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quickandsilvers · 1 day

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The Spy Who Loved Me

Peter Maximoff x fem!reader

Summary: Getting stuck in an elevator with a world-renowned Xman wasn’t on your 1984 bingo card. Guess you’ll just have to watch the hours tick by on Peter Maximoff’s ‘aces as fuck’ scooby doo watch. Ruh roh.

Warnings: a few sexual innuendos, awkward Peter (what’s new?), pining and flirting blah blah blah

Word Count: 6604

Taglist: @kaismanwich @evpeters87 @pretzel-bunnie @icannot3 @bluerthanvelvet444

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Autumn, 1983. 9:32 PM.

As the amber glow of the sun casted its final rays upon the skyscrapers of New York, nightlife was in its full swing. With bustling crowds congregating inside bars and nightclubs, the thunderous bass of pulsating music infiltrated the streets, cranked up to a volume that would cause most to go prematurely deaf. It was both exhilarating and overwhelming.

And yet here you were in one of New York’s many Federal Bureau’s, swamped up in piles upon piles of paperwork, empty coffee cups and inkless biros.

The irony was not lost on you; your version of nightlife was much less enthralling than the lively congregation outside. The vibrant atmosphere was in sharp contrast to the monotony offices of the government building, where the only sounds that accompanied your sleepless nights were the tapping of keyboard keys and the rustle of pages turning as you pored over the endless stream of reports assigned to your person. It involved much more papercuts and sleep-deprived hours of endless jotting down and thinking galore.

Oh, so much thinking. Why couldn’t criminals make your life easier and be a bit dumber, huh?

Your limbs felt leaden with fatigue as you stepped onto the elevator on your floor, clutching papers in your hands tightly. The day had been painstakingly drawn-out, and yet you still had more grueling hours of paperwork waiting to be completed. Shifting awkwardly, you bundle the stack of paper in your hands into one arm, using the other to strain forward and press your floor number. Stepping back with a relieved sigh, you rest against the cool elevator wall for a few moments of much-needed peace.

The lift in your precinct was relatively new, a far cry from the ancient clunkers that polluted much of New York. It was constructed with a considerable amount of precautions and safety features after the Pentagon debacle back in 1973.

News broke out about a group of mutants slipping past security and breaking out the most dangerous mutant extremist known to man: Erik Lensherr. Aka Magneto. Aka totally-terrifying-and-would-definitely-make-you-barf-out-if-you-ever-saw-him-in-person.

Since the television broadcast of that day had instilled copious amounts of fear and paranoia for government safety and security, all federal structures had been fortified beyond necessity.

You’d argue that it was rather pointless though, considering the fact that the main culprit of the offense was now a bigshot, crime-fighting, golden retriever-esque Xman, who spent his days teaching total babes how to play Mrs. Pacman in the arcade. His felon days were over, exclusive of the frequent petty theft misdemeanors you found yourself documenting more times than you could count.

That’s right, you. Of all people, you were assigned the job to file all reported items Peter Maximoff had got his speedy hands on. From road signs to whole arcade machines, you were left documenting his shenanigans night and day, feeling as though you were one binder away from being put in a straight jacket.

You would be lying if you said you expected this task, working for a major federal agency, no less. Petty theft crimes were most often dealt with by the numerous police precincts in the city, however the government decided that the renowned speedster was a different story and needed to be dealt with “efficiently.”

Hah. Efficiently, your ass.

You mourned the times you could’ve simply been doing nothing at home instead of sending out forms for the speedster to sign for his pardoning. After all, it wasn’t like you could take any further action against someone who frequently saved the world from total destruction. The forms were only a mere slap on the wrist to the Xman, and moral condemnation had no effect on someone who had the freedom to act as he saw fit.

But that wasn’t your problem. Atleast, not for the next 48 hours. If you really cracked down, you could knock these forms out in a few hours, having the rest of your weekend dedicated to rotting on your couch, trying to get through as many seinfeld seasons as possible until your dreaded return back to work. A night in with sitcoms and unhealthy, borderline radioactive takeaways was all you needed right now.

You patiently wait for the doors to move, sealing your work week to a close in its mechanical grasp. Just as they begin to whirr shut, a blurred hand sticks through the gap, waving up and down rapidly for the sensors to detect its presence. They begin to open once again, and your eyes laid upon a broken-legged man. He possessed a bizarre pair of crutches adorned in stickers, and not to mention a peculiar taste in fashion. In fact, he practically blended in with the elevator walls, somewhat like a chameleon.

