Title:Stones and Slab
Part: 1/4
Word count: 6911
Rating/Warnings: High T for language, implied adult situations. Contains M/M, F/F.
Characters: B.O.M. ensemble – team fic. Dominic POV.
Pairings: Pietro/Dominic, implied one-sided Domino/Rogue, and Mortimer/Pietro if you squint a little.
Disclaimer: Marvel's, not mine. :: le sigh ::
A/N 1: Though Stones and Slab lives in the same neighbourhood as the rest of my non-humour BOM stuff, please don't be discouraged if you haven't read any of my other fics. It should (hopefully) stand on its own, though there may be a non-plot related point or six that will make you go "Heeeeeey, I don't remember that being canon." (If you're going to be discouraged over anything, it should be the text bludgeon of a 23000+ word count. Or the fact that it's written from the perspective of a minor character that noboby probably actively likes but me. Or the fact that it's written by me, and not someone with an actual talent for this sort of thing...)
A/N 2: Dominic's opinions are not necessarily my opinions. O_o Also Present=Episode 8.
Thanks: To thelostmaximoff who reminded me that chapters exist for a reason, and that I too can use them XD.
Stones and Slab – Chapter One
All avalanche events, regardless of type, can be broken down into three distinctive components: The Sheer—wherein the fragile top layer of snow first breaks away from the base, The Slide—wherein the loosed debris gains momentum, and The Runout—wherein the avalanche comes to rest.—Extreme Earth , Discovery Chanel
Runout, present day, North Atlantic Ocean
The dull, familiar throb in Dominic's head comes first, and on its heels is the cold—testicle shrivelling and lung searing. His blood is lukewarm coffee sludge, left on the burner overnight, thick and black and acrid in his veins. An eternity of staring at the dawn-lit clouds (why, exactly, was he laying on his back again?) passes before he remembers the flash of red. 'Fucking Cyclops.'
Briefly, Dominic is tempted, seduced by the ache in his bones. He is all too aware that he is thirty-three now, that he favours his right shoulder from a tendon that didn't quite heal properly, that his knees crack when he squats, that he is on the downward slope, steepening with each of these encounters, of his prime. No one will fault him if, just this once, he remains down. The Brotherhood will be fine without him; the X-Men are not the MRD and they will not kill any of them. Not on purpose. Not over this. Even Pietro, ('Stubborn, impossible asshole,' Dominic thinks, not without affection) will likely concede long before it ever reaches that point.
As far as Dominic is concerned, the X-Men can have the exploding man and their former teammate. Both are more trouble than they are worth. Of course, this is only Dominic's view, which, within the hierarchy of the Brotherhood, means relatively little. For Pietro, Nitro brings yet another futile hope. (His persistence in pursuing the approval he will never receive is both admirable and exasperating.) Rogue is far too important to Neena. Dominic doesn't trust the girl but has said nothing since her first day. Pietro knows his reservations about her, Neena doesn't want to hear them and, as always, Dominic's opinion is politely listened to and then completely disregarded by the two of them.
Quicksilver and Domino are in charge and have always been in charge; it's a duumvirate that's as old as the inception of the Brotherhood. (Pietro may be the de facto leader, but both of their personalities are too strong to completely concede to one another.) This suits Dominic fine. He has never had any desire for power, even from the beginning. He keeps his head down, says his piece, squares his shoulders, and pulls his weight. Some people are leaders and others are workers; even before the Brotherhood, Dominic has always been the latter.
A sharp pulse behind his eyes extinguishes the rational thought in his brain for several seconds, dousing everything but 'Shock!' and 'Pain!' into retreat. It takes Neena's voice, as harsh as the cold wind sheering off the ocean and cutting Dominic to the bone, to remind him of his obligations. "Get out here and help us, Toad!"
"Okay, trust me, our chances of winning are much higher if I'm not involved." Toynbee always has an excuse. (He is neither a worker nor a leader, and he has no place on this team. But again, that is just Dominic's opinion, and the fact that Mortimer is back with the Brotherhood is a testament to how little that really means.)
Dominic ignores his instincts and manages to stand on the second try. (Better than usual.) The world rights itself uneasily, a round peg in a square hole, adequate for now.
Sheer, December 2005, New Jersey
"Man, did you see the look on Moss' face?" Pietro is laughing, unlocking the door to the shithole apartment above the Chinese food restaurant that is serving as the base of operations for the Brotherhood. The cramped two-bedroom is far too small for the three of them. Dominic pulled the short straw and sleeps permanently on the pullout couch in the tiny living room. Pietro has offered more than once to share his bed, but Dominic is unsure if he is serious and, if he is, if he really wants that. It's been nearly a year since Helen. His head hurts too much to think about this today and he pushes it aside.
