Pietro rubbed his hands over his eyes again as the doors to the Bar clanked shut and locked just behind him. Hmm. Closed already. Despite the frosty air and small pelts of snow falling down from the New York skyline, the son of M could feel the sweat beads dripping all over his fore head. He stumbled towards an empty bench at a mere nine hundred miles per hour. He glanced once groggily at the advertisement on the back of the bench, then gave up on reading and took a seat. It was a cold night, but despite it all New York lived on. A living testament that nothing could broke this American city's spirit. Not Vampires, Militant Humans, or his father. "Mag..neto." He breathed aloud in the chill. Was he really gone? Despite the drinks or maybe because or them, Pietro felt himself frowning. He hated himself and his father. Hated Magneto, and..felt moved by him. OR maybe, did he love him? Hell, how could he ever know now? His father was gone. Forever. Pietro heard the sigh escape his lips before he felt it. It was late. Maybe he should go home.
Idly, Pietro walked. It was hard walking across an entire state while intoxicated. IF the humans had the senses acute enough to match mach 2, they might have nailed him with a ticket. Which would have seemed rather silly to the Maximoff boy, if he didn't feel vaguely like spilling his innards while moving at that speed. But eventually he did make it home. Or what seemed like home. It was difficult to tell with one's head spinning. Maybe that was what drew him to the drinks. The feeling of being normal for once? He certainly wasn't keen on the idea of his mutation with the threat of motion sickness lingering in the air. Alcohol was the closest thing Quicksilver had to living life as a normal mutant. A normal mutant like Wanda.
Despite mentally attempting to ground himself, and gear up for entering the hideout quietly, Pietro still managed to drunkenly announce his presence loudly. It was not his fault! Do you realize how hard it is to walk three hundred and sixty eight miles per hour when every step feels like your legs are made of jelly? A loud crash of glass blared him to the house like silver trumpets in the air. How appropriate for a son of Magneto the great, thoughtt Quickie bitterly. Looks like he busted a chandelier. No doubt he catch hell for that later. God, maybe he could make it to his room without waking up Wanda. Although, he wouldn't have minded loudly waking up Mystique. He delighted in making that wretched wench turn further blue then pigmentation allowed. Stumbling violently to his door, he was about to at last walk in and pass out, when to his surprise and dismay the door was already opened. "He-Hello?" He inquired once. And allowed his question to float in the air for a moment. Who had been in here exactly? IF Toad was trying to steal his cologne again! He'd wrap that frog around by it's slimy tongue!