Peter Maximoff. Quicksilver. Hero to all. A royal pain in your ass. You were probably holding several of his reports in your hands right now.

Was he trying to haunt you wherever you go? If so, he’s doing a damn good job at it.

You gawk as he hobbles in, seemingly unaware of your existence as he leans up against the back wall, leaving his crutches standing up beside him. With a motorola dynatac in his hand, Peter’s eyes crinkle in amusement as he grins into his cellphone.

“Look Scotty, pick a side, dude. Yer get mad when i use Charles’ card at kohl’s…yes use.. I don’t fuckin’ leech off of it!..., but yer also get mad when I try cookin’ fer myself fer once!” He waits impatiently for a second, shifting the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he balances back onto his crutches.

Peter sighs after a long pause, “I know I left the stove on, but what can my impaired self do in that situation? What else do yer want me to say?” Peter rolled his eyes, albeit grinning. “..C’mon, It wasn't that bad, it was just a lil’ flare up! Ororo handled the blaze, and it was nothin’ compared to jeans disaster in the danger room.”

Something about the way Peter spoke was so casually amusing. He always seemed unfazed by his life's predicaments - never really taking anything all that seriously. He was unapologetically himself and had this carefree attitude that you envied more than you'd like to admit.

Absent-mindedly sifting through your papers, you contemplate the situation, wondering what Peter could’ve possibly done to anger Cyclops to that extent. He seemed to have read your mind though, as he pfftbs, lolling his head back lazily onto the elevator wall.

“The cabinets aren’t that fucked up! Just because yer lead training sessions now doesn’t mean ya can boss me arou-“

CRASH!

The loud sound resonates around the small space as you jump, a few papers going awol and falling to your feet. You reach down immediately, scrambling to pick them up.

Peter flinched as his ear was pressed into the speaker; as a result, his phone began to slide down from his shoulder. He caught it with the side of his face, wide-eyed and neck craned in a way you can’t imagine is comfortable.

“...What was that?”

“The cabinets.” A gruff, new voice sounded from Peter’s phone, unimpressed and beyond fed up with his bullshit. Peter, throwing his head back, barked out something between a wheeze and a snort, clearly thriving off his buddies’ misery.

Reaching out, you stetch to grasp a rogue file that had fallen by the speedsters feet. Hearing his giggles subside, you look up to see a wide-eyed Peter. He leans against the wall to use a free hand, grabbing his phone as he glances at your position with cheeks dusted pink, perplexed.

Just then, you realise that you are face-level with his crotch. Zoinks.

You both remain in deadly silent prolonged eye contact at the altercation, and you can only assume that your complexion is equivalent to that of a tomato, only further adding to your humiliation. Squeaking a small ‘sorry’, you immediately turn away and stand up, returning to your claimed spot of the elevator with askew papers bundled in your arms. The speedster’s scent followed you as you retreated, almost enticing you closer as the aroma of sweet cinnamon and natural leather seized your senses, lingering around the room.

Peter took advantage of your avoidant gaze to sneak a glance at the hella cute girl he had been totally unaware of. He takes a mega quick glance at his super cool green and blue Scooby Doo watch. A nice pop of colour to his metallic ensemble. The time read 9:47.

Four minutes. Four long, long minutes that he had been ranting like a lunatic down his phone, without the knowledge that an ultra-hot babe was standing next to him, probably confused and now completely put-off by his antics.

Why was she lookin’ at his junk, anyways? Did he forget to zip his fly? His head whips down. Nope. Wait. Was he hard? His head whips down again. Nope. Not yet, atleast.

Huh. Guess some groupees are just hella intense.

Peter’s mind reeled back to a few minutes prior. He didn’t do anythin’ embarrassing, did he? You probably thought he was a mess.

Oh fuck, did he look like a mess?

A blurred hand moves to fix his untamed mane, but only messes it up further as he moves it out of his eyes and in opposing directions. An angered muffle sounds through the speaker and Peter brings it up to his mouth with a stutter.

