Disclaimer: Xmen et al. not mine.
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He was lying on his back with his hands rested behind his head, as he stared at the bottom of the top bunk. Pietro couldn't remember the last time he had laid there. He remembered the day his dad had brought the bed home from the store, and how they had toiled away all afternoon in order to get it ready for bedtime. That had been a long time ago, and despite the fact that he had grown considerably since then, he had never bothered to ask for a new, bigger bed. When he slept on the top bunk he could see everything out of the window in his room. Before his powers had kicked in, dragging along that sometimes-annoying-now-a-fact-of-life impatience, he had sat up there a lot and just watched the city.
Now, he couldn't bare to think about going up to that top bunk. Now, all he could think about was-
A plate dropped in the kitchen, clearly audible through the thin walls. The argument continued. Pietro was trying not to listen.
"And he didn't even say a word about Wanda," his mother intoned to his father.
It wasn't true. He hadn't been able to explain to them about Wanda. He had told them she was fine. That had been the lie. But he knew they wouldn't be able to handle his sister's transformation. Hell, they hadn't seen her for almost ten years. Pietro seemed to be causing them enough heartache as it was.
He tuned out the conversation again, focussing on an obscure point of interest on the floor. He was angry at the world, his parents, his father but mostly himself. He was wounded by the psychic episode he had just gone through. The tide of comfort and relief had washed over him and had since receded. Now there was an aftermath setting in, and he was trying with all of his might to ignore it. He had made a horrible discovery that he could only hope was untrue. There were some things about yourself you just never want to accept, and some things you cannot avoid no matter how hard you try.
Yet, despite the montage of feelings and images floating around inside his head, there was a newfound clarity to his life he couldn't help but notice. There was strength to the horrors he had experienced, a sort of power – survival, knowledge, life. It had been real. There was no turning away from it.
Suddenly, his cellphone rang, knocking him out of the reverie. He picked it up from the bedside table and flicked it open, bringing it to his ear.
"Pietro!" Tabitha greeted him before he had the chance to greet her; he noted the interesting reversal of roles.
"Yeah?"
"Where the hell are you!"
"I'm at home."
"No, you're not. We've been through this place up and down. We've been looking for you all day!"
"Didn't Mystique tell you? -"
"Mystique bailed. She's gone. Room's empty and everything."
"Well, I went back home."
"Christ, to New York! What? Well, when are you coming back?"
He didn't know how to answer her.
"Pietro? When are you coming back?"
He hung up.
Pietro tossed the phone onto his bed and paced for a few minutes. Then he leaned on the closed door and surveyed his room. Cold in the winter and smelling of greasy city air in the summer because they could never afford air conditioning. The only high-end things he owned were the computer and stereo. He had bought them with the money he had stolen from school. Still, they were just for show anyways; he never used them. No patience.
He sighed.
His parents were still in the kitchen talking. Pietro decided that he could longer let them carry out the conversation without him. He walked out into the hallway quietly. His dad sat at the kitchen table. His mother had her back to him as she waved her arm around emphatically.
"What the hell did he do to our son?" she demanded of her husband. "I've never seen him like that."
His dad said nothing in reply.
"He took Wanda from us and now he's destroying Pietro," she went on.
"Well, they never were our kids to begin with and we knew that going in," his dad stated, then he shook his head.
"How can you say that?" she demanded.
"You know I don't mean it like that. Look," his dad began. "We're just going to have to make a decision, right now. Eric'll be back, we both know that and he'll want his son. We'll have to go somewhere else. Europe maybe, and we'll need to do it quickly."
"He'll find me," Pietro said from the hallway. His parents both turned their attention his way. "Wherever we go, he'll find me. I don't want to be any more of a burden to you than I already am-"
"Pietro, no," his mother interjected.
Pietro stood to his full height, avoiding eye contact with her. "I have to go back. I don't want to – but I do. Whether I like it or not, Magneto's right. I'm part of this. I hate that he's right, but he is. I can't just run away and pretend like everything's alright because it's never going to be alright until people stop running away and pretending. It's only going to get worse." The words were coming out slowly, unbearably slowly – partly because he was reluctant to say them and partly because he wanted his parents to understand.
"He's made you the leader of damn gang, Pietro," his dad exclaimed.
"Yeah, but I asked for that responsibility. Back at the boarding house, there are people – mutants – who rely on me. I can't leave them. It was selfish to think that I could. It was . . ." he trailed off because the last thing was hardest of all to say. "It was hypocritical."
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The basketball hit the board, then dropped over the side of the net cruelly. Pietro picked it up and shot again. He knew he had confused the hell out of his parents – that he had successfully put them through the ringer in the past couple of days. Still, they were just glad to see him. He was Pietro, their son. Not Quicksilver, not Magneto's lackey, not even a mutant.
The shot circled around the hoop, then tipped over the side again. He had grabbed it before it hit the ground. Another shot.
Things seemed to be falling into place. He had been running away for a long time, but now he felt as if he was heading somewhere, had some purpose. At first he had thought this was about his father, Magnus – about proving something to him but Pietro had realized there was more to it.
He had wanted to be the mutant that didn't give a shit what the world thought of him but he hadn't been able to pull it off – he hadn't been able to go on as if all of the hate didn't bother him. It had made sense at the time to run from it all. To go back home where it was safe. But that in itself was the same mistake, wasn't it?
The basketball went in, bouncing only a couple of times before coming to a stop a few feet away.
Pietro eyed it but didn't make a move to retrieve it.
He couldn't go on pretending the problem didn't bother him and he couldn't go on pretending it didn't exist. He was a mutant. He was Magneto's son.
And, he thought - ego sparking to life. I'm in charge of the Brotherhood again.
It was time to learn from his mistakes.
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Yay! Thanks for reading, please review! I'm not sure if this is the end or not. It makes for some nice closure if it is but something else may come up before I retire this fic for good. Cheers –k.ramsey
PS- Anyone interested in the controversy regarding this story please read below:
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AN: I really can't win, can I? I suppose, it was inevitable that despite my attempts to avoid it, this story would stir some controversy. So be it. I'll thank RaeDances right now for actually having the guts to leave some sort of way to get in touch though. You see, the thing that pisses me off is: I was never angry for JM critiquing my story the way that he or she did. I was angry for the fact that this person insulted me personally. That's not acceptable in my books. So, I apologize if my abilities to portray this story have fallen short for some people's expectations, but I've done my best and I'm happy with that. If you don't think I've done an adequate job, then sure, tell me, but don't go off and say that I have no respect, sensitivity or good taste. Now, if this little note generates even more bashings for my benefit, than, again, so be it. I'm a storyteller out to tell a story. I'll admit that my historicity is not 100, and it is too bad that the disclaimer was removed so very long ago, but either way you can enjoy it or tell me or hate it and tell me, just please stop accusing me of being an ungrateful writer. There are only a few things in the world that I am most certainly not, one of them is being the Queen of England, but the relevant one is definitely being an ungrateful writer. And here, I end my rant. Many thanks and good night.