"No," Neena strolls in and plops herself on the edge of Dominic's sofa bed, never made, propping her feet up on the coffee table and unzipping her boots. She leans back into the pillows and turns on the television, bathing the room in the blue flicker of two a.m. infomercials. Dominic was hoping to lie down. He says nothing. "I was a little too busy trying to avoid the pieces of ceiling falling on me." She quirks her lips. "Not all of us are as thick headed as Petrakis is. I bet he isn't even going to need that fancy helmet you ordered for him."
It's a common joke of theirs, a gentle and non-malicious bait, but Dominic is in no mood to retaliate or participate in their barb trading tonight. He sits down heavily in the well worn armchair; the stuffing is far too old to actually be comfortable. His English is foggy and escaping him, coming too slow. He wouldn't be able to keep up. It's because it's late, because he's tired. Dominic barely even remembers the ride home. He casually rakes a hand through his hair, carefully feeling the knot of a scab already forming where a piece of falling concrete had hit him during one of his tremors and briefly knocked him out. He was fairly certain, amidst the melee, that his teammates had not noticed. Perhaps the helmet wasn't a bad idea.
Pietro pauses for a moment, flipping through the takeout menus normally pinned to the corkboard in the kitchen. When Dominic fails to respond, he takes up the mantle himself. It's a game both he and Neena seem to enjoy; Dominic has never really cared for it. "Geez Thurman, all this talk of thick heads and helmets? It sounds like someone wants to Freudian slip her way between the sheets of the sofa bed tonight." Pietro cocks an eyebrow, his smile wide and dangerous, his voice as smooth and golden as honey. The entire effect is enough to make Dominic's spine curve, to briefly invoke the familiar hot tightness, spreading low and fast and down from his abdomen. "You know, if Dom isn't willing..."
Neena seems immune to it; she even laughs "Don't worry Maximoff, if I ever have a complete lapse of good judgement, I know you're the closest available prick."
Pietro snorts in spite of himself. "Flatterer. And yet, this doesn't help me tonight. You know, Dom, if Neena isn't willing...." Another chuckle. Pietro waves the menu leaflet at them, already flipping open his cell phone. "Mike's'll still be open for the after-bar crowd. Anybody else want anything?" He holds up his finger before they can respond. Dominic is used to Pietro's odd, disjointed staccato communication by now. "Hi. Yes, I'd like to place an order for pick up, please...Peter Maxwell... Six California grilled chicken wraps with extra guacamole, a family order of sweet potato fries, and uuuuuh-a vanilla coke...." Dominic knows this is all for Pietro; he eats an unfathomable amount. Just the thought of food is making Dominic feel ill at the moment. "No, can I also get a—"
"Large Greek salad with chicken," Domino calls over her shoulder without getting up from the sofa. They have the menus memorized by now. "Easy on the feta and olives, and dressing on the side."
Pietro relays her order into the phone and then looks at Dominic expectantly. Dominic shakes his head, which is a mistake. Purple stars burst across his vision and he quickly turns back in the direction of the TV. The sudden movement has made the pain sharpen.
"Ten minutes. I'll leave in nine," Pietro announces to the room, distributing three bottles of beer from their reserve in the refrigerator. (Beer, condiments, leftover takeout in various stages of moulding, a box of baking soda—the glamorous life of criminals.) Dominic leaves his on the coffee table, watching the condensation begin to form on the brown glass. The apartment is radiator heated, and either freezing or sweltering. They have learned that a median can never be struck, and tonight, it is the latter. The heat makes him drowsy. Pietro joins Neena on the couch, flicking through channels so fast that Dominic has to close his eyes. "Really, Thurman? Large? Greek? If you think I'm above making the obvious 'salad-tossing' jokes, I'm afraid you are sorely mistaken."
Dominic knows he should not be this tired. Most of their work is best carried out under the cover of darkness and the Brotherhood have adjusted their sleeping schedules accordingly. He's only been awake for a few hours.
"Didn't even cross my mind." Dominic hears two caps being pried off, the heady fsssts of carbonation escaping. "That's more your domain. I can't blame you, though; being an ass yourself, I can see why your limited focus would be preoccupied with that area."
They are just getting started; they will be at this all night. It's too much. Dominic is overwhelmed by their voices. "I am going to take a nap." Behind his eyelids, the strobing of the changing channels stops.
Dominic deems it safe to look again. Pietro is standing and smoothing the sheets around the edges of the sofa bed, pulling them taut under Neena, who is reluctantly sitting up. Pietro frowns, scrutinizing some minute wrinkle in the duvet that Dominic will never see. "Headache?"