“I- I gotta go, Wolvie!” He panics, watching your fingers as they attentively sift through your stack of papers. The voice on the other end protests immediately, making explicit threats to the speedster. The sound of creaking hinges and snapping wood made him wince. But hey, there wasn’t much that he could do now, other than get his ass handed to him upon his arrival at the mansion.

Peter cuffs his hand over the phone speaker and makes a muffled sound, feigning losing connection.

“My service must be cuttin’ out dude! Talk time is runnin’ out too!” Peter paused to make more sounds, really selling his story. “Sorry man, nothin’ I can do ‘bout that! Tell Charlie Brown I'm mega sorry and I'm comin’ as quick as a one-legged man can go!” He makes kissy noises down the phone, only further angering the shouting man on the other side.

You definitely thought he was a mess.

Peter hung up abruptly and swallowed, looking towards you with a sheepish grin and gesturing his Motorola towards you. “That guy, huh?” He scoffs awkwardly, somehow stuffing the brick of a phone halfway into his pocket before running a hand through his hair once more.

It’s funny, really. Despite the amount of groupees wanting him to sign every limb on their bodies, Peter never gets any better at this. The talking-to-women thing, that is. Not to toot his own horn or anything, but Peter considers himself a master of scribbling on polyester brassiere. It was always the same thing; the initials ‘QS’ with the tail shaped like a lightning bolt, and a first-class smiley face on the side.

You let out a breathy laugh, about to ask what exactly he had done to assault the communal kitchen in such a way, before you stop yourself. Despite the loud conversation, you weren’t sure if you should bring up a private phone call. Instead, you respond with a curt nod.

Peter liked your laugh. It was a breath of fresh air within the cramped elevator, and certainly sounded better than the obnoxious honks Scott emitted, sounding somewhat like a vehicle. He guessed that Scott’s laugh simply replicated his engineerical profession. If that was true, Peter thinks you must work alongside angels sent from heaven itself. Hell, he’d volunteer to be your magical harp in an instant. Would let you play with him anytime. Hah.

As Peter opened his mouth to speak, an abrupt jolt sent you wobbling back into the wall before he could get a word in. He lets out an involuntary ‘eh?’ in confusion as the phone in his pocket tumbles to the floor, the antenna snapping off. Another lurch of the elevator and it came to a halt, cutting out with an ear-splitting creak.

The elevator had not yet reached a point beyond the metal walls outside, where you could see out the large window panes. Panic surged through you as the confined space seemed to shrink further. The silence in the elevator was deafening, and the uncertainty of the situation only heightened your anxiety. You couldn't muster the courage to look up at the speedster, fearing his reaction to the predicament.

Finally, his voice broke the silence, its calmness providing perhaps a glimmer of reassurance.

“Huh. The elevator stopped.” He hums in a matter-of-factly tone. Okay, maybe not. What do you have on you to salvage? Maybe a scrunched up, expired airhead in the depths of your pockets? Would that get you through the night?

Using a sticker-adorned crutch to reach the panel, Peter abused the call button before pressing the ground floor, both controls ceasing to function.

“Yer gotta be shittin’ me, it's stuck!” He groans, a little more panicked now “Wolvie’s not gonna believe me! Fuck!”

You attempt to swallow your nerves, yet fail as you stare at your feet. Peter, however, seemed more worried about the reaction of his superior than the fact he was trapped in a confined space by heavily reinforced elevator doors. Doors that could keep you locked in here for the foreseeable future. Would that be so bad? You weren’t a die-hard Quicksilver fangirl to say the least, but the man certainly wasn’t half bad to look at. Oh, but you’d kill to be binging seinfeld right now.

Trailing your gaze back up, your eyebrows furrow as you bear witness to said man attempting to pry the elevator doors open. You watch on as Peter anchors his good foot onto the side of the door for leverage, all whilst reciting murmurs of self-motivational idioms. He releases a choked-off groan. You chalk it up to either his effort into opening the door or his injured leg supporting the rest of his body. Either way, the speedsters' attempts were fruitless.

For what seems like an eternity, you open and close your mouth much like a fish out of water, completely baffled at the sight before you. And maybe even more so baffled as you intently ogle the bulge of the speedster’s biceps through his jacket, contracting and straining from his efforts.

Okay, wow. Keep it profesh, dude. Don’t you hate this guy?

