Author's note: Well, I've had this one written for about...oh, I don't know...two years. Don't ask why I haven't posted it before now. Very, very closely based on Barenaked Ladies' "The Old Apartment." It's bad, it's plotless, and it messes both with the song and the X-Men storyline, which I hadn't followed in years when I wrote this and still don't. Whoo, this should be fun.

Disclaimer: None of it belongs to me, except the alley punks. And they're really only elaborations on the crooks from the song. Misty is a friend of mine who I sometimes feel bad about ditching...until I remember how annoying she was.

Continuity: Insert blank look here

The Old Apartment

The slow motion of his boots stirs up small puffs of the dust that seems to coat the narrow, dingy alleyway. There are only two other individuals in the alley: a man with his hands stuffed into the pockets of a long black trench coat, which looks like he should be holding it open to display a collection of stolen Rolexes, leans against the side of a Dumpster, a cigarette dangling from his lips, and a young - seventeen, he guesses, but who can tell? - Goth girl sits on the filthy ground, leaning against the wall as much as her lavender hair, styled into huge spikes, will allow. Both shoot him dirty looks. He can practically hear their thoughts - what the hell is he doing here, among the crooks, the whores, the drug dealers, the scum of society? If only they knew. If only they knew there had been a time when this well-dressed man had belonged here just as much as they did, once. Sometimes, hell, most of the time, he feels like he has never left.

But what is he doing here now? He has left. Years ago - seven years ago, to be exact. And right now, he should be at home with Misty. She would be wondering where he was. Yes, he decides, turning suddenly, he should be home, not...not wherever the hell he was. He had lost track of the exact location somewhere around the intersection of Jane Street and St. Claire Avenue. It was a shame that a place that sounded so pretty had to be located in one of the seediest sections of one of the seediest towns he had ever seen. And he had seen a lot of seedy places.

He looks up at the nearest street sign and finds that he is still on St. Claire, at the intersection of a street called Kinney. Kinney and St. Claire...he pauses a moment. Why does that sound so damn familiar? Suddenly it hits him like an icy wave crashing over his head.

This is where we used to live...

He turns slowly, disbelieving, but sure enough, the shabby wooden stairs are still there, leading up from the alley, first step hidden behind a pile of overstuffed garbage bags, their dirty gray color blending in with everything else. He shakes his head. Seven long years...hard to believe they're still here. Hard to believe the old apartment hasn't been torn down...or simply disintegrated. He laughs hollowly, earning himself more strange looks from the other occupants of the alley. Yes, that is what the place deserves - to crumble to the ground, to disintegrate like the lives of those who once lived in it. He starts to turn away. Misty will be worrying.

But...

Why is he here? Why have his feet carried him to this place? His conscious mind certainly had no involvement in it. What if it's fate that's brought him back? What if she's still here? Suddenly he knows that if he leaves now, these are questions that will always torment him, but he will never return again. He never would have purposely come today, but...

In that instant, his mind is made up. Kicking the garbage out of the way, he starts up the stairs. They had counted them once when there had been nothing better to do, and he still remembers perfectly. Twenty-five to the first landing, then another seventeen. He stands on the narrow landing, facing the door. A fist sized-hole in the wooden door has been plastered over, but never repainted. He places his hand over the bumpy plaster, remembering all too well where the hole came from. He made it himself, the night he left this place for the last time. Until now. He sighs and leans back against the flimsy railing.

Flimsier than he thought - he throws himself forward as it gives under the weight of his body. This landing had always been a bit slanted, anyway. He gazes over the railing, making sure to stay in the center of the landing this time. There used to be a patch of dry, brown grass down there - that explains why he didn't recognize the place immediately. It's paved over now. Well, things do change. Shrugging, he pulls a jangling key ring from his pocket. Well, if this doesn't just lay all his arguments to rest - he can say he never meant to come back here as much as he likes, but the key is still on his ring. He extracts the silver key from the rest and begins to slide it into the lock, but it won't go. Pushing harder, he realizes with a start that the key doesn't fit. The lock has been changed. Somehow, this is very surprising, though he should have known. It i has /i been a long time. He gently lays a hand on the knob. After a moment it glows red, then explodes in a shower of sparks. It is unfortunate having to break in, but he has to know if she is here, has to see her, talk to her one last time.

He pushes the door open and steps inside. Immediately he notices that the walls are a pale, pale blue, almost white. They used to be cream-colored. The old, worn carpet, which had started out its life white, but had been almost black by the time they moved in, has been replaced by hardwood flooring. How did she - he stops himself. How did the tenants afford all this? He laughs, a sound without humor. Maybe there's a new landlord, one who doesn't swindle the tenants out of practically their entire paychecks, which, for anyone desperate enough to live in this hell-hole, was never much.

Some things haven't changed. The furniture is still in the same arrangement. He grins, remembering the cantankerous old lady downstairs who used to yell and thump on the ceiling with her cane if the television volume was turned above a barely-audible level. On an impulse, he flicks on the set and turns the volume all the way up. Almost immediately, there is a banging noise through the floor. Something else that hasn't changed, although he's surprised the old bat is still alive. He jumps up and down on the thin floor as hard as he can, and the banging stops. He continues his inspection, red-on-black eyes sweeping the room. There's a mousetrap in the corner of the kitchen area. God, how long has that been there? They had put one in that very corner after hearing scratching sounds in the walls. The mousetrap had had very little success. He wonders if this is the same one, still sitting there pitifully without a single victim. Strange, the stupid things one remembers.

His eyes move to the grimy window. Oh, now this he remembers. Another reminder of that last night, something else he put a hand through. But unlike the door, this time he is the one still wearing the mark of that incident - a scar running from the back of his hand, near the thumb, to his palm. That was where they had their last fight. He had done plenty of damage to the apartment, but of course he couldn't hurt her. He was the one that had walked away with a broken arm and plenty of cuts, dripping blood. As she matured, she had learned to control her powers enough that they could touch, kiss, among other things, but the power had still been there, lurking just beneath the surface. He had gotten a taste, a very bitter taste, of her strength that night, but he didn't blame her. After all, he had started it, had tried to hurt the person that he loved the most, and that would haunt him always.

He opens the refrigerator. The contents are minimal, and he is not surprised. It's like everything is exactly the same. It's like he never left, like the time never passed, and suddenly he wishes it hadn't. Yes, it was hell, living here, but they had been together, and it had been...right somehow. "Damn it," he mutters, grabbing the nearest object, a small lamp, and throwing it across the room. Within moments he is destroying everything, ripping the cheap couch to shreds with his bare hands, tearing the telephone from the wall, smashing dishes...then he is calm again, drained of the rage, almost numb. He stands at the window and looks out, and that is when he sees her coming up the stairs. She has colored the white streak in her hair brown to match the rest, but her emerald eyes are the same. She leads a small boy by the hand.

Suddenly he realizes he can't do this. If she didn't hate him before, she certainly will now that he's torn her home to shreds. There is no chance of making amends, so he runs. He runs down the stairs, shoving past her, and off into the night, an unsaid "I love you" on his lips.

She gasps as the man brushes past her on the steps. If she didn't know any better, she'd say he looked just like...but no, what would he be doing here after all this time? She shakes her head. It's not the first time she's imagined him somewhere he wasn't. She knows it's just because she wants him to be there, wants to say so many things - "I love you," "I miss you," and "I'm sorry" being at the top of the list. But it was only a burglar. The apartment had been broken into twice before. It is most definitely time to buy a deadbolt lock, she decides as she takes her son, who is looking up at her, curiosity in his strange red-on-black eyes at the nostalgic look on her face, by the hand and continues up the stairs.

El fin