"Yes." It is not unprecedented; migraines were one of the drawbacks of Dominic's mutation. (And he hated to admit it when he got one, hated conceding his inability to use his powers properly. He wouldn't tell them unless it was absolutely necessary.) This feels different somehow though, a subtlety of sensations he lacks the English vocabulary to express properly.
They cluck sympathetically and mobilize, Neena replacing his beer with a glass of room temperature tap water and Pietro offering up two tablets of Advil from the first aid kit. Dominic gladly downs both, turning off the television and sprawling on top of the covers. The conversation is muted from the kitchenette as Pietro and Neena take up a game of Gin Rummy on the rickety table.
Dominic knows he should brush his teeth, change out of his uniform, shower, but now that his head is on the pillow there is very little he wants to do other than sleep. His body fights him. Everything is spinning behind his eyes and he needs to hang his leg out, planting a foot firmly on the floor, to make it stop. He cringes with every sharp flick of card being dealt in the kitchen; Pietro's quiet peal of laughter slingshots up his spine and explodes painfully into the back of his brain.
When Pietro leaves to pick up the food, Dominic forces himself into the bathroom. He manages, he hopes, to not stumble obviously. Someone has rigged the apartment to lurch and shudder and drop like a funhouse; someone has rewired his limbs and forgotten to give him the instruction manual. He sits down hard on the toilet, head between his knees. Deep breaths. It passes. A shower is out of the question; he does not need to crack open his head twice in one night. He chuckles to himself, light headed. Especially naked.
Still seated, Dominic removes his outer armour and hangs it over the edge of the bathtub, ignoring the rust-coloured spots staining the neckplate. Pissing takes a monumental effort, leaning almost the entirety of his weight against the cool wall and then, seconds later, on his knees heaving the glass of water and the Advils and stomach acid into the toilet. It foams and swirls on the surface of the chemical green water. He flushes it down, caustic smelling blue rushing in from the edges of the bowl, washing away the incriminating evidence. They have another facility break tomorrow night. Dominic does not want to be put on medical restriction again; Pietro has already made him skip one raid this month because of his migraines.
This isn't the same and Dominic knows it. He gropes for the edge of the counter and pulls himself up. It takes far more effort than it should, drunk and clumsy. Dominic places a facecloth in the sink and turns on the tap. It is only then that he inspects himself in the mirror. Shit. One of his pupils is larger than the other. Dominic knows it's a sign of concussion from his years on the high school football team. (He hated when the coach would bench him.)
"You okay in there?" Neena's knock and voice are hesitant, but to Dominic it sounds as though she is yelling, pounding, driving an ice pick behind his eyes. He grips the edge of the counter harder, until his knuckles turn white.
Dominic simply needs a good sleep, and to be more careful. He has had concussions before. He can deal with this. Vomiting has already dissipated some of his dizziness. Tiny droplets of water splash up from the basin, catching on his cheeks and in his beard. Dominic clenches his teeth, closes his eyes, and tempers his reply. "Yes, I am fine."
Slide, 8 months ago, New York
As he pads quietly down the hallway, Dominic is surprised to find the living room light on, and even more surprised to hear Pietro's voice. "—think you'll like it here, kid." He is never up this early. Perhaps he didn't sleep at all last night. Dominic curses to himself. He was hoping to make it to his appointment and back before anyone noticed his absence.
Dominic squints as he gets closer, finding even the single bulb of the table lamp to be unbearably bright. He calmly tells the panic in his brain that it is just his eyes adjusting. 'No sense worrying about it until we know something for certain.' That is what she told him, false reassurance. 'We.' Like they were a team.
"Morning, Dom." Pietro smiles lazily at him from the sofa as Dominic enters the room. His eyes flick quickly, inventorying Dominic's appearance, taking in the non-descript khakis, the button-up shirt, the sensible brown leather shoes. "Dockers?" The smile shifts into a smirk. "You got an interview for a desk job you want to tell me about?"
The comment stings, though whether Pietro intends it to is uncertain. "After my performance last week, perhaps I should look into a different profession, yes?" It had been a cut and dry mission: infiltrate the filing archives of the Senator's office, set some charges, and, in the words of Fred, 'get the hell out of Dodge.' Dominic had been standing at the south wall, trying to remember where exactly he was supposed to place the charge, (Pietro had gone over it half a dozen times in the briefing, but it had slipped from him momentarily, things kept slipping on Dominic more often these days,) when the security guard had snuck up behind him and jammed the butt of his gun into the back of Dominic's neck. They were halfway home before Dominic had regained consciousness.
