A/N: I've never put so much thought and actual research into a fanfiction. I've published little things here in there since having an account that I never went very far with, but I am so pumped about Tryptamine! Ramona is my pride and joy as a character, and I hope you guys love her as much as I do.

This is a Pietro Maximoff and OC pairing, and obviously AU. Can I just say that on a real level Pietro shouldn't have died? Like, Quicksilver is literally so fast that he can run into the future. Granted, the Marvel Cinematic Universe's Maximoff twins aren't their actual mutant counterparts but good lord. I'll end that with saying that his death just really made me sad, so I wanted to change it.

Enjoy and please let me know what you think in your reviews!

Prologue

"Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light." –Dylan Thomas

He was so much better now; his speed, his thought process, his strength. He could see all of the trivial little details in life that were lost on so many others. He could heal from wounds faster, could quail the effects of pain to a minimal level. He had been brought to his knees, broken, and put back together again. Wanda too. The agony that came with signing their lives away had eventually culminated into a gracious blessing because they were so much more now. But that no longer held any significance.

Pietro Maximoff knew he was going to die. He could feel it already. A numbness was sweeping up the appendages of his body, and unforgiving shadows were blanketing along the peripherals of his vision.

Dying hadn't been his end game. The initial impulse that ignited in his mind when he saw the Hawk crouching down in preparation to use his own body to shield the young life he held was to simply dash the two away from the rapid gunfire. But he had spotted them too late, hadn't been good enough to save them and himself. So Pietro made a choice; transferred the archer's doom onto himself.

You didn't see that coming.

The only regret he felt was leaving his sister. He knew, if their roles were reversed and she were the one that had sustained a body full of bullets, he would go insane with grief. But it wasn't Wanda, and that gave him solace.

His sister was alive. She was alive, strong, and fighting for a cause. She would be well looked after by their new allies… no. Not allies. Their team. They were finally fighting with the right team. People that would sacrifice everything for their world, his city, a child. Wanda would be an avenger, would become something greater than she already was. He felt it.

The only regret he had was not being able to see it, experience it with her.

He was going to die. He understood this. The Hawk's eyes were burning into his own with an intensity that could not be paralleled with words, but he understood that as well. The immeasurable gratitude and the terrible reality that there was absolutely nothing the archer could do to save him.

You didn't see that coming.

But it was going to be ok. He wanted to ask Clint to look after her, but something told him that the request wouldn't be needed. And the darkness, inky black and immeasurable was unfurling like the wings of a crow and clouding his eyesight completely. Then he was falling.

Pietro did not have an epiphany, nor was he accosted with images of all the joys of life that he would not experience. He only recalled one thing, one memory.

He and his sister's tenth birthday, the last one they were allowed to celebrate with their parents. The delicious, sweet berry palacinke his mother had made. The light in his sister's eyes when she had been given the pretty dress he had helped his mother pick, and his own joy at receiving new shoes that benefited a runner's feet. It was a wonderful day, but he was falling and even the shining crystal eyes set in the little face of his sister were slowly disappearing.

I am sorry Wanda.

Mama. Tata. I am coming home.

And for a small eternity he did. He was floating, or standing, he could not tell. But they were there. His parents. His mother's beautiful dark hair fluttering around her angelic face. His father's warm, laughing brown eyes. He could feel them.

I have missed you so much.

A heavy hand on his shoulder, a gentle squeeze.

We have never been truly separated.

His mother's soft hand on his cheek. He turned into it, overcome with the emotion of being reunited with who he had lost. Her voice was an echo throughout his entire being.

Nu a fost încă dragostea mea.

And Pietro was falling again, or being lifted? He could not tell the difference anymore. His parents were fading away and he panicked, felt true fear.

Not again, please.

There was an insistent pulling of everything he was and could ever be, and he struggled. But the fight left him just as soon as it had come when he felt himself being enveloped by something divine. Cool and silky and loving. Pietro soaked it in, felt a peace he didn't think was possible after once again losing sight of his parents. He was weightless within the depths. And then he was propelled with a force that vibrated throughout his entire essence.

Pietro Maximoff's eyes flew open and he choked on a ragged breath. He couldn't process the expeditious changes that had been reaped onto his conscious, could not feel the pain his body was in.

But he could see. Gold and green twining together to create a pair of ethereal eyes that stared down with too much of everything. They were the type of eyes that could make men beg and weep. He could hear. A husky voice murmuring in a tranquil, affectionate tone. A language that was musical. And then he could feel. Cool hands caressing the burning skin of his jaw in an attempt to soothe in whatever way they could.

And then the pain hit his battered frame in a way that took what little breath he had left, but the eyes stayed above him framed by dark eyelashes and set into one of the loveliest faces he had ever seen.

There were other hands on him now, pressing into the pain.

She was hurting too. He could see the blood, the shade of rich red wine, dripping from her nose. One dainty hand went to wipe the sanguine color away, and fearful that the other would leave him as well he grasped it into his own palm to keep it pressed to his face.

She was dipping down to his side though, in no way abandoning him to the other less affectionate touches. He followed the movement, kept her the only thing he could see.

She was whispering in that soft throaty tone again, but this time he could understand it.

Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.