Of Hearth and Home
Chapter Ten: Live and Let Die
Pietro zipped down the hall and stopped quickly to stand perfectly still, framed by Wanda's doorway.
She was lying down with a wet wash cloth over her eyes. She lifted it just in time to see some of the litter that Pietro had stirred in his travels, as it caught up to him and stuck to him briefly in the remnants of the breeze.
It seemed that a thread or some dust had managed to hit his tongue, as he began – hesitantly at first – to try to spit it out.
Wanda laughed to herself. Her head felt much better, almost as though nothing was wrong, and the floorshow was pretty good. Pietro inherited his 'royal' attitude from their father. He just didn't impress all the litter and filth with his importance. A problem Magneto rarely seems to face.
"Are you trying to cheer me up?" Wanda asked suspiciously.
"If it's working, then yes, that's exactly what I was doing." He struck a pose with his arms extended. "Ta-Da!" He grinned.
She sat up and laughed. They shared many such moments as children.
"Wow." He said quietly. "I missed that." He smiled at her. "I mean …"
"I know what you mean." She told him. "I wasn't around much." She looked like she regretted that. "And I'm sorry. Family should come first."
Pietro suddenly looked uncomfortable as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah." He said slowly. "They should."
"Don't worry." She cast him a sisterly glance as she passed him, headed for the bathroom. "I intend to make up for it."
She closed the door between them. "To you and to our father." She said from the other side.
Pietro's eyes were pained. You bastards. He thought. She even thinks that SHE owes YOU. He shook his head. What the hell is wrong with us? With all of us?
The truth is that Wanda's manipulation had preyed more heavily on Pietro's mind than he ever dared admit out loud. It demonstrated beyond question that he had backed the right horse – his father could not be stopped. But it also demonstrated something else too – it gave him a very clear insight in to just how expendable any one individual was in his fathers eyes. It demonstrated how expendable HE was in his father's eyes.
Pietro had always assumed that one day Wanda would grow out of her anger and willingly rejoin the family. Of course, this would never happen now. He was stuck staring at her like she was half a solution. Now, all Magneto's problems were solved.
And Pietro was left with half a sister.
Wanda had lost her passion and her fire. They used to compete, to play together, but she had lost the spirit when her memories were twisted to suit his father's little finger.
Pietro dashed down the stairs and out to the back yard. He nervously chewed a fingernail.
When she called Todd an 'insect' tonight … He thought. It was just like the old her was rising to the surface. Like she was coming back somehow.
He cast his eyes to the dull, bleak sky overhead. And I was almost glad …
He shivered in the cool air or, possibly, under the weight of the thought. Almost.
The door creaked open behind him and he knew it would be Mystique, keeping herself paranoid about her mysterious 'visitor'. He cast a glance over his shoulder and saw her cross her arms as she stared at him.
He made a half-hearted effort of racing back to her.
"I can't wait until my father shows up. You can bet we wont be hiding then." He snapped his fingers once, too quick for her to see.
"And thanks to me, you'll be alive to see it." She smirked knowingly. "And your father …" She stopped herself.
"My father what?" He asked. Why does he keep you around? He thought, before wincing slightly because Magneto refused to let Pietro join his little group – He had sent him back to the Brotherhood, he didn't keep his own son 'around'.
"He knows that he should deal with this himself." She finished. "You'll see."
"Yeah." He shot back quickly. "We will."
Mystique watched him shoot up the stairs.
You keep that misplaced faith. She told him silently. You'll need it, right up until you die.
She shivered, although not from the cold, and the memory took her.
She had advanced on him menacingly. She had been totally confident in herself and her own superiority.
She thought she knew her enemy. But she was wrong.
He balled up his fist and it shot between her arms as she reached for him, her fingers clawed and sharp as knives.
It wasn't even a hard blow. It left no bruise.
But it had landed just between the heartbeats – and it was just enough to interrupt the rhythmic beat.
And her heart actually stopped.
Her eyes went wild as she looked at him, and he was staring at her with his father's cold and calculating glare. It was then that she had realized – he had done it on purpose.
He must have been able to read it on her face as she staggered backwards and he caught her, stopping her from falling. His eyes had softened then, and he looked on her almost lovingly, as he once had.
She reached for him, to stroke his face, just to touch another soul – to be remembered as you were dying.
The second blow was sharp and direct. It made her take a deep breath in a rush and she spasmed against him as she felt her heart jump and then beat, painfully, under it's own power. That one left a bruise.
But in between reaching for him and spasming, all she accomplished was a horrible rake across the bottom of his jaw with her razor sharp claws.
She could see that he didn't understand, that he had saved her in a small moment of kindness and felt he had been rewarded with hatred and vengeance.
It was then that he let her fall and vanished in to the night as she lay there, weakly calling after him. " … derek …please …der … ic … deri …"
But he was gone for good. She never saw him again until he arrived in Bayville.
I'd have grown a beard too. She told herself, thinking back on the damage she had done.
She turned her eyes back to the quiet property. There wasn't much to do – when you're left waiting on the only man who ever killed you. And feeling totally – at his mercy.