"You're too hard on yourself." Pietro frowns. "Could've happened to any of us." Except it hadn't. It had happened to Dominic. It always happened to Dominic. Neena was lucky enough to avoid it, Pietro fast enough, Fred nearly invulnerable. Dominic bore the brunt of the Brotherhood injuries and kept them to himself, as much as he could. No one wanted to hear him complain. "Lucky you've got that thick skull of yours."
It's a weak joke at best, an old favourite, a remnant of the past, but a burst of nervous laughter alerts Dominic to the presence of a third person in the room. Sloppy. No wonder the security guard had gotten the better of him. The boy is thin and jittery, barely out of his teens, as green as the armchair he is occupying. Everything about him—the nerves, the obvious fear, the tremble—screams 'prisoner,' and it strikes Dominic as odd that Pietro has brought him to their home. They generally used an abandoned warehouse by the docks for this purpose. "Who is this?" Dominic directs the question to Pietro, not offering the courtesy of speaking to their visitor directly. It was better to not become familiar.
The man squirms a little in his seat, pushing farther back into the cushion as though hoping to disappear completely. "Uh hi...um... I'm Mortimer Toynbee."
Dominic stares at his offered hand, lip curled, until he retracts it. "What is he doing here?"
"Easy, Dom." Pietro laughs, but there is a nervous, hesitant edge to it that doesn't go unnoticed by Dominic. "Mortimer's going to be joining the team. I figured it might help, you know? Divide the work, make things a bit easier on all of us..."
Hot shame bursts in Dominic's chest; this is because he failed. Pietro is punishing him, illustrating Dominic's weakness in this frail, skittish man. He resents Mortimer immediately. Dominic barks at him, making him startle, "What is it that you do?"
Mortimer looks at Pietro, a combination of trust and fear (and something else, affection? attraction? Dominic seethes.) Pietro nods. Mortimer's voice seems too small for the room. "Uhh...I'm sort of like a toad, I guess? I mean, well, my legs are really strong, so I can jump pretty high, um... and I've got this really long tongue and I can spit this weird slimy shit that's kind of sticky...but it's sorta useless....like most of my powers." He trails off. Mortimer is looking down at his hands, kneading and lacing his fingers together. Useless. He brightens momentarily. "Oh! I'm really good at fixing things, too."
That is Dominic's domain. (His fingers dig in to the solid wood frame beneath the upholstering of the sofa.) The prospect of obsolescence makes his stomach tighten, a threat from a lifetime ago, the modern mechanic's curse. Why fix an old car when you could simply lease something new? (Shiny, younger, more reliable.) "I did not realize our team was looking for a pet, Pietro."
Mortimer flinches, not lifting his eyes from his lap.
"Dominic..." Pietro's tone is gently chiding, amused. (He rolls his eyes; there's a ghost of a smile on his lips.)
Dominic is far from amused this morning. "I would have suggested a kitten. It would perhaps be more intimidating to our enemies than what you have chosen, hmm?"
The change is instant. Dominic knows he could have stood there and insulted Mortimer all day and Pietro would have done nothing (hell, he probably would have joined in); it is in criticizing Pietro's leadership choices that he has raised his ire. Pietro's lips press together in a thin white line, his nostrils flare. "Avalanche. Enough."
It is far too easy to pick at the scab of Pietro's inadequacies. Dominic is perversely pleased with himself, ashamed at himself. He relinquishes his grip on the furniture and begins walking toward the door; he needs to leave before he says something he regrets. (Something half-formed and acidic that throbs in the off-time of his headache. [Something about Magneto.])
Standing in the hallway, door shutting behind him with an anti-climactic click, Dominic is honestly surprised that Pietro makes no move to stop him.
Runout, present day, North Atlantic Ocean
Dominic removes his helmet, inspecting it. The weight of it is reassuring in his large palms. It absorbed the worst of the impact. A hairline crack spiders the radius from the base up to the crown. Dominic is aware of each pump of his heart in his temples, behind his eyes. He calms the panic that begins to rise in his chest. He was only jostled; it is a headache, not a concussion. Nothing to worry about. He breathes out between clenched teeth, runs his thumb along the fissure in the high density plastic and repeats it to himself. Nothing to worry about. (A voice interrupting his mantra: "You can't continue like this, Jon.")
Pietro paces in front of the team, the grey in-flight blanket trailing behind him. (It sits on his shoulders like a misshapen cape and Dominic cannot help but think that he looks like a counterfeit version of his father. He is much too severe at the moment.) Dominic worries idly about the lasting effects of being encased in ice on him. Two hundred feet away, the X-Men politely ignore the Brotherhood as they fix their own jet engines.
