4
A Mutant and a ghost were sat together on a beach… it sounded like the start of a really odd joke to Peter. In fact, this whole evening had seemed like one long very strange, not particularly funny joke. Or maybe some sort of fever dream, either way it wasn't how he had imagined spending his Hallowe'en night. Tate had stopped crying at last, had got to within an inch of the bottom of the bottle, and seemed fairly unwilling to take his own weight. A couple of times Peter had tried to shove him off, but he'd just slipped straight back and snuggled his head into Peter's shoulder again. The older man rolled his eyes, gave him another firm shove
"Dude, you're not passing out on me" he said firmly, "I'm only here because I hate seeing people sad, don't take that to mean I like you"
"But you're comfy" Tate whined, "And I'm tired!"
"You're not tired, you're drunk. And you're not the adorable cuddlebug you think you are, so get the hell off me and I'll try to get you home so you can pass out somewhere safe"
Frustratingly, Tate had given him a wavery, unsteady look and seemed at first to be moving off, but had instead just flopped across Peter's legs on his back, staring up at the clear night sky. Despite his own out-of-proportion strength, Peter couldn't budge him. He must be one of those people who could shift all their weight into one spot if they felt like it, and Peter found himself absolutely pinned. Seemingly with little else to be done, he had sat quietly for a few minutes then said.
"Do you feel bad about what you did?"
"Course," Tate muttered, "M'not a psychopath no matter what anyone says. I got feelings. S'just the world's too big, it gets on top of me"
"I can relate" Peter sighed, figured Tate probably wouldn't remember any of this in the morning, "It's been pretty tough on me too. But I was lucky I suppose – I had stuff you didn't"
"Like what?"
"Good family, love… that sort of stuff. I get the feeling you didn't have that"
Tate was quiet for a while, laying with his eyes closed, and Peter wondered if he'd dozed off. That would just be perfect, having to spend the whole night out here with a drunk teenager passed out on his legs, but soon enough he'd murmured
"D'ya think I could have been like you, if I'd had that stuff?" a pause, a little hiccup, "or d'ya think people are born bad and can't be changed or what?"
Peter thought of his father, smiled sadly at the boy in his lap, who seemed to have developed a bad case of hiccups and was desperately holding his breath to make them go away. Erik had surely killed more people than Tate had ever done, had been worse in almost every way and terrible at being a human being – the difference being that Erik wasn't human, of course. Still, if he hadn't had the faith of his son and the friendship of the Professor, he might never have been the father he was today. Maybe all Tate really needed was someone to believe in his ability to change, and to convince himself of the possibility, and things would be different. Then again, maybe not – and that someone certainly wasn't going to be Peter.
"I think it depends on the person" he replied at last, "and how badly they want to"
"I want to" Tate gasped, thought for a minute the hiccups had gone, then was proven wrong.
"They try. And for god's sakes get off my legs, I need those"
Eventually, after a great deal of encouragement, Peter had managed to get Tate vaguely upright, though he still had to hold him up with one of the boy's arms flung around his neck. He could hardly stand up, and Peter considered carrying him back to the house before quickly changing his mind. The unable-to-stand-upright phase usually immediately preceded the projectile vomiting phase in his experience, and there was no way the kid was being sick on him.
It had felt like a long way to Berro Drive with the boy's weight hanging around him, continually forcing him to stagger to keep his balance. How could he be so heavy? Even with full-density bones he couldn't weigh that much more than Peter, was slight and delicate-looking like himself, but being unable to put his feet in a straight line was seemingly making him double the burden on the unfortunate Mutant. The place looked abandoned when he had finally got to the door, but he'd been pleased to find that the front door opened easily, dragging the staggering lump over to a sofa covered in plastic and gratefully dumping him down. In the process of stretching out his aching shoulders when a woman's voice from behind him had startled him.
"Awww, did Wittle Princess Tate stay out too late? Good thing you brought him home before he turned into a pumpkin"
The owner of the voice was possibly one of the most unattractive women Peter had ever seen, not just because of her appearance but mainly the ugly smirk she wore. He didn't reply, turned back away from her and manhandled Tate into laying on the sofa on his side, kneeling to unlace his battered black Converse and place them beside him. The woman had moved around, was leaning over the sofa in a manner that Peter presumed was meant to be seductive, but which made him feel slightly nauseated.
"You could have just left him out there" Hayden continued, "he'd only have died of exposure for a little while"
"And how would you like that?" Peter grunted at her, standing and noticing with pleasure that he towered over her, "Someone's got to look out for kids like him. I assume you would have left him?"
"Honey, I would have chopped off his head and put it on a spike on the front gate, but that's just me"
"Yeah? Well do me a big favour" he stepped closer, knew he was invading her space, "No decapitation, no pain, no anything. Sharpie his face with all the dicks you like, for all I care, but don't hurt him. There's been enough of that"
"Well aren't you the hero?" her voice dripped venom, "big brother?"
"I'm nobody" Peter told her, "he's not. Try not to treat him as if he is, okay?"
Feeling a tug on his pants leg, Peter glanced down and saw that Tate had managed to open his eyes a crack, murmured a very quiet, very slurred thanks before he had finally slid off into deep sodden unconsciousness.
"Cute" Hayden sneered. Peter nailed her with a look.
"Read my lips, lady" he told her, "Leave him alone. Go. Away"
Just like that, she was gone, and the house was silent except for the groaning of floorboards and the settling of the old beams. Peter shook his head, took one last look at the figure sprawled on the sofa snoring away, and gladly vacated the premises.
By the time Tate had stirred the next morning to a pitcher of cold water being dumped over his head by Moira, Peter had been long gone, not so much as a silver hair of him remaining to say it hadn't all been a particularly vivid hallucination. However, he couldn't help but feel, somewhere under the misery of a hideous hangover, a little glad that someone had done him the good turn of at least getting him back to the house. Whilst Hayden was right, and it wouldn't have hurt for long to be left out on the beach to freeze or choke on vomit, it did leave behind the tiniest little spark of self-worth to have been helped home.
Maybe, he thought, if he was very careful he'd be able to kindle that spark into something better. Maybe a little kindness would last him a long way, even if it was from a stranger who quite obviously hated him for what he'd done. And maybe next Hallowe'en, if he grabbed onto the tiny bit of light that spark could bring, he wouldn't manage to drive Violet away yet again.
-END-