You clear your throat, preparing to pose a question. Peter immediately whips his head around to face you, remaining in the same awkward position as he relaxed into a lazy smirk, despite his red cheeks and heaving chest. He tilts his head to the side, kindly signaling you to say something.

“Are you sure it's broken?" You ask softly, your voice perhaps quieter than you expected it to be, "Have you tried the fire alarm or stop button?”

Silence followed for a moment, and you felt yourself tense up.

“ ‘course babe,” Peter answers, relaxing his hand for a second to rest it against the door. “But have no fear. Who needs a stupid fire alarm when you have me?” He graced you with an award-winning grin, jutting out a thumb to eagerly point to himself. You ease up a little, humming as a flash of light reflecting off his watch catches your eye. A grinning Scooby Doo stares back at you and you resist the urge to laugh, comparing the speedster more to Scooby’s miniature counterpart; Scrappy.

Another agonizing minute passes, and you continue to exchange glances as Peter occasionally looks over his shoulder towards you for reassurance. A smile lingered on his lips, it was warm, and you were tempted. Oh, so very tempted. Silence permeated the air as you stood there idly, and you couldn’t help but feel the need to inquire again.

With one final heave and the door moving not an inch, Peter stumbles back into the wall, a sigh of alleviation exiting his mouth as he relieves the pressure on his mending leg. With crimson cheeks he began to shrug off his metallic jacket, letting it drop to the floor next to him.

Peter’s gaze flickers up towards you guiltily, knowing that you were on edge in such a confined space and wanting to get out ASAP. You felt your heartstrings being tugged as he presses himself back into the wall, giving you as much space as possible in the cramped elevator. Somehow, you found that was the last thing you wanted.

Silence ensued again for a few moments too long. You felt a warmth in your face and looked away immediately, finding yourself swayed by a peculiar boyish charm.

You looked up as he blinked, silver eyelashes flickering in the overhead lights. Your heart leapt. Peter Maximoff had the charisma that many girls found hard to resist, and perhaps you were no different from any other groupee than you had thought.

“How long do you think we’ll be in here?” You manage to get out as his stare remains fixated on you.

“Until maintenance decides to do their job, I s’pose,” He responds with a chuckle, resting on the handrail behind him.

“Oh, okay,” You reply shortly, averting your eyes again as you copy his movements on your own handrail.

“I hope i'm not that terrible company, toots.” Peter strives to make a joke. It fell flat on its face however, as you only respond with a half-assed huff of laughter, running your hand through your hair worriedly.

“N-no, it’s not like that,” You assure, feeling slightly red. You see the corner of his eyes crinkle in your peripherals, a visible smile forming on his face.

“I’m sorry, I just feel a little claustrophobic right now,” You explain anxiously, watching the ceiling as if it were about to fall and seal your fate.

Peter’s smile faltered at your mental panic. “Hey, uh- it's okay, it's just a maintenance issue. The elevator’s not gonna fall er anythin’. There's like a.. bajillion failsafes, ya know?” He huffed another laugh, readjusting his crutches under his armpits. Your tension slightly eased as he acknowledged the tense circumstances, but you still couldn't shake off the nerves entirely. The sound of his voice brought an odd comfort, making you feel slightly less alone in this confined space.

“Hank was tellin’ me all about their mechanics on this long-ass drive to the Pentagon. Yer know the-'' You nod in confirmation, very familiar with the building “-yeah. We were there fer.. somethin’ totes legal and business related.” He swallows, grinning. You crack a knowing smile, showing the speedster that you knew exactly what he was talking about.

Peter focuses his attention towards his discarded silver jacket on the floor. Balancing on his crutches, he uses his good leg to splay the jacket out next to the back wall. He looks back up at you almost expectantly, grinning as you raise an eyebrow quizzically.

“D ’ya wanna sit? I don’t want yer hobbling around like me if we’re gonna be here fer a while.” He offers, gesturing his casted leg towards you with a playful scoff.

You accept, thanking him as he placed one of his crutches in the corner, using his free large hand to splay across the small of your back. He hobbled slightly as you shuffle backwards to slide down the wall. Gripping your shoulders for support, he shakily sits down next to you, legs splayed out as he rests his other crutch across his right thigh.

You flush at the newfound closeness, copying his stance as you stretch your legs out. In the process your foot kicks something solid, and you look back to see the motorola on the sleek metal floor, broken beyond repair. You feel almost guilty, despite doing nothing wrong.