"Is everyone okay?" Pietro's tone is serious and businesslike, and it clashes with the haphazard crescent the Brotherhood is standing in, the motley approximation of formation. Pietro appreciates the nature of their work and the implicit danger; Dominic sometimes wishes he were less thorough. He used to be. It is Dominic's fault that he is no longer so lax.
Fred speaks up first, shrugging non-committally. "I was probably more okay before I was struck by lightning."
Pietro smiles at that, shakes his head, relaxes his fearless leader facade. (Becomes Pietro, not Quicksilver. [Not a photocopy of Magneto.]) "Dually noted Blob. Everybody else?"
Neena has the plane's meagre first aid kit spread across the ice next to Psylocke, frowning at it as though that will make it contain something other than the requisite gauze and medical tape. Dominic spies a travel-sized bottle of Advil and hopes it is not empty. Domino tilts her head sideways, smiles at Pietro in that wry, hard way that only she can. "I'd say your telepath is less okay and more unconscious."
"She's probably fine though, huh?"
Neena raises her hands uselessly in front of her. "Fucked if I know, I've never been mind-raped by a telepath." She glances across the ice, biting her bottom lip. "Though if I was going to be, Emma Frost is definitely top of my list. Or at the very least tied with Jean Grey."
Rogue giggles nervously at this, forced and uncomfortable and a half a second behind the other Brotherhood members. (Fred's booming chortle is loud enough to make the X-Men stare at them.) The fact that she belongs on the other side of this temporary island is painfully obvious to Dominic. He rolls his helmet in his hands, eyes down. It is not the time to bring this up again. (Just a headache, nothing to worry about.)
"Unrequited and insatiable libido aside, you're fine though, yes Domino?" Pietro proceeds down the line when she flips him the bird. "Charming. Rogue?" Dominic assumes the girl nods (isn't watching, is composing his answer) because Pietro moves on. "Avalanche?"
It's the fact that Pietro's voice softens a fraction, that he touches Dominic just above the elbow (two firm pats, like a sports coach, as close to a public display as they usually got, especially when they weren't in civvies,) that makes it difficult to look him in the eye. "I am fine."
Pietro pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. The lines in his forehead deepen. His hand lingers on Dominic's arm. "You sure?" He looks up at Dominic's metal silhouette, embossed into the side of the plane. "You got hit pretty hard." Pietro has dropped his voice; he is close enough to kiss Dominic. The whole thing is uncomfortably, terribly intimate. ("You can't continue like this, Jon.") Dominic's stomach twists.
He wants to take Pietro aside then, retreat into the stolen, broken shell of the plane and tell him everything for once... Hell, Freddy and Neena too. They deserved to know. But not Mortimer and not Rogue. They are not a part of the Brotherhood, not really. He hates them for being witnesses to even this. "I am fine." He forces himself to look at Pietro and smile, easy and casual. (He hopes it is easy and casual—convincing.) "My helmet however..." He holds out the cracked semi-sphere, taking a step backwards to do so, increasing the distance between them. Pietro's outstretched hand falls limply back to his side and, for one moment, Dominic swears Pietro can see through this.
"Fuck your helmet, Petrakis. I've got two AR-15's that are about as useful to me as popsicles now thanks to Pryde. Our budget's going to that first." Neena grins at them. "You've got your thick skull; you'll be fine."
Pietro rolls his eyes at the tired joke, commandeering Dominic's helmet, tossing it up in the air and catching it gracefully. "Last time I checked, Domino, I was in charge of budget allocation." The opportunity has passed, they slip easily back into old patterns, and Dominic is equal parts relieved and disappointed. It's easier this way. "So, helmet first. You have enough guns as it is."
"But I liked those guns." Neena narrows her eyes at Dominic playfully, faux-perturbed. "This is blatant favouritism, you know."
"Damn straight," Pietro laughs, "You start putting out, maybe we'll talk."
Domino pulls a face, comic and over-exaggerated in disgust. "Ugh, I have to put out and talk to you? No thanks. I'll just wait. Petrakis is a braver soul than I; he deserves the kickbacks for putting up with you."
"As always, Thurman, your perception of me is astoundingly flattering." With a flick of his wrist, Pietro tosses the helmet at her, which she ducks easily. It skitters across the ice and splits in two. "Someone's trying to butter me up for a raise this year, aren't they?"
"Fuck, Maximoff, I don't need to know what the two of you do in your spare time. And with our poor innocent butter? You stop misusing cooking products and maybe we'd have enough for a new helmet and my guns."
