Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wanda had to appreciate Rhodey’s choice to give her a splitting headache instead of actually, you know -- shooting her. She hadn’t tried stopping bullets yet, and wasn’t looking for on-the-job experience. Still, the ringing in her ears was deafening as Vision knelt beside her. Lucky for them, she didn’t need her ears when he spoke.

Her side of the conversation comes out a little strained, she’s sure, but Vision seems to relax while they sit together on the tarmac. He slouches, fear and relief together shining through the cracks of the carefully deadpan expression he’d been wearing since that night at Stark Tower.

That night, they had shared an unspoken understanding of the reality that separates them, a bittersweet promise to meet again on the same side in the future. If she were feeling particularly dramatic, and if she were maybe a little bit drunk, she would call them star-crossed lovers, destined to be apart.

(Of course, Vision wasn’t her lover, but what other word did she have? Wanda looked down to where Vision was holding her. Their hands were made for the other, for intertwining fingers, flesh and vibranium. Perhaps soulmate was a better term, but “star-crossed soulmates” was too dramatic for her taste. Pietro would have loved it, teased the shit out of her for these lovey-dovey ramblings.)

Part of her feels guilty that she has chosen this, chosen a path that leaves him worried and scared. Vision wasn’t designed with those emotions in mind, he wasn’t built to play babysitter to someone like her.

“It’s as I said: catastrophe.”

And the way he said it... If she had heard those condescending words, that posh accent, her first instinct would have been to lash out, to show him that she could repeat the events of the Tower if that’s what he really wanted. The last thing she wanted was to fight him, but Wanda was never one to shy away from a challenge.

Fortunately, she is currently deafened, and so she hears those words from inside his head rather than from his mouth. She can hear his fear. His eyes, too, they look at her with such love. He had stayed out of the larger scuffles because he knew his power and was afraid of adding more damage and pain to the broken Avengers. She had done the same, staying almost entirely on the defensive and reactionary, the extent of her powers very much unknown and unstable. Another unspoken agreement they shared, to be the damage control.

They share one brief moment simply enjoying their reunion. One brief, cruel moment.

Then she hears Rhodey in Vision’s head, giving him the order to bring Sam down. Maybe if she wasn’t so tired, she could have stopped him, but her arms were shaky from pulling previously untapped strength. More importantly, she was emotionally exhausted, sick of being separated from Vision. She was selfish, too, always selfish -- she wants to stay with him, wants more of him. Burnt out, she surrenders to Team Whoever, to Team Wherever Vision Is.

She thought she was showing herself mercy, showing love to Vision. She should have tried to stop him.

Vision really shouldn’t have attempted a shot like that from so far away, it was out of character for him to make such a risky move.

She hates the universe for twisting her act of love into violence and guilt, a haunting memory for both Rhodey and Vision. Maybe Stark, and perhaps Sam. This will surely follow her, too -- she remembers every accident she’s caused. Too many.

As Rhodey plummets, Vision untangles himself and launches himself into the air, racing against all odds towards yet another catastrophe. A true catastrophe. They both know those are odds he has no chance of beating.

There’s no chance in hell that Wanda makes it there in time, either, not with her shaky hands and pounding head. If she tried to fly, the Avengers would probably end up with two body-shaped craters on their hands. Double the hospital bills for Stark. As tempting as that thought is, she decides to try and find the other ex-Avengers instead.

Lying down as she is, the tarmac is brutal on her bumps and bruises. Stifling a groan, Wanda tries to sit up, bracing for inevitable aches. Now, alas, verticality results in her headache truly feeling like it’s splitting her head, pain she hasn’t felt in years.

Vision winces in the distance, more from the sensation of someone stabbing her brain than from what’s happening with Rhodey. Which is truly saying something, Vision feels horrible about what happened. In her peripheral, she’s grateful to see that Rhodey survived the fall. Relieved, she closes the connection. She’s thrown Vision off enough for one day, he doesn’t need this god-awful headache, too.

Shakily rising to her feet, she scans the area for the others. Whatever Rhodey shot at her, combined with massive overexertion when she lifted that tower, makes for a truly impressive hindrance to her telepathy. With Vision it’s always easy to tune in, communicating telepathically is their go-to. Connecting to the others is a bit more complicated, she usually avoids their minds like a dog guiltily avoids its owner’s shoes -- through it really shouldn’t be this hard to find the others.