“Sorry about your phone.” You say softly, giving the speedster a remorseful smile.

Peter returns with a genuine grin “It’s a-okay babe, don’t worry ‘bout it. I'll get Xavier ter buy me a new one” he waves you off nonchalantly “-a work-issued phone ‘er somethin’.”

“Shouldn't you be spending the professor’s money on something more worthwhile? A new kitchen, perhaps?” You tease, nudging the Xman’s shoulder with your own.

“Hand on heart, babe. Wasn't my fault!” Peter’s hand flies to the very right side of his body, the opposite end of where his vital organ actually was. “I was cookin’ fer the kiddos since they didn’t want ter go through with Hank’s taco tuesday night, bless ‘em, but it turns out i’m pretty inferior too.”

“Is it really that bad?” You ask, surprised “A man with six PhD’s can’t cook?”

Peter shudders, screwing his face up into a look of disgust as he lays a hand on top of your own, squeezing it as though he had undergone something traumatic. “His food is a mix of something bad and something.. even worse, babe. Hank’s too experimentative, ‘n that shit should stay in the lab. The man added eggplants to our enchiladas. Eggplants. How crazy is that?!”

You snort, throwing your head back in comfortable laughter as he giggled with you. “I mean, i’m a man that’ll eat anythin’ yer put in front of me. But that pairin’? C’mon!”

Snickering further, the thought of impending doom eased gradually out of your mind as you found yourself relaxing. Peter’s fingers drum against the back of your hand, instilling a calming flow as you focus on the rhythmic taps.

He clears his throat. “So uh- yer work here?” The speedster gestures to the ID hanging off your neck, your photo and FBI logo showing.

“Just your average desk jockey at the moment, but I'm training to be an espionage agent.” You nod after a brief pause “...hopefully.”

Peter caught your eye with a confused blink, tilting his head with a puzzled smile. You catch onto his perplexity, dumbing the definition down to much simpler terms. “A spy.”

He blinked again, this time in realisation. “That’s totally rad! Yer don’t look like one, though, so I was pretty confused. Thought yer were talkin�� ‘bout that snail food...”

“That’s escargot, Mr. Maximoff.” You snicker “And I'm sorry to burst your bubble, but we ‘spies’ aren't all wearing stilettos and gun holsters on our person.”

Peter grinned as his hand left yours to ruffle his hair, something you found him doing often. “Suit yerself. But if I was the bad guy and yer were in that getup, I’d let ya capture me in an instant.” The words rolled off his tongue so smoothly that you found yourself falling further into the figurative arms of his speedy grasp. “ ‘n scrap the ‘Mr. Maximoff’, babe. ‘M just Peter.”

A bright blush crept upon your face once more. You waved the speedster off dismissively, not used to having comments like that directed towards you, let alone by a man who belonged on the front cover of a People’s Sexiest Man Alive magazine.

“So, Peter,” You test out his name, enjoying the way it sounded as it left your mouth. He grinned dopily, liking it too. “Why are you here?”

Peter looks around to check the coast is clear before coercing you closer with two fingers, making a quick ‘c’mere’ motion. You oblige, his lips now inches from your ear and soft silvery hair brushing against your temple. “I could tell ya, but then I'd have to kill ya.” The soft whisper sent currents down your spine, and the speedster didn’t miss your shiver as he pulled back, winking.

Peter seemed to have sensed your flustered state, swiftly moving onto another topic. “Like actually though, yer an undercover spy. That’s sick!” Peter hyped you up.

You shrug dismissively “I-it’s not exactly like the films. I’m more of an investigator than what you’re thinking.. and I’m not out on the field much, if at all.”

“Damn, yer still gotta be a total whizz though, right? Ter work for a federal agency?” Peter questioned with a genuine intrigue in your profession, a dopey grin adorned on his lips.

You brush it off once more with a simple shrug and a giddy smile, albeit with a newfound warmth and pride in your heart at his interest. A pause prolongs throughout the cramped room as you lean your head back onto the wall, staring at the uncomfortable bright lights until your retinas are screaming for you to avert your gaze.