Pietro opens his mouth, pauses briefly, closes it, and exhales through his nose. "Anyway, moving on." The two of them could bait each other for hours; five years and Dominic still does not fully understand their strange antagonistic friendship. Just because Pietro pauses it now doesn't mean they won't start it right back up on the flight home. "Dom, can you take a look and see if our engines are still operational or if we're—"
"I'm okay too, Pietro." Mortimer is sitting on the steps of the plane, just outside of their small semi-circle, his voice barely audible and shaking. Pathetic.
Pietro frowns at being interrupted. "Yes, well..."
Dominic can feel the bile rise in his throat, vitriol spilling out before he can stop himself. "It is easy to remain unharmed when you are hiding, is it not?" ('Undue rage reactions, inappropriate and explosive behaviour.' He hates this, hates second guessing everything as an indicator now. He has a right to be angry, dammit! Mortimer shouldn't even be here anymore.) That's the real problem; Dominic was so close to convincing Pietro that Mortimer wasn't needed, had convinced him, (had damn near killed himself the last eight months to convince him,) and yet somehow Toynbee still managed to worm his way back onto the team. "We should have left you with the MRD. You would be safe behind bars and just as useful to us."
There was a time when Toynbee would have sat there, turned his face away, and had the decency to look ashamed at his performance. (He still did that with Neena, with Fred, with Pietro.) With Dominic, he stands, balls his fists. "Hey, I'm the reason we got Nitro."
"Oh yes," Dominic motions agitatedly at the X-Men, at the ruined plane, (at Psylocke, unconscious on the ground, at Pietro, still shivering despite the blanket, at his own shattered helmet [Headache, not a concussion. Not a concussion.] Mortimer is nothing but a liability to all of their safety.) "That has worked out well for us, has it not?"
"That's not my fault." His voice raises, has an edge of hysteria in it as Dominic closes the distance between them. "Man, can't you ever cut me a break!"
"A break! All you get are breaks, Toynbee!" Dominic is yelling, too close and too loud and right now he doesn't care. He has Mortimer by the front of the shirt. "You are allowed to do nothing while the rest of us—"
"Avalanche." Pietro appears at his side with a gust and places a firm hand on Dominic's shoulder. (Dominic is going to be reprimanded while Mortimer doesn't receive so much as a word for staying out of the battle. The injustice of it nearly makes Dominic push this, ignore the consequences. Pietro isn't using enough force to actually hold Dominic back.) "This is not the time." Pietro's words freeze him like a cold shower; he drops Mortimer in a heap on the ground. It is never the time. ("You can't continue like this, Jon.") (Just a headache, nothing to worry about.) "Go check the engines and cool off."
Still within earshot, Dominic punches a dent in the plane when Pietro asks Mortimer if he's okay.
Sheer, December 2005, New Jersey
There are hands on Dominic's face, light being shined into his eyes, and he needs to blink but he can't because they are being held open. They water. His head throbs. His shirt is damp and cold. He attempts to lift his hands to protect himself; he tries to protest. His fingers twitch; his groan sounds desperate and wretched.
Then he's allowed to close his eyes, to blink, and Neena shifts into view, at the wrong angle and blurry, as the water runs down his tear ducts, across the bridge of his nose, and onto the floor. He's laying on his back, he realizes, head turned to the side and legs propped up with a rolled towel. His hands and feet needle sharply as the feeling begins to return.
"He-ey, there we go. You had me worried for a second." Domino's expression is concerned and relieved at the same time. "Don't try to get up, okay? You're bleeding a bit; I think you hit your head."
Dominic forces himself to sit up. (At least part of the way; he ends up jack-knifing in half, knees bent and head down between them. Neena puts a hand on his shoulder with a disapproving tsk.) He stares at the water-covered tile. The sink has overflowed; it always drains too slowly and they never bother to tell the landlord. Dominic can hear the tap still running. The tile is too bright and too sharp, the water splashing down too muffled. Everything is just slightly off. "It is alright. It was earlier in the evening." Dominic does not want another week of medical restriction. The look he gives Neena is plaintive. "Please do not tell Pietro."
"Don't tell Pietro what? That I'm devilishly handsome? It's okay, I already know." Pietro is standing at the bathroom door, still wearing his coat, holding a takeout bag. Dominic sits up straighter by leaning back on the sink cabinets and anchoring his feet against the tub. Pietro surveys the bathroom with a smirk. "Look, if you kids wanted a Slip 'n Slide, all you had to do was ask. I don't think Mr. Xióng is going to be particularly pleased with us about this." He steps delicately around one of the larger puddles, stretching to turn off the sink. "Seriously though, what the fuck are you two up to in here?"
