Notes: Short and kinda weird. Hey, just like me! Umm… yeah. We're ending this soon. Yes, we are.

But I'm curious. What do people think is going to happen? Honestly now. I mean, I already know what I want… what do you wonderful people reading the story think? ^__^;;

What Makes You Think You Are Unique?

The receptionists were surprisingly receptive and it took less than two minutes to confirm Pietro's appointment and receive the paperwork they expected from us. As a free clinic, they didn't expect much of anything, which was a tremendous relief for me. I'd been expecting them to ask for things like insurance, signatures of guardians, extensive background, social security numbers, and the like. But all they really wanted was a brief overview of Pietro's medical history and a signature to clear them of primary liability.

The clinic was clean, warm, and soothing, yet I was still skeptical. I'd been brought up alongside the bureaucracy of the conventional medical association and was still expecting to be subject to high costs and invasions of privacy.

The real bottom-line was, I didn't want to admit to being helpless. It was one thing to be poor. It was quite another to be ill and poor with no insurance and no definable source of income. When I signed my name on the dotted line, I felt like I was signing our pride away.

But Pietro was more important than my own unattainable concepts of independence and dignity. Of course I signed. I didn't have a choice.

The other tricky point was, naturally, Pietro's mutant abilities. While they'd been suppressed slightly by the drug use, any doctor with half a brain would be able to press his hand to Pietro's chest and figure out that something wasn't right. I had decided earlier that it would be best to inform them of this at the start, but I honestly didn't know what to write down. "Wacked out metabolic genes"? Or maybe "Freaky mutation that causes patient's heart to beat as fast as a hummingbird"?

Eventually, I decided on a simple "extremely fast metabolism", figuring that the doctors would do the rest of the detective work on their own. I handed the paperwork back to the women behind the desks and began an anxious walk back to the chairs in the waiting room. Pietro was perching nearly on the edge of his seat, leaning forward with his head buried in his hands. The blonde girl next to him was rubbing his back and speaking to him in low tones that I couldn't hear from across the room.

A flash of jealousy made itself known before reality reasserted itself. Pietro was violently ill and the girl was trying to comfort him. That was all. There was nothing wrong with it. I forced the disturbingly possessive thoughts out of my head before I gathered the courage to walk over to them. I crouched down before Pietro and gently peeled his hands away from his face. His blue eyes shined at me from within their skeletal pockets. "Hey," I whispered. "Not much longer, ok?" He nodded. "You'll feel better real soon, I promise."

I looked up and saw that the girl was giving me a small smile of encouragement. Her eyes were bright and intelligent, but sad. Very sad. I turned away from her quickly. Somehow, this felt like a private moment… a private moment spoiled by her existence. Suddenly, what I felt was acute self-consciousness. What was she thinking? Was she thinking 'fags', 'fruits', 'homos' in the privacy of her mind? Or did she think that I was his brother? Or some other relative? Not knowing made me frightened. Pietro and I had never been physically affection outside of our bedrooms; we were both subconsciously afraid of public scorn.

"Pietro Maximoff?" A female voice behind us sounded out the syllables of Pietro's name. I turned to see a nurse standing a few respectable feet away, giving us a look somewhere between confusion and pity. I stood and gently tugged Pietro up with me. He was heavy, nearly dead weight in my arms.

"Do you want me to come with you?" I whispered in his ear. "I'm sure they'd let me if you wanted me to-"

"No." His voice was firm. "Doctor stuff is always humiliating." He glanced up at me and the corners of his lips turned up in a weak smile. "I can do it on my own." With that said, he released my hands and began to walk unsteadily toward the nurse.

Part of me felt like I'd been punched in the stomach. It hurt to be let go like that, after an entire miserable night of whispering comforts in his hair and holding him while he was sick. It made me feel worthless, like all of my love had been for nothing. There was no gratitude. No thanks.

No need for me.

As he and the nurse disappeared down one of the many twisting hallways, the girl spoke. "Don't feel bad."

"Huh?" Her low, husky voice jolted me out of my reverie and I turned to face her with suspicion. "What do you mean?"

She nodded thoughtfully toward the path he'd taken. "That's just one step that he has to take by himself. It doesn't mean that he doesn't need you or that he doesn't… love you. It's just… if he really wants to get better… he really needs to make that first move on his own." She turned and her eyes were steely. "You get?"

"Y-yeah…" I hesitated. She was odd. Not really threatening, but a little unsettling. Her eyes were a very light blue; the color didn't seem to fit the rest of her face properly. Her nose was a fraction too large, her hair was greasy and matted, and her clothes were mismatched and ill-fitting, like hand-me-downs from a phantom brother or sister.

"Heroin," she said after her piercing eyes had conducted a sufficient study of me. "Your friend. Right?"

I realized I was holding my breath and slowly let exhaled in one huge, drawn out sigh. "How did you know?" I asked weakly.

She extended one hand. "My name is Hailey."

"I'm addicted to heroin."