Disclaimer: I do not own X-Men: Evolution or its characters. I make no
profit from this. Rated PG-13 for some language, underage smoking, and
slight sexual references.
Enjoy!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fever Dreams
By Hoodoo
"Don'tcha think we oughtta do somethin'?"
"Do what? We take her to a hospital and she freaks out, who knows what'll happen? Besides, Mystique is supposed to be taking care of this sort of thing."
"She's been so sick . . . what do you think, Pietro?"
A quick muffled reply, which she couldn't make out.
"We gotta do somethin'! What if she got somethin' we can catch? What if she's contagious? What if-"
"Just calm down, Toad! We'll figure something out. Mystique will do something." A pause. " I think."
A thin moan escaped Wanda's throat. No one heard it, but the conversation drifted away. She couldn't tell if they actually began speaking in whispers, or if her ears suddenly refused to work.
This sickness was fooling her brain. How long had she lain here? How many days have passed? She was alternately hot and cold. She saw figures, but when she called out to them, they were phantoms. Images of Lance, with Todd looking worried over his shoulder, offering her ginger ale, mingled with the apparitions. It was hard to determine what was real. It was hard to think coherently.
This fever was burning her up. She wanted to make sense of the images she saw. She couldn't. Her body was exhausted, and with another helpless moan, Wanda fell into restless, uneasy sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Upon waking the next morning, Todd stretched and cracked his back.
He paused.
Cracked his back?
His back didn't crack. It was limber. It was flexible. It never, never cracked.
Concerned, he dropped from his bed to the floor, into his customary crouch. But that wasn't right either.
It hurt.
Now more concerned, he flicked his tongue toward a few flies bumping for escape against the window. Nothing. He looked down, hard, at his mouth. He could only barely see the tip of his tongue passed his nose.
Todd sat down hard on the floor.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Even if he were the last one up, Pietro was the first out the door. He ran fast, he thought fast-everything around him was almost moving backwards in comparison.
This morning, however, he couldn't shake the feeling of vertigo nauseating him. He forced himself to be calm, take a breath, and check his heart rate again.
It was slow, too slow. About 75 beats per minute.
He wanted to sprint, to find Mystique or Lance or somebody, but his sprinting was more of a quick jog. His feet felt mired.
More panicked, Pietro called out for help as he loped through the house.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mystique heard Pietro's cry, and thanked the lord she never trusted the boys enough to leave her door unlocked at night. She didn't want anyone to see her.
Mystique, mistress of disguise, was no longer. Her skin was slightly tanned, her eyes green. She hadn't planned this shapeshifting, and she couldn't change it. This was who she was.
Unable to hide herself, unable to fool people and have the upper hand, for the first time in her life she was scared. She refused to unlock the door and help the frightened boy in the hallway.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From his reinforced bed, Freddy heard Pietro as well. But try as he might, the Blob had become what he christened himself, the unmoveable.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lance calmly continued brewing his morning coffee. He had heard Pietro, but didn't rush to help. Yells and threats were commonplace within the Brotherhood household.
He did, however, look up when Pietro burst into the kitchen.
"What's up?"
Pietro was uncharacteristically out of breath and close to tears. "I c- can't, c-can't-I can't move!" he stuttered thickly.
Lance remained indifferent. "Are you high or something, Pietro?"
"No, goddamnit! Listen to me!" he screamed. Lance jumped at the sudden sound. Pietro's voice cracked as he continued. "I can't move! I can't run! I'm slow and I think I'm dying!"
Lance took a long close look at the other boy, and realized his face was as pale as his hair. Pietro really was beside himself; he really looked ill. Lance silently offered him a mug of black coffee without a word and began pouring himself another.
Pietro, desperate for anything, took it. Before any more was spoken, however, Todd stumbled into the room.
"Hey," he said with no emotion in his voice. "Lance, you got any smokes? This is my last one, an' I think I'll need a bunch more, yo."
He gestured with a shaking hand to the almost-finished cigarette between his lips.
The half filled mug slipped from Lance's grip and shattered on the tile floor. The coffeepot, luckily, only had a few inches to drop before it met the countertop. Pietro's drink fared better. Even with a good look at the younger boy, his wooden, too-slow fingers didn't release their hold on the mug.