Dominic glances hopefully at Neena. She looks back at him, straight in the eye, serious and unflinching. "Dominic passed out. He has a concussion and needs to go to the hospital."
Traitor.
"Whoa, let's back up the hospital train for a minute," cautions Pietro. The Brotherhood got injured (bullet grazes, lacerations from glass, broken fingers, dislocated joints...little things) on an almost alarmingly regular basis. If it was first aid, they handled it themselves. The three of them were all getting particularly good at sutures. They needed to keep a low profile and doctors had an annoying tendency to ask too many questions. A hospital visit was reserved for life or death.
And this was only a concussion. "I am fine."
Pietro shrugs. "The man says he's fine, Thurman."
Neena's sigh is long-suffering as she stands to face Pietro. "You know, that was exactly my thought when I heard the giant fucking thump from the other side of the bathroom door. 'Dominic sure sounds like he's doing fine in there.'"
Dominic could do without the two bodies hovering over him now; his headache has returned with a vengeance. "It is nothing."
"Let's take a look," Pietro says, with all the air of indulging Neena. He sits on the edge of the bathtub, take-out balanced precariously beside him, one leg on either side of Dominic's. He tips Dominic's chin up in his hand; his skin is still cold from being outside. Dominic tells himself that it is just the temperature of Pietro's touch that sends the shiver down his spine. Pietro frowns. "Shit."
Neena smiles smugly. "See?"
"Okay, fine. Brava, Dr. Thurman." Pietro lets Dominic's chin drop as he applauds sarcastically. "But do we really need to go to the ER? You'll probably be okay after a good sleep and a week off, huh Dom?"
The 'week-off' condition grates, but Dominic was expecting as much. There is another sharp pulse of pain behind his eyes. He is looking forward to the sleep, though. "Yes, I do not need to see a doctor."
"Nu-uh, you lost your vote when you lost consciousness, Petrakis." Neena is tapping her toe, sock squishing wetly on the tile, the same look of hard determination she got on her face whenever they passed an anti-mutant rally. "Head trauma can be dangerous." Pietro is stone-walling her appeal to see if she will back down on her own. The only person who could talk her out of one of these moods was herself. If they tried to intervene, more often than not it would escalate to gun point. "I mean, yes, generally it's nothing, but it can be serious. And maybe I'm being a bit... No, fuck it, I have a feeling. Just humour me on this, Maximoff. If I'm wrong, you can lord it over me until the end of my days like you so delight in doing." Her arms are crossed uncompromisingly.
Pietro looks mournfully at his bag of takeout and stands, sighing. "I relish the opportunity, Thurman." He gives Dominic a brief apologetic look. "Everyone get on their civvies. I'll pull the Jeep around and meet you downstairs." He is gone and back before Dominic stands fully upright. "And I'm bringing my food."
Slide, 8 months ago, New York
Dominic climbs the subway stairs, swapping the smell of stale urine for the smell of car exhaust. The station is only a block from his destination; he still passes three newsstands and two coffee shops along the way. Dominic would kill right now for a large black with sugar and a pack of Marlboros. He settles for a copy of the Times (he'll read the Sports section on the way back, save the rest to be divided amongst Pietro and Neena when he returns) and a pack of gum. The cold tang of mint is not nearly as satisfying as tobacco, but smoking has been making him light-headed lately, and caffeine always makes his migraines worse.
Checking quickly behind him (not because he suspects he is being followed, simply out of force of habit,) Dominic cuts into the alley between two buildings. The non-descript metal door is unlocked when he tries it, and he makes his way along the narrow hall until he reaches the correct office.
The medical assistant meets his eye when he enters, putting her hand over her mouth as she chews a piece of the muffin which sits on the desk in front of her. She waves embarrassedly, and swallows. "Sorry. Breakfast." She's young, still carrying the last of her baby fat or her freshman fifteen, probably right out of college and full of ideals. Her smile is bright and wide.
"It is alright." Dominic hangs his coat on the rack behind the door, familiar with the layout of the waiting area from his visit last week. "Please finish."
"No, no, don't be silly, it's fine." She stands and plucks a file and a clipboard from a neat stack on the shelf behind her. "I always just eat between our patients." Her laugh comes easily. "Which means I'll probably be taking my last bite of this right before lunchtime. Mr. Bloom, right?" Jon Bloom is one of Dominic's more concrete aliases—passport, birth certificate, social security number, driver's licence. She doesn't wait for an answer, motioning for Dominic to follow. Her nametag reads 'Karen' and Dominic struggles to remember if she was there the week before. "We'll get you set up in room number one and I'll let Dr. Halloran know you're here."
