingers flexing at her sides, the whir of the Danger Room's idle systems the only sound. There was a low mechanical hum, and then a ripple, silver plating drawing inward, retracting like tide pulling back from shore, until what stood there instead was simply a young woman with dark hair and pale, faintly freckled skin, breathing a little unsteady, arms wrapped loosely around herself as though she'd shed more than just the armor. She glanced down at herself, a little sheepish.

"Sorry. Is easier to think like this. The metal, it is good for hitting things. Not so good for talking."

She crossed the floor slowly, footsteps soft now instead of ringing, and stopped a few feet away, arms still crossed over her chest as if bracing herself.

"I keep meaning to ask you something." Her accent thickened slightly the way it always did when she was nervous, vowels rounding, words coming a little quicker than she meant them to. "About your power. The way it moves when you use it. I have never seen anything do that before." She hesitated, searching for the right word in a language that wasn't quite hers, and didn't find one. "It's beautiful. I don't know how else to say it."

The training room lights flickered once, cycling down into their rest setting, dimming the wide space into something softer, almost private. Petra didn't seem to notice, or didn't care. She was still looking at you the way she always did when she thought no one else was watching, except now there was no one else to catch her doing it, and now there was no steel between her and whatever she was about to say.

"Illyana thinks I have a crush on you." She winced, like the words had gotten away from her before she could stop them. She let out a short laugh, more nervous than amused, glancing away toward the far wall. "In Russian we have a saying, my babushka used to say it. That the tongue tells the truth the heart is too much of a coward to say first." She shook her head, cheeks flushing properly now, human and warm instead of steel. "I think maybe she is right. Illyana, I mean. Not just about the crush part."

The silence that followed stretched a little long. Petra's jaw tightened, and for a moment she looked like she might take the whole thing back, laugh it off, blame the training exercise for making her say something so honest out loud.

Instead she just stood there, waiting, heart audible in the quiet as something that might have been hope.

Morning in the mansion kitchen usually meant chaos, Bobby burning toast, Kurt appearing out of nowhere with an apple already in hand, Illyana stealing coffee she claimed she didn't drink and then drinking all of it anyway. This morning it was quiet. Too quiet.

Petra stood at the stove in sweatpants and an old training shirt, hair still damp, humming something low and half formed under her breath, something that sounded like it belonged to a language other than English. Two plates sat waiting on the counter, blini stacked neat on each, a small dish of jam set carefully between them like she'd measured the distance by hand. There was no third plate. There was no fourth.

She turned when she heard you come in, and for half a second something flickered across her face, caught, like she'd been rehearsing this moment and hadn't expected it to actually arrive.

"Oh. You're up early." She said it too quickly, turning back to the stove, prodding at a pan that didn't need prodding. "I was just, is nothing, I always make extra. In case someone is hungry."

She glanced at the two plates, then seemed to realize how it looked, and busied herself wiping down a counter that was already clean.

"Illyana isn't around this morning?" she added, not quite looking up, the question landing a beat too casual to be casual at all. "She said something about training with Peter. Or maybe sleeping. With her you never really know."

The kitchen smelled like butter and warm dough, and outside the window the grounds were still grey with early fog, the kind that made the whole mansion feel emptied out, like the two of you were the only ones awake in it. Petra set the pan down, wiped her hands on a dish towel she didn't need, and finally looked over properly, cheeks already faintly pink before she'd said another word.

"Sit, sit. Before it gets cold." A pause, her fingers tightening slightly around the towel. "I made enough for both of us. If that is, I mean, if you want to. You don't have to. I just thought, since no one else was up—"

She stopped herself, exhaled, and pulled out the chair across from where you'd sit anyway, setting it just a little too neatly into place, like she needed her hands to do something other than fidget.

The blackbird ramp hissed open onto the hangar, and Petra was still catching her breath, one hand braced against the frame, dust and scorch marks streaked across the panels of her armored form where the building had come down around her only minutes before. She hadn't spoken since the mission ended. She kept glancing sideways instead, like she was checking something was still real.

Scott was already barking debrief instructions at the rest of the team, but Petra lingered at the back, falling into step just slightly behind, close enough that her shoulder nearly brushed against yours with every stride down the ramp.

"That thing you did," she finally said, voice rougher than usual, still a little breathless. "With the wall coming down. I didn't even see it happen. One second I am about to be very flat, and then I am not." She let out a short laugh, disbelieving, shaking her head like she was still running the moment back. "You didn't have to do that. I had it."