They all stared at each other for a long while. Nothing was said; there was nothing to say.
Enjoy!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fever Dreams
By Hoodoo
"Don'tcha think we oughtta do somethin'?"
"Do what? We take her to a hospital and she freaks out, who knows what'll happen? Besides, Mystique is supposed to be taking care of this sort of thing."
"She's been so sick . . . what do you think, Pietro?"
A quick muffled reply, which she couldn't make out.
"We gotta do somethin'! What if she got somethin' we can catch? What if she's contagious? What if-"
"Just calm down, Toad! We'll figure something out. Mystique will do something." A pause. " I think."
A thin moan escaped Wanda's throat. No one heard it, but the conversation drifted away. She couldn't tell if they actually began speaking in whispers, or if her ears suddenly refused to work.
This sickness was fooling her brain. How long had she lain here? How many days have passed? She was alternately hot and cold. She saw figures, but when she called out to them, they were phantoms. Images of Lance, with Todd looking worried over his shoulder, offering her ginger ale, mingled with the apparitions. It was hard to determine what was real. It was hard to think coherently.
This fever was burning her up. She wanted to make sense of the images she saw. She couldn't. Her body was exhausted, and with another helpless moan, Wanda fell into restless, uneasy sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Upon waking the next morning, Todd stretched and cracked his back.
He paused.
Cracked his back?
His back didn't crack. It was limber. It was flexible. It never, never cracked.
Concerned, he dropped from his bed to the floor, into his customary crouch. But that wasn't right either.
It hurt.
Now more concerned, he flicked his tongue toward a few flies bumping for escape against the window. Nothing. He looked down, hard, at his mouth. He could only barely see the tip of his tongue passed his nose.
Todd sat down hard on the floor.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Even if he were the last one up, Pietro was the first out the door. He ran fast, he thought fast-everything around him was almost moving backwards in comparison.
This morning, however, he couldn't shake the feeling of vertigo nauseating him. He forced himself to be calm, take a breath, and check his heart rate again.
It was slow, too slow. About 75 beats per minute.
He wanted to sprint, to find Mystique or Lance or somebody, but his sprinting was more of a quick jog. His feet felt mired.
More panicked, Pietro called out for help as he loped through the house.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mystique heard Pietro's cry, and thanked the lord she never trusted the boys enough to leave her door unlocked at night. She didn't want anyone to see her.
Mystique, mistress of disguise, was no longer. Her skin was slightly tanned, her eyes green. She hadn't planned this shapeshifting, and she couldn't change it. This was who she was.
Unable to hide herself, unable to fool people and have the upper hand, for the first time in her life she was scared. She refused to unlock the door and help the frightened boy in the hallway.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From his reinforced bed, Freddy heard Pietro as well. But try as he might, the Blob had become what he christened himself, the unmoveable.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lance calmly continued brewing his morning coffee. He had heard Pietro, but didn't rush to help. Yells and threats were commonplace within the Brotherhood household.
He did, however, look up when Pietro burst into the kitchen.
"What's up?"
Pietro was uncharacteristically out of breath and close to tears. "I c- can't, c-can't-I can't move!" he stuttered thickly.
Lance remained indifferent. "Are you high or something, Pietro?"
"No, goddamnit! Listen to me!" he screamed. Lance jumped at the sudden sound. Pietro's voice cracked as he continued. "I can't move! I can't run! I'm slow and I think I'm dying!"
Lance took a long close look at the other boy, and realized his face was as pale as his hair. Pietro really was beside himself; he really looked ill. Lance silently offered him a mug of black coffee without a word and began pouring himself another.
Pietro, desperate for anything, took it. Before any more was spoken, however, Todd stumbled into the room.
"Hey," he said with no emotion in his voice. "Lance, you got any smokes? This is my last one, an' I think I'll need a bunch more, yo."
He gestured with a shaking hand to the almost-finished cigarette between his lips.
The half filled mug slipped from Lance's grip and shattered on the tile floor. The coffeepot, luckily, only had a few inches to drop before it met the countertop. Pietro's drink fared better. Even with a good look at the younger boy, his wooden, too-slow fingers didn't release their hold on the mug.
They all stared at each other for a long while. Nothing was said; there was nothing to say.