Peter put his hands behind his head, staring at his feet in thought. He cocked his head as he saw that his silver shoelaces had unraveled. Maybe he should've asked you to tie them whilst you were down there earlier, nuzzling and befriending his junk. He grinned, savoring the memory in his mind and preserving it in a metaphorical polythene sleeve, just like his beloved original mint-condition records at home.

Woah! Slow down there, Don Juan! This chick barely knows you!

A comfortable silence lingered in the air for a few moments more, before Peter gently nudged you with his shoulder, looking over at you whilst his head stood resting against the elevator wall.

“I could be yer Tiffany Case.”

You furrow your brows. What?

“Yunno, Diamonds are forever, ‘56? Sean Connery, Jill St. John? I could totally be yer main bond girl!” Peter reiterated, gesturing his hands in his hair like the bouffant style the woman was infamous for wearing.

You snort a true laugh at the thought, turning your head to face him. He was already looking at you, grinning at your reaction to his buffoonery.

“Shouldn’t it be the other way round?” You query. Peter shakes his head adamantly. “Nuh uh, Ms. Double agent. Besides, I'd totally rock it in a showy little corset dress, don’t cha think? The choker an’ all?” He quipped, seeming happily expectant for your answer.

You snort further and he gasped at you in mock offense, nudging you slightly with a half-hearted ‘hey!’, to which you shrug and state that you would be rather under-qualified for the job. Jumping out of moving cars and escaping the clutches of hungry alligators weren’t exactly your areas of expertise.

“Yer think? Ya more of a Velma, huh? It’s a-okay, ‘m flexible. I could be yer shaggy too, y’know?” Peter nudged you again, each contact of clothed skin sending bolts of electricity down your arm. You sensed that he was hinting at something, although very subtly, as he couldn’t flee if you shot him down. Like you ever would, that is.

“Oh please, you’d be scooby.. no, scrappy! The watch says it all.” You gesture. Peter raises his eyebrows, a flicker of astonishment in his eyes, surprised that you took the time to notice that little detail. Your remark wasn’t even a compliment, in fact it was meant to be taken as slander, but he paused for a moment as his heart thumped faster than usual, a little dazed.

The overhead elevator bulb flickered as Peter gazed at your face. He swore then he could see you in an entirely new light, in a way that had his hands going clammy and stomach leaping in a mix of excitement and anxiety.

Peter watched, transfixed as your tongue glided across your lower lip, moisturizing them as your hands fiddled with the ID badge hanging around your neck. He wanted to hear you speak again.

“I’m callin’ bullshit, babe. In every spy movie the powerful female lead always carries her gun in a thigh holster. That’s just how it goes!” He shrugs “I mean, the only exception was this chick I met in ‘83. But I didn’t check if she had one, scout’s honour! She’s Charles’ girl.”

He carelessly flung three fingers in the air, knocking off the goggles that were once cushioned on his head in the process. He guessed they were slung somewhere across the elevator as your eyes trailed their path, but Peter paid them no mind. He cleared his throat awkwardly to grasp your attention.

You pfft, “Maybe you need to lay off the 007 films for now, no one wears anything like that.”

Peter squints his eyes, as if checking your own for signs of lying. “Whaddaya say yer let me check sometime? Ya sure yer got no secret compartments anywhere? Can't be too safe as an Xman, huh?”

“I Wouldn't be a very good bond if I was conspiring against my main girl, would I?” You tease, matching his expression. You gesture to his t-shirt, “And I’d never harm an Earth, Wind and Fire supporter.”

Peter’s eyes lit up as he sat further upright now, grasping your hand tightly. “Yer like Earth, Wind and Fire?!” You grin at his giddiness, “Hell yeah! I saw them back in ‘79.”

He squeezed your hand in his, sighing contently as he ruffled his hair with the other. “I like ya taste, and yer currently holding the hand of an incredibly handsome and painfully humble man, so yer taste in this department ain't half bad either, babe.” He shot you a grin.

You hit him slightly in the chest at his unbridled cockiness, but still not wanting to let go of his hand, and neither did he. His grip stayed intertwined with yours in a stalemate, both of you unwilling to relinquish. His gaze was just as unwilling, staring you down much like a fox.

All Peter wanted to do was make you smile again. To see you laugh again. It hurled him into the midst of a typhoon, with a zero percent chance of survival. He was right in the epicenter, the eye of the storm.