She clearly hadn't had it. The dented plating along her side told a different story, and she seemed to know it too, because her protest trailed off into something quieter, something almost embarrassed.

By the time they reached the locker room hallway, Petra's armor had receded, steel folding back into skin, and the flush on her human face wasn't entirely from exertion anymore. She kept finding excuses to stay near, adjusting a strap that didn't need adjusting, tucking hair behind her ear that immediately fell loose again.

"I mean it," she said, quieter now, most of the team's voices fading down the corridor ahead of them. "Nobody has done something like that for me before. Not like that." Her eyes stayed on you a beat too long, something soft and unguarded in them that she didn't seem to know how to hide. "I don't know how to say thank you for that. In any language."

She reached out, like she meant to touch your arm, and then seemed to lose her nerve halfway there, letting her hand fall instead, curling loosely at her side. The corridor was empty. Somewhere down the hall a door clanged shut, Illyana's voice drifting off toward the med bay with someone else entirely, and for a moment it was just the two of you standing there, Petra still visibly, helplessly caught somewhere between gratitude and something she hadn't worked up the courage to name yet.

The rec room television was playing something nobody was actually watching. Illyana had claimed the armrest instead of an actual seat, one leg swinging lazily, a mug of coffee she kept insisting she didn't need balanced in one hand. She'd been watching you for the better part of ten minutes with the particular look she got when she was bored and looking for entertainment.

"You know," she said, tilting her head, a slow grin spreading. "For someone so new, you're not bad. I could use a partner who doesn't flinch when things get weird. Most people flinch." She leaned in slightly, entirely too pleased with herself. "I don't flinch either. We'd make a good pair."

Across the room, Petra had gone very still. She was sitting with a book open on her lap that she'd stopped reading three minutes ago, spine straight, jaw tight, steel creeping faintly along her knuckles where her grip had tightened without her noticing.

"Illyana."

"What?" Illyana didn't even look over, still grinning at you, clearly enjoying herself far too much. "I'm being friendly."

"You are being something." Petra's voice had an edge to it now, clipped, the accent sharpening the way it did when she was annoyed instead of nervous. "Don't you have somewhere to be? Limbo? Anywhere?"

"Wow." Illyana finally turned, delighted, like she'd struck gold. "Okay, that's interesting." She raised her mug in mock salute, smirking at Petra now instead. "Didn't realize this was a private show."

"It's not." Petra stood up too fast, book sliding off her lap and hitting the floor, which she ignored entirely. "I'm just saying, some of us have manners."

"Sure." Illyana slid off the armrest, unbothered, stretching with the leisurely satisfaction of someone who'd gotten exactly the reaction she wanted. "I'll leave you two alone, then. Wouldn't want to intrude." She paused halfway to the door, glancing back over her shoulder with a grin that promised this was far from over. "For the record, Petra, you're allowed to just tell people how you feel. Might save everyone some time."

The door shut behind her before Petra could throw anything at it, though her hand had visibly twitched toward the nearest cushion. She stood there a moment, steel receding slowly from her knuckles, breathing out something that wasn't quite a sigh.

"She does that on purpose," Petra muttered, not quite meeting your eyes, color rising in her face. "Just to see me like this." A beat, quieter, almost to herself. "It is very annoying that it works."

The mission had gone sideways fast, and by the time the smoke cleared you were down on one knee, one arm wrapped around your ribs, breathing through your teeth. Petra was there before Scott had even finished shouting the order to fall back, armor still humming faintly from impact, sliding to a stop beside you with a speed that didn't match her size at all.

"Don't move, don't move, let me see." She crouched, careful hands hovering, uncertain where it was safe to touch. "Okay. Okay, we're not walking you back on that."

She didn't wait for an argument. One arm slid beneath your knees, the other braced firm across your back, and then the ground was gone, the world tilting as she lifted you clean off your feet like you weighed nothing at all. Steel arms, but the hold was gentle, careful in a way that seemed to cost her some effort to maintain, like she was constantly recalibrating just how much strength not to use.

"You are lighter than you should be, for someone who throws themselves into walls," she said, mostly to fill the silence, starting off across the wreckage at an easy, steady pace. "Remind me to talk to Hank about that. Building you sturdier."

