Chapter Text
Getting drunk was never the problem. It was getting it to stick. At least long enough to drown half a sorrow or two. To try and forget the past three months and the near-death experience at the hands of a friend that started it all for a little while. Just a little while.
It wasn’t as if he didn’t have options. Work arounds. He could just keep drinking, for one. Expensive. If he was up for paying, that was. But he suspected the cost to quality ratio in this dive wouldn’t be in his favor, anyway.
Hell, he could just avoid food for the right length of time and the resulting blood sugar crash would do it for him. Felt like cheating, though. A little too deliberate.
Plus, there was always the thing where he could miss that sweet spot and end up in a hypoglycemic coma. And God, wouldn’t that just lead to a whole fuck ton of drama. Again.
However, both those options would imply he had some sort of problem. Which he very much did not, thank you very much. He was merely currently surrounded by people with that sort of problem. Sad faces staring at the bottom of glasses, brooding on custody battles or alimony payments. Poor bastards, come to drown their sorrows away. And if that wasn’t enough, well, there was always the more interesting entertainment that took place somewhere in here.
Only allegedly, of course.
Peter Maximoff, aka Quicksilver, born Pietro Maximoff, aka bastard son of a terrorist, runner up for People’s Sexiest Man of the Year 1990 (fuck you Tom Cruise), currently Sad Barfly Bastard Number 23 (undercover), aka many other things, looked up from a glass that had too many smears on the inside of the rim and too little alcohol for his liking and once again glanced around the room. It hadn’t changed much from the last time he looked. The old man sitting at the table opposite still had his glass halfway to his mouth. No, wait, he was putting it down now.
The dude really needed a better toupee. Really. It was just sad. He wasn’t kidding anyone.
The bartender was still talking to the same shifty looking guy at the counter, a potential suspect of interest because only people of particular character would wear a greasy turtleneck when it was almost 90 degrees outside and the air con in the bar could have been beaten at its job by an open refrigerator and a fan running at half power. But there was also the man just coming out of the bathroom, those shoes were far too shiny for a dive bar in Hicksville, Nowhere USA.
Plus, Peter was pretty certain he hadn’t washed his hands.
He looked back down at his glass, still half full, still all dirty, and considered sneaking behind the bar to help himself to a top up. He was almost one hundred percent certain the assholes surrounding him wouldn’t pass a perception check even if he was one hundred percent Grade A standard human, with the accompanying standard skill set.
And he was something a whole lot more than that.
But there was a voice at the back of his head, a voice that wasn’t his but actually was his really, and he had had to learn the difference over the years, a voice telling him he had a job to do so he better focus his ass on what he was there to do.
His job. Right.
Technically, he had a lot of jobs. Teacher. Hero. Epic bass player. But right there, right now he was incognito, stealth mode. Scoping out the joint. Suspected to be one of the end points of a trafficking ring, where poor unsuspecting mutants going about their day to day lives would find themselves swept off the streets and into a fighting pit for the charming locale to whoop and bet as they were forced to draw blood.
Evidence shaky at best. Needs further investigation before action. Source of intel not reliable. At least, that was what was in the report tucked away under several files on what was now Hank’s desk. His other desk. Not the headmaster’s desk. The other desk was always more interesting.
So, here he was, having skipped the boring and frankly unnecessary bit about ‘getting authorization.’ Waste of time. It was no problem to zip in and confirm that yes this place is full of human supremacist scumbags in need of taking out, we better get on that right away, you’re welcome.
Piece of cake.
Peter felt that itch at the back of his eyes again, the singular itch of a man who hadn’t got a full night’s sleep. Which was ridiculous. It was much longer than just one night.
But he didn’t want to think about that.
There were a lot of things lately he didn’t want to think about.
Bar. Job. Focus! Right.
He pulled at the cap that was a half-hearted attempt to hide his distinct silver hair before risking a nano second of freedom to take it off, run his fingers through hair to try and shake off the constant sweat and then back on again before the other inhabitants of the dingy little room could even blink.
