A/N: Lovely reviewers, you are what keeps me going and I thank you all who review :)
to Cyanide Siren: thank you so much! I'm trying.
to Lyra: Thank you so much! You too always make me smile! I'm trying to keep the writing interesting and not drift from my original plans for this story (and how to mash it with other Marvel works for later), so I'm relieved you still like it! But tell me, I'm curious, where do you think this is going? :) Also I can't say if my writing has changed. To me, it doesn't seem so..
"Hold these will you?" The tall, tan woman hands the blinds to the shorter version of herself—her daughter—this version having long red hair. Mrs. Babinski left work earlier that day on a faulty appointment excuse yet seems indifferent about it when asked, holding herself with confidence and very professional that she hasn't turned off yet. Her light brown, curly hair is held up in an afro-like fashion.
Meisha takes the blinds from her mother without objection. She then watches her mother look over her shoulders before climbing onto the lowest shelf and reach for a particularly large monkey wrench high on a hook. She then hopes down, straightens her blazer and orders her daughter to keep up to the next aisle.
They're on an errand list trip to Home Depot.
And it's been two weeks since Meisha's hint of an…episode, if you'd call it, at the Maximoff's house, and a day since she noticed the large banner hanging in the school's hallway. She's been more silent since seeing it.
At an aisle for lightbulbs, Meisha's mother takes the tools and blinds from her daughter to carry.
They are here on an errand. Earlier that weekend morning, Meisha's mother found her daughter lounging around in her bedroom, arms sprawled across the window seal and sighing heavily. Her mother had watched Meisha for some time, admiring how beautiful her daughter is (she came up and cooed) and wishing she saw that. Then urged her daughter to join her on the errand trip. Plus, Meisha's father needs new tools, and a few more materials to finish remodeling the bathroom, and new blinds in the kitchen.
Her father is a contractor, her mother a social worker.
Mother and daughter travel to pick up various screws and nails and a one sledgehammer. And through it all, Meisha keeps silent, giving her mother short and hushed responses and answers to questions. Her daughter is looking down a lot again, Mrs. Babinski notes.
Coming to the cash register, she asks Meisha to take the items from her arms and place them on the conveyer belt while her mother rushed to get a box of cold medicine she forgot to shop for and before it is their turn to pay. Meisha obliged without conflict—of course—or looking the cashier in the eye. She knows that he must be looking at how abnormal her hair is for someone with tan skin like hers, about how long it is, and she looks away. She repeatedly runs her hands down a random lock over her shoulder. The cashier is, instead, looking everywhere but at the girl.
When Meisha's mother comes rushing back and huffing, she quickly hands the cashier her debit card and apologizes for her heels clicking so loudly across the tile. And he waves it off, tells that it is no big deal. Meisha notices her mother is rubbing her under bicep; the woman just laughs it off.
The cashier presses a few buttons and a receipt is printed. "That'll be forty-seven, thirty-eight. ...Would you like a bag for this, ma'am?"
Meisha's mother gives a large smile and thanks the young man for the offer. She always smiles, is always happy, always wanting to fill the atmosphere with positivity; Meisha can't remember a time when her mother isn't. Mrs. Babinski catches the turn of her daughter's head to catch the doors to the store swing open, a girl in a shiny aqua green dress and jelly shoes walking inside. The new customer is walking with two others whom are obviously much older and likely the drivers.
Mrs. Babinski waits until they grab the purchases, and walking past the jelly-shoes-girl, and until they are outside to speak to Meisha.
"That's pretty what she's wearing, no?" She shields her eyes from the glaring sun, the wind blowing as they walked back to the car. The air is still chilly, the breeze and periodic cold fronts the last remnants of the previous winter. The woman pulls the top of her jacket closed, the wind billowing her dress shirt.
Meisha knew her mother had seen the girl, and Meisha herself watching the customer enter through. She didn't respond to her mother right away, thinking over her answer. "No." And she shrugs. The car doors are unlocked and both slide inside the car. "It's alright," she then admits, closing the passenger door.
The purchases sit on the backseat. Some are needed for her father and the ones her mother needed had been separated into another grocery bag.
The car revs. Her mother drives, the car leaving the parking lot. She doesn't have long nails, and keeps them rather short because their soft and break off easily, Mrs. Babinski tells; Meisha has longer and stronger nails than her mother.
"Don't lie to me," Mrs. Babinski smiles, pulling out into the road. "You think it's pretty, don't you? What that girl had on. Would you like something like that?"
Meisha's arms are folded, refusing to admit it. She doesn't—hasn't liked anything like that, because it's girly and the shirt too tight for her liking, even slightly. And jelly shoes?! Only valley girls wore clothing similar like that!
Meisha shrugs instead.
Since her mother is focused on the road ahead, she doesn't catch her daughter's gesture. "Why don't you try to wear stuff like that? That girl was so pretty! And cute!" She stole a glance at her daughter who is looking straight ahead. "Would you wear a dress like that if I bought one for you?"
Meisha shrugs again. "It's alright, I guess…"
"Ok, so I'll buy you a pretty dress and you'll have to wear it."
