Title: Spare Parts
Author: kelly1_watxm
Rating: T -- Language
Length: 1612
Pairing/Character: Dominic/Pietro (Pietrominic), Pietro (first person) P.O.V.
Warning: Teh slashsor. Nothing explicit.
Disclaimer: Marvel owns.
Summary: Pietro helps Dominic repair the alternator on the Jeep. Because I am writing, this apparently leads to hella angst. Set sometime between the end of Ep 22 and the beginning of Ep 24.

A/N – I went to get my front tires replaced this afternoon and was flipping through a book in the waiting room about car things. It was alphabetical and 'alternator' was near the front. This fic came out of nowhere and demanded to be written like whoa. I make no claims that I actually understand what an alternator does beyond what the book described or, really, how it goes into a car. I assume Dominic would though.

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Dominic has incredibly beautiful eyelashes. It's not the first thing you notice about him... hell, it's probably not even the tenth, but it's true. They're the kind of eyelashes Rogue would spend a tube of mascara and half an hour in the bathroom each morning trying to achieve – long and dark and subtly curved, brushing his cheeks as he leans over the engine block. I study him from eight inches above.

My eyelashes are pale, and barely there. Like everything about me, they are transient, hovering on the edge of disappearance if you look at them for too long. I appreciate Dom for his solidity. He is oils; I am water colours. No matter how broad my strokes, how blurred the edges, he is all strong lines. Without him, I have no reference point.

His hand, calloused, rough, but surprisingly gentle in its pressure, reaches up and briefly cups mine. He is amending the angle of my wrist. I am holding an ancient work lamp for him.

Suddenly I am nine again, and it doesn't matter that Wanda will not play with me, and it doesn't matter that father yelled at me for making Lorna cry, because he has given me a job. A job! I am too young to realize, while I hold the light for Mystique, that he is keeping me busy and out of the way. As she grumbles and fixes the tiny dual prop, I concentrate my hardest on being the best flashlight holder in Genosha. Because then maybe Father will acknowledge that I am good at something; maybe he will be proud, like he is of Wanda, like he is of Lorna. Mystique snaps at me because I've accidentally moved the beam-- standing still has never been my strong suit -- and I start to cry when I realize today will not be the day. Today is yet another day I've disappointed him.

I've allowed my hand to slip and Dominic stops what he is doing to patiently readjust the light. "Please hold it there for a little while longer." Twenty years has not improved my ability to tolerate menial tasks and I am not above sulking about it.

"I'm not even doing anything."

His face brightens as he sees something, his forearm disappearing completely into the engine. I am hit with the sudden and irrational fear that somehow the jeep will turn on and he will be mangled. My stomach tightens uncomfortably. I have a morbid, overactive imagination that I have no idea how to control. I can't help but worry myself sick over possibilities that will never happen.

Dominic does not even look slightly concerned that his arm may be gruesomely ripped off as he buries his elbow. "Can you get the wrench?" I comply, not breathing until he finally pulls his hand out almost a half a minute later, holding something small and round and dirty. He shows it to me, pleased with himself like a cat bringing in a field mouse. It sits dead in his palm and I poke it cautiously. "It is the alternator."

"I know that." He sighs because we both know I'm lying. "Do we need a new one?" Already I am planning my break and enter into the auto parts store two towns over, where I know I can be useful.

"No, it is only the rectifier bridge. I can rebuild it."

I nod thoughtfully as though I understand what he's talking about. Dominic lays the part out on the workbench like doctor with a patient. I try not to hover as he begins to disassemble the alternator into its components, carefully setting down the pieces as he goes so he can put them back together in the same order. I like watching him fix things. I envy Dominic a lot of his traits, but today it is this. He has a knack for taking things apart, finding and fixing the problem, making them like new. No one bothers to be handy anymore.