God, he really didn’t care for Florida. Non-Disney World Florida, anyway. And he was pretty sure he was banned ever since the ‘Space Mountain Incident.’ The heat and humidity didn’t really mesh well with his physicality. Or his tendency to wear leather.
But here he was. Sitting in a crappy little bar, with a crappy little drink, watching a – what was that? A little beetle or something similar, crawling along the table in front of him. Kind of like a ladybug. Its antenna waving in the air as it stopped and looked around before moving on again. On a whim he put his finger out in front of it, careful not to overshoot and squish it by mistake. Without pause it marched forward onto his fingertip, and he lifted it up to get a closer look. A little bright speck of red standing out against the gloom.
“You’re a long way from home,” he mumbled softly, and was about to shoot outside into the blinding light but before he could even so much as twitch the bug’s shell opened up to reveal two silvery wings and off it went. He tracked its flight, but it wasn’t long until it disappeared into the darkness, somewhere over the head of Mr Toupe who was finally setting his drink down on the table.
Ok. Time to wrap up brooding and move this along.
Lifting his glass to his mouth he took his time to make a big show of knocking the shot back, then putting it back on the table with careful clumsiness. Then he stood, swayed a moment, then stepped out onto the sticky floor to take a mostly straight path to the bathroom, careful not to brush against Mr Dirty Hands as he walked past. He stumbled against the door then through and yes, it was as filthy as he thought it would be. After a moment’s wait, longer than he would have liked and careful to hold his breath, he turned around back out into the bar at a much more preferable pace. If any of the other patrons had enough sobriety to pay attention, not something that concerned him, all they would have seen was the door open ever so slightly for a moment as if caught by a gust of wind.
There was another door behind the bar. That was not in itself unusual. Lots of bars had back rooms, or storerooms, after all. But in the time spent staring over a glass he had seen the bartender let one of the customers through, and he hadn’t come out.
Plus, it was the last place he had to look before he had to concede this was a bust.
Gifting Mr Toupe his hat as he passed by, then pushing Stop on his Walkman to cut off Robert Smith mid lyric, it was just one effortless vault over the bar and then he was at and then through the mystery door, just another gust of wind. Someone really ought to close a window.
He had thought the bar was as gloomy as it could get. It was clear now he was mistaken.
Blinking in darkness, Peter stepped forward and thank God for super reflexes because without them he would have fallen down unexpected steps down an unanticipated staircase into a surprise basement.
Surprise basements could never mean anything good.
He held himself for one long second, his hands thrown out on either side to brace against rough and cold stone walls, toes awkwardly perched on the edge of a worn smooth step, as he stared down into the gloom. There was an anemic glow somewhere far below him, but here at the top it was pitch black, as if something had sucked all the light out.
The hairs on the back of his neck were not happy. This was weird, weird, weird. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something very much not at all natural about this.
Peter took a breath, then pushed himself upright. He had two choices, up or down, before someone came from either direction to make it for him. Choice A: he goes home, reports back he had found something very strange, comes back with back up. And explain why he didn’t have any further explanations was due to the fact that it was a particularly creepy basement. No soldiers, scientists, or any actual sign of blood or body parts, just that it was dark and it was cold and his stomach wanted to crawl out through his back and into safety of the light.
Choice B: he goes down and actually has something to report. And he can actually make a difference. For once.
It wasn’t really a choice, was it.
Gritting his teeth he pushed forward, one step after the other, down, down, down towards the dim glow. Each step was more grudged than the last, as if he were wading through syrup. But he kept moving forward. Like an idiot, he kept moving forward.
He was just starting to think that maybe this wasn’t a good idea, after all he’d seen enough horror movies to know he was playing the poor stupid sap who deserved getting screamed at by the audience for his poor decision making. But then there was straight floor in front of him, as the space opened up into a corridor, still dark, still cold, but now there was something pulling at him, pulling him forward. He’d come all this way; he couldn’t give up now.
He was so close, after all.
Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. The mantra kept running through his head with each stupid step he took. This was stupid. This was fine. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t outrun any monsters or Michael Myers or anything.
Unless it was Freddy Kruger. Then he was probably fucked.