She glanced down every few steps, checking, like she didn't quite trust that you were actually alright even as she carried you further from the chaos behind them. There was a faint, betraying curve at the corner of her mouth that she didn't seem to notice was there, or didn't care to hide.

"You can hold onto me, you know," she added, a little too casually, adjusting her grip just slightly, drawing you fractionally closer against the plating of her chest. "I don't mind."

By the time the med bay doors came into view, her pace had slowed, not by much, just enough to stretch the walk a little longer than it strictly needed to be. When Hank finally appeared in the doorway, already reaching to take over, Petra hesitated before handing you off, reluctant in a way she'd have denied outright if anyone had pointed it out.

"Take care of them," she told Hank, and there was something almost proprietary in the way she said it, something that lingered after she stepped back, arms suddenly empty and unsure what to do with themselves. "I'll be right outside."

She didn't leave. She stood exactly there, just past the door, arms crossed, steel receding slowly from her skin, watching through the glass with an expression she wasn't bothering to guard anymore.

The mission report had been vague, something about it going wrong, about you pulling back early, and by evening you still hadn't come down for dinner. Petra noticed. She noticed the empty seat, the untouched plate Kitty had made up out of habit, the way nobody seemed to have a straight answer when she asked.

She stood outside your door for a while before she worked up the nerve to knock, shifting her weight, steel fading quietly back to skin like she thought it might make her seem less imposing. The knock came soft, almost apologetic.

"It's me." A pause. "Can I come in? You don't have to say anything. I just, I wanted to check."

She waited a moment, then eased the door open just enough to slip through, careful, like the room itself might startle if she moved too fast. The curtains were drawn, the light dim, and she took it in quietly before her eyes settled on you, something in her expression softening and tightening all at once.

She didn't ask what happened. She crossed the room slowly instead, footsteps deliberately unhurried, and lowered herself down nearby, not too close, leaving space in case space was what you needed.

"You don't have to talk about it," she said, quiet, careful with the words like she was choosing each one twice before saying it out loud. "I just didn't want you to be alone up here all day. That's all." A beat, her hands twisting slightly in her lap, uncertain what to do with themselves without a wall to hold up or a drone to punch. "I'm not going anywhere. I can just sit here. If that's okay."

The room was quiet except for the muffled sounds of the mansion below, distant and far away, like another world entirely. Petra glanced over once, twice, searching your face for something she wasn't sure how to name, before she settled, patient, steady, the kind of stillness that didn't come naturally to someone built the way she was.

"For what it's worth," she added, after a long moment, voice lower now, "whatever happened out there. I'm glad you're here. I'm glad you came back." She hesitated, then, carefully, closed the small remaining distance and let her hand rest near yours, not quite touching, just close enough that you'd know it was there if you wanted it.

Movie night had somehow ended up with only three people on the couch, Illyana sprawled sideways across the armchair with her feet hanging off one end, and the two of you sharing the couch that was really only built for two anyway. Petra had claimed the spot beside you early, before anyone else could, dropping down with a blanket she immediately declared wasn't big enough for one person alone.

By the time the opening credits rolled she'd shifted twice, adjusting, tugging the blanket, until there wasn't much space left between you at all. She didn't seem to notice, or pretended not to, attention fixed determinedly on the screen even as her shoulder settled warm against yours, steady and solid in a way that had nothing to do with the metal she could turn into.

"Sorry, is this okay?" she murmured at one point, not moving away even as she asked, glancing over with faint uncertainty. "Couch is small. I can move if—"

She didn't finish the sentence, and didn't move either. If anything she settled further in, tucking the blanket around both of you like the matter had been decided, her arm brushing yours every time she shifted to reach for the popcorn bowl balanced somewhere between you.

Across the room, Illyana caught the whole thing over the rim of her mug, smirking to herself and saying nothing, for once.

Halfway through the film Petra had gone quiet, less focused on the screen than she was pretending to be, warmth radiating steady where she'd curled in close, unhurried, like she'd stopped thinking about whether this was too much and decided she didn't particularly care. Every so often she'd glance over, quick, checking, like she needed to remind herself this was actually happening and not something she'd imagined.

"This is nice," she said eventually, quiet enough that it was almost lost under the film's dialogue, more to herself than anyone. "I don't think I've done this before. Movie night like this."

She didn't elaborate on what she meant by like this, and didn't need to. The blanket stayed wrapped around both of you long after the credits started rolling, and she made no move to reclaim the space she'd taken, or the space she'd left behind on the couch that used to be just for one.