Through unfocused eyes, Wanda finally sees figures in the distance, Clint and Natasha hugging. They shift from one small, blurry lump, into two and with a flash of red one lump ducks behind what was once an airplane. Wanda starts to move towards Clint, the world tiling occasionally. It’s odd, she thinks, to not hear her footsteps.

He must have been moving towards her as well, and he steadies her with his hands on her shoulders. She stands there, gives him a nod, and begins to look for more of their teammates.

Suddenly there’s a hand on her cheek and Clint is mouthing words at her. Apparently they weren’t simply enjoying a companionable silence, she couldn’t hear him speaking.

He watches her eyes as they flick up and down is face, from mouth to eyes, and his eyebrows get all scrunchy.

“I’m sorry, I cannot hear you.”

It makes Wanda uneasy to not be able to hear herself, to not be able to keep track of her accent. It marks her as someone who destroyed her home, is a sad reminder of Pietro and her parents and the life she used to live. Natasha had been helping with her English. She had just barely grasped an American accent, though she was far too shy to show anyone but her mentor.

Luckily, Clint doesn’t seem to mind and ignores her self-conscious blushing. He only nods and begins signing to her, clearly trying out multiple languages. She watches, mesmerized. Most of the Avengers know about Clint’s deafness, but each of them swears by a different story for how he lost his hearing. Some seemed to think it happened when he was young, something about a circus, but Nat swears it was on a mission, a mishap with a sonic device like what Rhodey used earlier.

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t -- I don’t know any of those. I never learned.”

Clint’s hands stop, and he returns one of them to her bicep, squeezing slightly and offering her a slight smile as his other hand reaches down to hold one of hers. He’s still speaking, words she can’t catch. She can read lips in Sokovian, but Clint is speaking in English and far too quickly. Judging by his wry smile, he’s trying to make light of the situation. He then brings her hand up to his temple and gives her a nod.

Surprise and rejection must be obvious on her face, because he keeps his grip firm and nods again, maintaining a relaxed stance.

Surely he can’t be serious, she squints at him accusingly. When his gaze doesn’t falter, she drops her eyes and shuffles her feet a bit. Wanda takes a deep breath and reaches for Clint, pulls on her telepathy like she was dipping a toe very cautiously into a pool. A very blunt, dangerous toe into a very vulnerable pool that is also one of her closest friends.

Nothing.

She tries again, with just a smidge more effort, and dark spots dance where normally her sight would haze red. She removes Clint’s hands and takes a wobbly seat, criss-cross applesauce.

Once the spots are gone, Clint is seated across from her, looking worried once again.

“Well, this is new,” she jokes. Her throat feels tight.

He cracks yet another smile that quickly shifts into something more complicated. He’s in his dad-zone, she can tell, has seen this before when she met his kids for the first time.

His eye contact becomes serious, the air shifts, and they stare at each other for a beat. His finger comes up to point at his lips. He wants her to lip read, she realizes, and tries not to pout.

“Uh, I can try? English is not my best so... go slow.”

Watching intently, she is able to parse out the basics of the situation, chuckling at Clint’s theatrical miming when she couldn’t grasp certain words.

Steve and Bucky escaped. Nat helped them. Everyone else must have retreated to lick their wounds. He asks about the other four, the flyers.

“Rhodey, he fell, Vision’s blast hit his suit by accident. He’s still alive, but those four are preoccupied.”

He nods, taking it in stride. He asks about her, about her powers.

“I’m unharmed. Rhodey hit me with sonic disruption, maybe? It was some kind of new military tech, I think it’s interfering with my powers, and of course my hearing. My head hurts like hell, but it isn’t as bad as it was five minutes ago.”

She begins to rub her eyes, seeking quick relief from the ocular migraine setting in, but drops her hands quickly as she remembers that she needs to see him for his reply.

He’s just nodding, steady as always. As he thinks about what to say, his eyes drift, like he’s listening for something. He looks at her with a small amount of alarm and is pulling her up to stand next to him before she can ask what he heard.