"Thank you." The paper covering the examination table crinkles as Dominic sits down, the vinyl squeaks. He feels awkward and exposed.
She slides the file into a rack on the front of the door and hands the clipboard to Dominic, full of nervous efficiency. "I'll just get you to fill these forms out—don't worry, there's a lot less than last time, this is just billing information for this visit—and... oh shoot, you need a pen." Karen eventually retrieves one from the breast pocket of her bubblegum pink scrubs. "Sorry Mr. Bloom. First patient of the day; I'm always a little scattered in the morning. You know how it is."
"Yes," Dominic agrees, even though he doesn't. (It has been years since he has worked a normal job.) "Mondays."
"I know, right?" Karen smiles at him, and then throws up her hands, flustered. "See, I almost just left without taking your temperature." She's apologetic. "I know it seems silly but its policy. Heck, you could be renewing a prescription and I'd have to check it."
"It is alright." Dominic hunches his shoulders so she can reach his ear.
"Thanks." Up close, she smells like Ivory soap and baby powder deodorant; he only knows that because it was Helen's scent. They are nothing alike (Karen is all soft curves and openness, Helen was always acute angles and obtuse responses) but the memory sucker punches him in the stomach and leaves him reeling all the same. The last time Dominic went through this, Helen was here with him. This time she's not.
"See, you're a superstar, 98.6 right on the dot." Dominic had considered asking Pietro to come, dismissed the idea outright almost as soon as he'd had it. Pietro hated the subway and waiting rooms and getting up early. (But it was more than that.) Karen is biting her bottom lip in concern. "Are you okay?"
"Yes," he smiles almost successfully. "I am fine. Sorry." They would not have called him in today to review his results unless something was wrong. Pietro is tied to too much, not just Dominic's personal life but also his career (if what he did with the Brotherhood could be called that... his livelihood, at the very least.) Dominic doesn't want to think about what this could mean for his position on the Brotherhood, and he doesn't want to drag Pietro into a situation where he has to make a choice between 'Avalanche' and 'Dominic.'
"It's alright, Mr. Bloom. Dr. Halloran will be with you in just a minute." Her smile is not as bright, tarnished and a bit sad, as she pulls the door closed behind her. In the absence of her idle chatter, the room seems cold and imposing: the white walls, the bright fluorescents, the faint smell of antiseptic, the sterility. Dominic focuses on the forms.
"Treat as already dead." Neena's voice comes back to him from years ago, one of the many mutant rights discussions they had over cigarettes on the rooftop. She always did most of the talking; Dominic always did most of the smoking. "It's something they label critical cases in Emerg., right? Mostly heart attacks or burn victims, since the fatality rates are so high. The doctors are trained to tell themselves that the patient is already dead when they come in, so, if they can't resuscitate them, it's.... It's a coping mechanism, I guess, so they can deal with loosing the patient. But now, because some powers make conventional treatments useless and they're never really sure how a mutant's powers are going to affect things, they treat every mutant as DOA no matter what. Broken bone, hypothermia, hell a paper cut, and we're already as good as dead to them."
"But that makes some sense, does it not?" And Dominic, frowning and taking a drag. "If they had to operate on Fred, his skin would be too tough for scalpels, yes?"
"Yeah, but it's also an incredibly dangerous way of looking at things, Dom, and a real slippery slope. If we're already dead, they can choose not to waste resources on us. Even if we could be saved, they have an excuse not to."
Dammit. Dominic looks at his form, scratches out "Petrakis" under surname, and writes "Bloom" above it. He hopes Karen doesn't scrutinize it too carefully; he's paying cash and that's suspicious enough. Filling out the rest of the page goes without incident, and Dominic is contemplating unfolding the Times when the door swings open.
A/N 3: And then Dominic read the paper anyway. THE END! Nah, I'm just kidding. You have my solemn author's word on this: that I will not leave this unfinished, and this has a specific working toward plot resolution ending. (That's generally the reason I write obscenely long one-shots, not chapter fics. I hate reading a fic I like and really get into and then realizing it was never finished, or the ending was cobbled on. This is finished, promise, I just need to proof read it to fill in the words I swear are there the first three times I read it over, but that I actually am just putting in in my head and [hopefully] catch on the fourth time through.) I'm going to post a new chapter every 2-4 days, depending on my editing time for the rest of this. Thank you for reading! 3 I hope you'll come back for the next chapter. And feedback is kind of swell if you're in the mood, though perhaps you want to reserve your judgement until the end of this and that's understandable too. That's why we're friends, fanfic reader; you're cool beans.
