#drake-bobby

[fallenheropietro]

A Little Help: Pietro and Bobby

It had been a week since Pietro was first admitted to the hospital. Laying in bed and feeling absolutely miserable gave the mutant plenty of time to think, especially when he had trouble sleeping. Some days he would sleep for hours on end from the exhaustion, others he’d be awake all hours from the pain. It was this one particular night that Pietro sat awake, Sharon curled up on the reclining chair like she had been night after night. His heart ached knowing that she refused to leave his side, as though she feared that he might slip away any minute. A deep sigh escaped the man’s lips as he stared up at the ceiling, doing his best not to dwell on the dark thought.

But he couldn’t help it. He was all too aware of his own mortality at this point. Only a day ago he had a fever of 104 and was vomiting so much that the nurses had to hook him up to an IV just to make sure he didn’t get dehydrated. The fever seemed to be on and off, one day resting at 99 or so, the next spiking to 102 or 103. Pietro knew that most likely, tomorrow it would spike again, and he’d deal with a whirlwind day of pain and sheer agony. He was so tired. Not just from the exhaustion, but tired of all of this. Of seeing Sharon in pain. Of not being able to see his sister. Of just being sick. 

A newspaper rested on the nightstand by Pietro’s hospital bed. He reached over for it, recalling an article about two mutants and how they were responding differently to the recent crisis. Maybe they could help. When he had read it, they seemed to know what they were talking about. At the end of the article, it listed a way to contact the one--Drake. He grabbed his phone and sent an email to the man, begging for help. He ended the email with the address of the hospital and which room to find him in. Pietro prayed that the man would visit him, hopefully offering some sort of hope. 

[kitkatpryde]

Ѡ

[text]: okay is this your way of trying to tell me something [text]: or do you STILL not know how to work your cellphone. [text]: because I'm not teaching you again.

[samanthashford]

Hogwarts School of Gifted Youngsters || Sam & Bobby

Sam staggered out the front door of her apartment and down the lobby, clutching the pack of beers tightly to her chest. It was only when she reached the elevator--leaning against the cold metal just to keep her steady on her feet--that she remembered: public intoxication was against the law, carrying your booze out in the open not classy, might get robbed, blah, blah, blah. She sighed, and, pulling up her baggy pant leg, tucked a beer bottle against her ankle then tucked her pants into her boots (she’d have hidden another, but the left pant leg was currently hiding a bottle of cheap vodka). By the time the elevator came (it was always so slow in this dirty, cheap, all-she-could-afford building), Sam had hidden the rest of the beers under various parts of her hoody and was googling directions to this strange “school” on her very outdated smart phone. It looked--and sounded--to her like Hogwarts. 

Had Sam been just a ounce more sober, the name might have rang a bell; Xavier’s Institute, was, after all, an outstanding and, at this point, famous institution--it’s name came up nearly every day in the Bugle and competitive papers as everyone wanted to get their two cents in about the “mutant cause”--for the better and for the worst. On her better days--AKA sober days--Sam had taken to investigating the school, learned about its history, its founders, the wonderful people it had spit out at the end of their learning. It seemed legit, one way or another, but the idea of anyone reading her mind on her way there was slightly intimidating--not that it mattered when she got lost ten times and ended up in, according to her phone, the school’s back yard and gave up; her thoughts quickly became the “out loud” kind anyway. 

“Bobby!” she called, staggering then quickly catching herself on the edge of a well-trimmed shrub. “Whoops.” She straightened, moving closer to the buildings, seriously contemplating throwing a rock, but this was not Romeo and Juliet or a We The Kings music video. “Bobby Is the Sweetest Drake, where are you?” she hissed, not turning toward what she very much hoped was the front of the school.