He became aware of a noise up ahead, a low rhythmic thrum he could feel in his bones. The glow remained tantalizingly out of reach, giving just enough light to cast the stone walls around him in shadow. He should have reached it by now, it didn’t make sense. He could cross miles in seconds, how was it that the end of a simple but admittedly creepy corridor was alluding him?
And why did it matter so much anyway? The sensible thing to do would be to turn around and go back home and let the other know that yes, maybe something worth checking out here. Or perhaps not, something to lock away in suppressed memories and never mention again, and everyone could go about their lives perfectly happy not knowing about the creepy horror basement.
And no one else would have to know he was a coward who ran away. Because that was all he was good for, after all. Fast enough when it came to running away, but never enough to actually make a difference when it really counted.
At least he wouldn’t be getting anyone killed this time.
That thing he had thought earlier, about having to know when the voice at the back of his head was his or someone else’s, he wasn’t doing a good job of that right at that moment, was he?
No
Shit.
Something snapped, and he found himself stumbling against a wall, gasping for breath. His limbs felt heavy, and he raised a shaking hand to rub at his face.
The noise was getting louder. He could pick out human voices within the cacophony, as if the source were getting closer.
Time to do what he did best.
Turning around, he found himself faced with the same endless gloom and unreachable glow that had been in front of him. Shit.
Ok, ok, don’t panic. Explanation: someone was screwing with his senses. This was training scenario twenty-six, he had done this before. Safe and secure in the knowledge he was in the Danger Room. Focus! He had walked in here, that meant he could walk out. He just needed to take a breath, close his eyes and forget what he thought he was seeing, and take a step.
He was faster than anything that could be in here, anyway.
But the sound was getting louder. Did they not know he was faster than them?
Walk. He needed to walk, but his legs weren’t cooperating. He stumbled again, and he could feel cold stone pressing against his palms.
It felt as if it was real.
He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He needed to focus on that, because that was definitely real. Because if it wasn’t then he was definitely screwed. Breath, heartbeat, step. Simple. Peter felt himself fall into the rhythm of it. Breath, heartbeat, step. Don’t think about anything else. Just keep moving. Heartbeat, step. The staircase had to be getting closer. Breath, step. There never was any staircase in the first place. Step. He was going to die here. All alone. Same way he lived.
His breath was catching in his throat, and he found himself on his hands and knees. The cold was seeping through his clothing and into his bones. Not for the first time, he felt himself frozen, traitorous limbs refusing to obey. He was left in the dirt and rubble while people around him died.
He closed his eyes. Maybe he should just die too.
And then there was the warmth of skin on skin as a hand took his, and he was being pulled forward and upwards. From a distance, he felt himself try to let go and pull back, but the grip on his hand stubbornly kept hold and he was running alongside them, the sound of footsteps muffled over the roar in his ears. Up steps and suddenly a wall of warmth and light hit him like a semi-truck, and he folded over onto the asphalt as if he were some middle aged stockbroker forced into exercise by a doctor’s check-up gone wrong.
Gasping, he rolled over onto his back and looked up into cloudless skies and God he had never been so happy to feel the heat and humidity while lying on the ground beside a back-alley dumpster.
He felt the rest of his senses come back to him, unfortunately smell being the first. But still, not enough to dampen the euphoria of surviving…something he didn’t really want to process yet, and he let out something halfway to a yell and a laugh as he ran his hands over his face.
The sound of footsteps broke through the relief. He pushed himself onto his side and with the metaphorical lead weights gone from his limbs he was up on his feet in a split-second to catch a glimpse of his rescuer before she could disappear round the corner and the hairs on the back of his neck were up and getting another work out as impossible recognition hit him in the gut.
“Wendy?”
It looked like she paused, backlit by the sun, just for a moment, as if she had heard him, but then there was a flash of red skirt caught in the sunlight and she was gone. His legs started moving again and he was following but all he could see was a sleepy small-town intersection in the afternoon light, with the odd sleepy, small-town person going about their sleepy, small town lives.
There was no sign of his sister. His very dead sister.