In true Scorpions fashion? You were rockin’ his emotions around like a hurricane, sending him into a love-struck frenzy. I mean, come on! It’s the 21st night of September, cupid! Little early sending those arrows, ain’t it bud?

In his daze, Peter barely registered the sudden clunk of the elevator. Not until you yelped and sunk your nails into the skin of his hand did he register the movement of the steel floor, and he gripped onto you even tighter. Tight enough that it surely hurt, but you didn’t protest as you shifted yourself onto your knees, using the handrail above to lift yourself up. With the aid of your hands, Peter eased out of his seated position, careful to not put any unnecessary pressure on his leg.

The lights on the buttons flicker on as you watch gleefully, the floor number beginning to move from seven to five, getting closer to your stop at the third floor. Your claustrophobic nightmare had come to an abrupt halt. Peter felt a strange sinking feeling in his stomach, though. As glad as he was to get back to the mansion, he wanted to stay with you. To get to know you.

He needed to see you again.

With a silent curse, Peter cleared his throat, “Hey, uh, babe?” You turn around expectantly. No backing out now, casanova. “Feel free ter totally hurl me down this elevator shaft or whip out your concealed gun if I'm wrong but- and yer never know when ya might need an elevator buddy again… so…” Nervousness clearly oozed from every fibre of his being, shown by his clammy hands and averted gaze, every unanswered second feeling like an hour.

Your clear confusion sent him into a malfunctioning frenzy. He just wanted this over with, yet he couldn’t find the words.

“Ijustwantedtoknowificouldpossiblyyyyyyygetyournumbermaybeandwecouldgooutttonadatee?” A jumbled string of words flies out of his mouth like word vomit. That wasn’t very Peter Franks of him.

His question completely flew over your head, and Peter mistook your taken-aback stature as rejection and his heart plummeted into a sad, mushy mess. As a wise Roos Tarpals once said: ‘Yousa in big doo-doo dis time.’

Peter immediately back-tracked himself, trying to ease the gauche tension that was gradually becoming more prominent. “Whaaaat?! Whosa spaked dat?!” Yeah, that oughta do it. Nice one, jar jar binks.

“Woah! Slow down, Motormouth! Not everyone is a Gungan. Tell me again.” You exclaimed, bewildered. The silence was permeable as you were waiting expectantly. His mouth went dry. Ooh mooie mooie, was it too quick to say that he might be in love with you? You understood his references. You were perfect, and now the pressure to not mess up was inordinate.

Peter hadn't felt this anxious before. Not when he fought Apocalypse on his own. Not when his матушка had walked in on him watching something totally not PG13. Not even when he asked Crystal Amaquelin out in 8th grade, via note, only for her to laugh and share the heartfelt message around with her rather intimidating gaggle of giggling friends.

The entire school knew about it in less than an hour, even Peter’s Civics teacher, Mr. Rivera, of whom then placed the younger speedster next to his unrequited crush for the remainder of the year. Gee, doesn’t he owe him for that one.

Peter had grown since then. He had completely put it past him soon after he had once removed all traces of putty from the windows in Mr. Rivera’s classroom, only for every pane to fall one by one as his favourite teacher slammed the door behind him. It was golden, and Crystal laughed too. Psscht, not like Peter cared anyway…

Was the yelling and exclusion worth it? Absolutely. Peter still felt a little bad about the fine mama Maximoff was given, though.

But truly, he had grown. A real glow up, infact. He bet that Crystal Amaquelin would now jump at the chance to go out with him, with the soft silver hair all his groupees fawned over and those fuckass reading glasses he had now gleefully parted from. And not to mention the severe hayfever that had plagued his summers as a child, where he would spend his days walking down the school corridor with his red, watery eyes and running nose.

Awh hell, why was he torturing himself with the thoughts of his younger, dorkier past? You were in front of him, waiting, absentmindedly chewing the inside of your cheek. Or perhaps it was a nervous tic? Either way, he’s got a good chance of blowing this with you. Slim to none odds of coming out of this with an in-tact ego.

Peter repeats his words. Atleast, he thinks he does. It was like the muscles in his jaw seemed to be doing all the talking involuntarily. Pfft. Even his body was sick of him. So why was he trying his dregs of luck with you? It seemed like you have a good life ahead of you, without the speedster whizzing past and leaving a whirlwind of destruction in his wake.