Meisha's head snaps to her left. "Mom!"
"What?!"
"I—-! I didn't say...!"
"What? You didn't say no..."
Her mother knows that Meisha isn't very fond of dresses and skirts. She's never really been, opting for denim overalls and high-waisted pants ever since she could make her own decisions. Skirts left her feeling too open and exposed. Of course, she has told her mother this in the past, but Mr. Babinski insists that her daughter should "dress more ladylike" and "should get comfortable wearing them because she's going to have to in the business world." Meisha always huffs at it and tries to change the subject when she knows her mother is going to win the argument.
"So.. you wouldn't wear it to, like, a dance or something?" Mrs. Babinski thinks for a moment. "Is there a dance or event coming up?"
Meisha turns to the passenger window. "No," she speaks softly. But she's lying, and her mother knows it.
"I did hear that there was something coming up in a few weeks at your school..."
Meisha's eyes widen and she starts mouthing "no, no, no..." Good thing her mother isn't paying attention to her or she'd see in the reflection of the window that her daughter is stressing.
"Why don't you go?" her mother finishes, then thinks. "…Do you want to go?"
"Because."
They came to a red light and her mother gave her a look.
"Because it's stupid and I don't wanna go."
Th ligt remains red. Her mother's stare continues.
Meisha purses her lips.
"Mom," Meisha doesn't look up, "I don't want to go," she lies.
"Well why not? I'd think you'd have a lot of fun." The light turns green and the engine revs.
Because it's too much pressure... To find a date... To avoid being laughed at just for being there...
PRESSURE
"Because it's a waste of time with stupid people and I don't want to go."
"I think your friends would like to go," her mother insists.
"No, they wouldn't."
They weren't allowed to go either,
not allowed socially.
Freaks and geeks and other outcasts were unofficially the automatically uninvited to these type of events.
PRESSURE
PRESSURE
"Well how do you know that? Have you even asked them."
"I just know."
Her mother presses on the car horn wen a truck being to veer too close, and it adding noise to the already growing tension in their small car.
"Meisha, I think you should go."
A semi truck honks as it pass in the left lane.
"That dress was pretty. I think you should go."
"I don't want to go to some stupid party, mom! It's not something for me to go to." Her bangs begin swaying as if there is a breeze in the car despite all the windows being closed.
"What do you mean? Of course you can go to that if you want to." Mrs. Babinski steals a glance over her shoulder and switches on the car turning signals. "We should go get you a dress." It's a finalization, no more a suggestion.
Meisha clenches her hands. "No..."
"Why not? It's gonna be fun! Look, we can get you a nice dress, get your hair done all pretty, and get you some makeup. I promise you'll love it! You can go with your guy friends and then you can maybe make some girl friends while you're there!"
"Because I can't go!" Meisha's snaps suddenly, her bangs lifting and end of her braid, that had been resting in her lap, snapped forward like a whip, putting a tiny scratch across the windshield.
The sudden snap and flash of orange hair out of the corner of her eye frightens Meisha's mother and the car screeches on the breaks. Vehicles behind honk in alarm. Their small car is quickly put back in drive.
"My god, Meisha!"
"I told you I didn't want to go "
Her mother grabs at her own chest, heart racing. Meisha doesn't see and is turned away and to the passenger window.
It takes Meisha's mother sometime to recollect her bearings and the car ride home is much more quiet. Though she loves her daughter, there is indisputable fact that her daughter is a mutant. A mutant—and labeled by many, stronger, and more powerful, dangerous type of human being. And ever since Meisha was small, her mother had been reminded. Even though she loves her daughter very much, there is still a private, very deep part inside her that is somewhat against her daughter's mutation.
Meisha breaths an "I'm sorry."
Her mother tells that it is all fine, but her knuckles are tighter around the steering wheel.
. . .
. . .
Ronny sighs again. His neck cranes backwards; his skin is pale and cold. The alarm clock behind his head reads that it is midday. The ceiling fan turns on medium speed, but it doesn't help or is much of a bother. The blankets are pulled up to his chin. He doesn't move, doesn't shiver, and just remains stone still.
He's in his bedroom, action figures and school books and lava lamps decorating his shelves and desk. The curtains are drawn. The A/C controls is having on the kitchen wall nearby the corded telephone.
Ronny rolls his eyes back toward the ceiling. He had hoped that the sounds of Mazzy Star playing from his tape player on his dresser would bring some feeling of solitude and tranquility, but it seems that his parents' have traveled to the hallway so now he can hear their arguing as if they are right outside his bedroom. They are loud enough that they might as well be right outside his door. Ans this time, Ronny can care less what their arguing is about.
He blinks.
His mother calls out some complaint about his father. She nags about his lack of responsibility and not being family-oriented.
His father spits some kind of counter comeback.
Ronny's ceiling fan spins. It looks dusty. He thinks he should probably clean it.
Feet and heels stomp down the hall—now his parents are literally near his bedroom door. But instead, they climb the stairs and and Ronny can picture his mother shaking her hands near her head like she does when she gets upset, and then pointing at the ground to help emphasis her argument. His father would be pointing with an open hand, neck veins popping, probably in his wife-beater tank top or camouflage army jacket.