Now would be a good time to tell him that I have to leave later on today, but instead I say nothing as he works. I am a coward. I will go in the night, when all the other shamed, foul things are about. I am to retrieve the Senator. Blink could have easily done it instead of coming to ask me, but it seems Father wants to build a few rectifying bridges of his own. After what he said to me the other day, I probably should have refused. It's just another flashlight holding mission that will never make him proud. And I don't really want to leave here, leave Dom. I will, of course. Some days...most days, I hate myself for the choices I make when it comes to my father.

In less time than I would have thought, Dominic has the alternator back together. He grins at me expectantly. I have every right to be sceptical when he gets that look. "What?"

"You are going to put it back for us." He pulls me down into a kiss--soft, unexpected.

As though that would stop me from protesting. "But I don't know how."

"Well, you will never learn holding the light. I know you will be able. It is easy and I will talk you through it." It is my own fault for complaining about not doing anything earlier. To be honest, Dominic's blind faith in me scares me more than anything in the world. It is another point I am too cowardly to tell him. At least I know Father expects me to fail, so when I do, both of us are vindicated. I'm always afraid of being more of a disappointment to Dominic than I'm sure I already am.

I triple check that the keys are not in the ignition, mangling anxiety renewed. He shakes his head, smiling, and I wonder, not for the first time, if he has secret telepathy. I think it goes back to his proficiency at figuring things out. I am not more difficult than an alternator to understand. He tilts the light, points out where the part should go, and orients it just above the block for me. I plunge my hand into the engine. "You feel the slot it came out of, yes? Twist and push it until you hear a click."

I feel the slot. I twist. I push. I twist some more. "It doesn't fit."

Dominic frowns. "You have to push it hard."

I push hard. I push harder. I try twisting again. "Damn it, Dom, I'm telling you it doesn't fit. Maybe you put it back together wrong."

We switch places and, in about three seconds, I can hear the telltale click as Dominic pops the alternator into place. He's the one who looks sheepish, even though it was me who just insulted his clearly flawless handiwork. He pulls it back out and gives it to me like a gift. "Maybe I was not explaining it correctly. It is an up and in, then twist, then push."

I try again. Up. In. Out. Down. I throw in a left for good measure. "I can't do this."

"Yes, you can." I am angry at him for his certainty in me. "You just need to--"

"I can't! Okay?! I just can't do it!" Because I'm not him. Because I can't ever fix anything no matter how hard I try or how hard I want to.

He looks at me reproachfully, his eyes sad. I am frustrated because everything is broken. He is frustrated because I am the only thing he cannot fix. "It is okay, Pie." I sigh because we both know he's lying. He kisses me on the forehead, extracting the part from my clenched fist. "I will finish. You wash up."

I stand at the sink for what feels like a long time and let the water run uselessly over my hands. The dots of grease refuse to budge. They are imprints of him, dark and solid and constant. They are points of reference he has given to take with me when I am in my father's domain, when everything blurs and I lose myself without him. They are my map home.

His arms wrap around me from behind and for a brief moment everything is okay. His hands squeeze mine under the running tap. I am reminded of how desperately in love with him I am. I am terrified he would leave if he knew.

He begins to scrub the mechanics' soap into my palms with his thumbs, kneading and pushing and working at the marks meticulously. I do not want them to go away. How will I survive in Genosha? The soap is gritty and the motion makes my skin white then red-raw.

I want to scream at him to stop and so I do and so he does. He is dripping murky brown water onto the concrete; he is running his fingers through his hair; he is avoiding my eye. He clearly doesn't understand why I yelled and I am suddenly furious at him for not being able to pull me apart, to find and fix the problem, to rebuild me like new.

He looks afraid that I'm going to shout at him again and this makes my eyes burn with tears. He looks as though it's his fault and this makes them water harder. I wipe angrily. He hesitates to console me. I don't blame him for a second. I turn back to the sink, hearing the garage door close softly behind him a moment later. And I begin to sob in earnest when I realize today is yet another day I've disappointed him.