Whatever he said, Peter hopes it was coherent this time. And by judging the look in your face… well.. actually, no. He has no idea what's going on in that pretty little head of yours, and to put it frankly, it’s killing him. Cause of death? Interaction with a female. Peter would’ve been sure of his untimely demise if it weren’t for the pounding sound of blood pumping through his head.

Mere seconds go by. To Peter, it’s hours. He needs to check you’re still functioning. Embarrassed, the speedster rubs the back of his head, awkwardly grinning at you. A few silent moments to many, he finally breaks the tension by maturely asking:

“You aiiight?”

Upon hearing no response from you and seeing your flushed cheeks, his grin grew even wider as he snickered.“Whew- So, I guess that means I’m still good lookin’ enough ter make the ladies blush, huh?"

Peter’s deflecting. He knows it, and so do you. The sense of rejection is crashing down on him like an array of polished oak cabinets. And he’s just about to conjure all the strength he had left to pry open those pesky mechanical doors open when-

“You got a pen?” At long last, a response. Granted, it wasn’t exactly the yes or no Peter was expecting, but a response nonetheless.

Patiently, you watch as Peter scrambles for the blue felt tip marker in his trouser pocket, the one he used to colour in the dope skateboard one of the kiddos drew on his cast. He sighed in relief as he found it, thrusting it towards you with an award-winning, yet uneasy smile.

You thank him as you flick the lid off, scrawling your number in the corner of one of your documents. It was hard to remember your digits as Peter’s gaze burned into you, along with the sound of his shallow breathing. Amidst the tension, you couldn’t help but detect a tingling, giddy feeling in your stomach, transporting you back to your days as a teenager. Mustering a shy grin, you hand both the marker and paper back to him. Peter took it like it was priceless, immediately memorizing your number in his head in fear that it would somehow disappear off the page.

Peter knew that his dreamlike half-hour had come to an end when the elevator pinged at the third floor, gliding open effortlessly as if those very same doors weren’t sending Peter into an early retirement from trying to force them open. You hum cordially as you break away from the claustrophobic room, stepping into the monotony office that you’ve never been so elated to see again. You turn around, watching the speedster press the ground floor number with the end of his crutch. “Not your stop?”

Peter grimaces, sighing exuberantly “Nah, still got another couple floors with the mystery machine.” He pats the wall as if it were an old friend. It reverberates with a loud echo, making him wince. Just then, the doors begin to shut before you interfere, wedging your foot in between them so they detect your presence. They open back up again.

“You’ll call me, won’t you? If you have time?”

“Fer you? Anything. That’s a promise.” Oh boy, Peter’s turning into a lovefool already.

You grin “Don’t go breaking any more cabinets, Shaggy.” Your foot slides away from the elevator.

“Who, lil’ ol’ me?” Peter gasps in mock offense “Like, sorry Velms, but that's a promise I can't keep, man.” You giggle and he grins triumphantly, watching as the doors begin to close and you wave goodbye, hollering one last thing to the speedster.

“I hope mystery incorporated doesn’t give you much trouble!” Clunk.

Once again, Peter is left alone with his thoughts, accompanied only by the sounds of the conveyance machinery whirring down to the ground floor. He uses this time to fumble for his walkman on his belt, trapping his hair underneath his over-ear headphones. With a click he presses the play button, just in time as the elevator doors ping open once more.

Readjusting his grip on his crutches, Peter hobbles out of the building, the sounds of Aerosmith’s ‘Love In An Elevator’ blaring at full volume. He glances down with a smirk at the piece of paper you gave to him, documented with his name and recent items he had swiped from a local record store; and jackpot! Your number, clear as day, scrawled onto it. Finally.

Peter knew his plan would work someday. He sorta had a knack for this spy thing. In truth, stopping that elevator was the best thing he’d done in a long while.

Shame about his phone though, that was the only thing that happened on accident. Ruh roh.

#the end was supposed to suggest that Peter has been pining after the reader for a while but it turned out kinda stalkerish #whoops #anywho i hope you guys like #peter maximoff #evan peters #quicksilver #xmen #peter maximoff x reader #evan peters masterlist #peter maximoff fluff #peter maximoff x you #peter maximoff x y/n #peter maximoff smut #evan peters x reader

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