CAMOUFLAGE
Ronny is apart of the only group of mutants in his school, probably. Well, as far as he knows they are the only ones: a boy who couldn't be caught on camera, a girl who can change her hair into the same sharpness as knives... Ronny had been so relieved he had found the two he calls friends, no matter how much of an asshole one of them is at times.
Ronny blinks. There's some sudden stomping upstairs and Ronny shivers from shock, and then snuggles more under his three blankets.
Camouflage...
He's been getting cold a lot recently. He looks in the direction of his mirror that hangs on the back of his bedroom door. That mirror has saved him multiple times from being found out, of his ability being discovered, saving him more times than he can possibly think of. His room is one of few spaces he feels relieved and safe.
Camouflage... He pulls the blankets down to make sure he can still see his own skin. Lately, he's been cold a lot, asking to turn up the heat even when his mother states the inside temperature is 70 degrees Fahrenheit.
"Would you rather it be that humid 80 outside?" she would ask.
Yes, he would, but he'd never say that.
The only time he feels additional warmth is out in the sunlight, oddly enough.
Ronny sniffs, feeling his nose beginning to run from the chilling 75 degrees it is in the house, thanks to his mother finally reducing the chill a few degrees. She had probably came in when he had been asleep and drawn his curtains too. And if he would muster himself enough, Ronny would open them back up to let the sunlight in and turn off that blasted fan too.
Because he is freezing.
Earlier, Peter had called for Ronny to accompany him to an arcade center, but Ronny hadn't felt like pleading as an accessory in a robbery again. He knows that the speedster is probably trying to stealing that ping pong game he's been having his eyes on for months now. So Ronny had refused to leave his home after several pleads from the other over the telephone, his excuse being that he's in bed "sick." Even when the call had suddenly ended and there was soon a rapid tapping at his window, Ronny answers a loud "NO!" from his bed, still. In the end, Peter had probably dragged poor Meisha with him instead.
Ronny sniffs, his left nostril beginning to run again. He should probably pull back the curtains soon before it is dark outside and his room pledged into a chilling temperature even longer. His action figures could use a little dusting too anyways. And he wants new socks. And he notes that he might have one too many lava lamps.
Outside his room, his parents had migrated to their bedroom across the hall and the yelling seems to have dwindled down several decibels.
Other than both Ronny's parents as well as himself, the Di Gallo house is otherwise empty. Their landlord doesn't allow pets, so Ronny had to get rid of his dog when he was younger, before they moved in. He had cried a lot that day, he remembers. His father ridicules him for it when it's brought up during family events. The walls here aren't allowed to be repainted or redesigned, so there is a faint flowery pattern that only his mother likes that covers the living room and guest bathroom.
His mother—she's a nice woman, one who Ronny feels he's grown even more closer to since his mutation appeared, ironically. Ronny's mother is one of those mothers who is all about the hospitality to guests and who smiles and declares herself a hugger. She's a nice woman, perhaps even more radiant and bubbly in her earlier years. Her favorite milkshake is strawberry and she has a pair of cherry red heels she likes to wear—to work, to the grocery store, to the mall—until her feet begin to hurt.
To Ronny, his parents seem like two completely opposites of each other—opposites attract, he used to think—and in the back of his mind, privately and to himself, sometimes he wonders just how they became a couple and how they have remained together after these years.
And how could they have a mutant son?!
HUMAN ≠ MUTANT
Because humans do not equal mutants. They never do.
Ronny is probably—no, likely the only one in his family who has mutated, and frankly, that thought scares him.
...Well, there is Uncle Frank whom the family never talks about... But who knows.
Still, it scared him. It scares Ronny a lot.
But in a way, he's thankful for his teenage years—given that is the excuse his parents are convinced on about why he is always in his room and would rather be out with friends than family. Ronny has managed to have them both conditioned to—hopefully—not ask many questions. Because Ronny is a good boy, and would never do anything bad or illegal. He'd never man up, according to his father, to take a drag of a cigarette or to disrespect a lady, to the relief of his mother. Ronny is a good kid who holds his tongue too much and who is a bit too much of a wussy, also according to his father.
No one knows of the tantrum he threw the first time he found out his mutation
Blaming the thumping and holler and emerging with tears on him getting caught in his sheets,
stepping on a tack,
and then having a mess of a fall
Yes, Ronny is very grateful for his teenage years because he is feeling quite a bit moody. Maybe that is why his body temperature is—probably?—lowering, he theorizes.
The teen rolls his sleeve back. Maybe puberty causes lots of rashes too, he hypothesizes. They do say your body goes through many changes, a few occurring later with more stages than others. Maybe puberty is what causes the rash on his inner lower arm. It's just weird that it's shaped in a sort of repeating circular pattern, and the more he looks at it, the more it kind of begins resembling an imprint rather than a bad trash.
It's just weird that rashes can have patterns. More specifically, one that has a slight resemblance to scales.
A/N: I've noticed Wanda isn't getting much love. What would you like to see her in for a chapter or two? (or more?)