Moving Too Fast (Quicksilver X OC)

Chapter Five: It's Been A While

Violet

 The boy's going to fall. You can see it in the way he's grabbing at the slim little ledge he's managed to catch his entire body weight on. He seems to be fading in and out of little spells, probably from having his head knocked around so much, and blood, probably from having to catch himself, pools around his hands and slicks the already crumbling surface he's gripping like his— scratch that, slicks the already crumbling surface he's gripping because his life depends on it.

 His eyes catch mine when he looks up again, a cross between hope and fear — hope that he's saved, fear that I'll get myself killed trying — shining in his eyes when pain isn't the primary thing dominating them. I freeze, frozen in his sight.

 I don't want to go down. I'm not a hero. My ankle, though numb from adrenaline, can't be in great shape. Hell, I'm not even all that coordinated. I don't even know this kid. And I almost turn back, but then I see his hand slip and watch him scramble to grab it again, wincing in pain as he breaks eye contact, and I start down the probably twenty-foot slope without consciously making the choice. It's one thing to leave someone when you know they have a chance, but with no one else around and time running out, I am this kid's chance. And no decent human being could live with themselves knowing they might've been able to do something. Besides — I'm probably screwed anyway. If I have to go out on this stupid piece of rock, I might as well go down swinging.

  "Watch it!" the silver-haired boy pants, just as my foot hits an unsteady ledge, my weight sending the stones flying down toward earth. I squeak and catch myself on a pipe that's jutting out about a foot lower, promising to keep at least two appendages firmly in place whenever I take another step from now on. My heart's pounding so loud I can hear it in my ears. I take a moment to try and breathe again, but I don't really have the time. I'm about half way down and I'm already not sure I'll make it to the boy before he falls.

It's painfully slow as I manage down the side of the city — never thought I'd say that in my life — and with every little slip of his hand I feel my heart constrict just a little bit more. If he falls, all I've done is waste time. I wipe the sweat off of my hands and onto my jeans and continue my descent, but eventually I'm as far as I can safely (though that term is very relative at this point) go without pretty much guaranteeing that both of us will end up little splatters on the pavement. You know, the not flying version of it.

"Still hanging in there?" I call down, voice shaking. He's still hanging on, but he hasn't moved since I was about half way down, head dangling. The boy lifts his eyes. I'm about an arms length and a half above where he is — I doubt he could've pulled himself up this high himself from where he is. Maybe he could've in perfect health, maybe, but definitely not now.

"Be careful," he manages, and he keeps his eyes on mine. I realize he's letting me take charge here. I kind of wish he wasn't — if he falls, it's on me. But I am the one of the two of us that can see what we're working with up here. The ledge will barely fit the both of us, if that, so I'll need to pull him up and get myself off at pretty much the same time. Easy. Not. I take a breath.

"When I say three jump up and give me your hand." I direct, carefully picking my way to my stomach. I reach down the sheer surface, trying to disguise the way I'm shaking. I'm terrified of heights, absolutely terrified of them, and I can only not focus on that if I focus on what I am doing. "One?"

"Two," he agrees.

"Three." The boy pulls at the strength he's holding on to and pushes him up as far as he can from his angle, actually managing to grab my arm but sliding down at a scary pace to my wrist almost immediately afterward. I haul upward, my muscles screaming, but thankfully as soon as his knees can hold himself against the wall he takes some of the pressure off of me. Grunting, I scramble to my feet, holding the boy's wrists with everything I've got once I manage to switch one of them to my other hand. I drag him up a little further with his assistance and he drops my arms, grabbing onto the thicker, more stable ledge with his elbows. It still must be strenuous, but he sighs like he's lying down. Surprisingly, I realize, there's blood on his hands but the marks on his hands, from what I felt, were almost non-existent.

Reminding myself of what's important, I start my assent so that the boy can use the cliff-like edge. I expect him to try and stay there a while or struggle after me, but to my surprise he's by my side before I'm a fourth of the way back up, though clearly exhausted to some extent. By the time I'm half-way up, he's already almost at the top. That's just... unnatural. He looks over his shoulder every few moments to make sure... what? That I'm still there?

He helps me up the last little stretch, my adrenaline completely depleted. I collapse. My ankle feels like I've smashed it between slabs of concrete now that I can really feel it. I've scaled a cliff face — up and down — with a bad ankle. Damn, how stupid am I? I squeeze my eyes shut as I try to keep from throwing up or passing out and grab at my joint.

Strong arms pull me to the sweat-slick uniform of the silver-blond. He's breathing hard, but he's recovering remarkably fast. I open my eyes a little, the boy's face almost anxious. "Keep breathing."

I almost give him a sarcastic 'well duh', but before I can even consider it we're off — I've never felt so close to flying in my life — and the cityscape blurs at the edges. My nausea seems to increase and the wind is knocked from my lungs, but the boy still feels like he had moments ago. It occurs to me that I'm not just hallucinating or going crazy — this boy's really running that fast.

He drops me off at a strange little ship with rows of seats, other humans finally back in sight, after a little while, plopping me down straight into one of the chairs. I must look like I'm in nasty shape, his blood and some of my own streaking my arms and shirt, maybe my face now that I've been against him. He holds my gaze for just a moment longer, seeming to memorize my face, and then he's gone in a flash of silver.

I only learned later that, considering where I'd been in the city and the pain that had shot up my leg, if I'd tried to get to the transports myself I probably never would've gotten there.

"No," Pietro agrees. It takes me a moment to place our conversation. "we didn't."