Clint begins to move purposefully towards the nearest building entrance, holding her wrist. She manages to match his pace with what she hopes looks like confidence in her step.

He doesn’t turn to look at her, she has no clue what’s happening, or why he breaks into a jog once they’ve crossed about half the runway. His movement is terse, his back is coiled up like he wants to be covering more ground than what Wanda is currently capable of.

The door is thankfully unlocked as Clint shoulders it open, ushering her through the doorway while watching the airfield. He closes the door behind him and her wrist is once again being tugged in front of her, and she knows better than to take the time to ask why they’re running. He had looked scared, and if she could bring herself to make a joke she would tell him that it doesn’t look good on him, that it ages him. She’d call him “old man” for good measure and wait for a matching “hey now, kiddo,” in return.

As they run, Wanda notices pressure building in her ears, their steps thunder like a storm miles away. No longer is the world silent, the world is now underwater, and she can hear ringing overlaying everything.

Clint leads them through the massive building, never breaking stride, until they reach a nondescript side exit. The door opens, and she thinks she hears... sirens? It’s hard for her to be sure, it bleeds into her tinnitus awfully easily.

Her wrist is finally released as they step outdoors. They’ve emerged into what looks like a secluded smoking area, and about five hundred meters away is the edge of a forest.

At last, Clint faces her, looks at her in concern. She realizes belatedly that she’s been breathing loudly, and heavily -- embarrassingly heavily for an Avenger.

“Clint,” she asks, subtly trying to catch her breath and save face, “Why are we running?”

“Well, remember how we didn’t sign those Accords? And how we’re both national security threats? And how, when you combine that with the property damage back there,” he wiggles his hand behind them, “you get international agreement that we need to be locked up?”

Oh.

“Time to run,” he continued, “And hey, you weren’t watching my lips, your hearing comin’ back?”

Wanda nods.

Clint looks grim as he turns towards the forest.

“Any chance your powers are online, too? Those’d be super helpful, kiddo.”

“Uh, no... no, no powers yet,” she croaks out, and clears her throat. Shit.

Detainment.

How convenient for Wanda to forget the risks of her choices, behaving as though the worst that could come out of today was an injury, like what happened to Rhodey, or even death. But no, no the worst that could happen was capture.

She can now hear car doors opening and slamming shut and there’s no time anymore. Clint grabs her hand and they run, five hundred meters separating them from freedom, five hundred meters of a wide open, manicured, grass lawn. They have no cover, they are defenseless, Clint had run out of arrows before the fight had ended and Wanda was worse than useless.

Still, they run. Clint runs for his family. Wanda runs for her life.

Four hundred. They make it about four hundred meters, so close to the tree line, before the special ops teams overwhelm them with sheer volume of Kevlar-clad bodies blocking any and all escape. They’re surrounded, in the middle of a massive circle, and Wanda can barely muster up worthless red smoke, her powers still dampened by her headache. The agents are closing in on them, slowly but surely, and she squeezes Clint’s hand hard enough to feel guilty.

“Hey, kid, listen -- it’ll be okay, alright? I’ll be right there with you, we’ll do this together, ‘kay?”

She’s trembling, she can’t go back, going back will kill her. She only made it through the first time because Pietro was there, she isn’t strong enough to do it without Pietro. Strucker will -- Strucker will be excited to see what the Avengers have taught her but she won’t survive any more of his experiments, she’ll make sure of it.

“Whoa, hey, hey, Wanda. Wanda. Strucker isn’t... this isn’t Hydra, kid. This sure won’t be a vacation, but it’ll be okay, this is S.H.I.E.L.D. we’re talkin’ about.”

Clint is in front of her now, trying to catch her eye. There’s a loud speaker ordering them to stand down.

She must be coming back “online” in more ways than one, because as Wanda registers his words she’s able to feel his mind as well. Panicking, she latches on, a move she would never normally make but she needs comfort, she needs Pietro, but Pietro isn’t here. Suddenly, Clint’s words are no longer comforting to her.

Clint, help, please. They’re going to take me back there, they’ll kill me. I don’t want to die Clint, please, please. I know I’ve hurt people, I’ve killed, but I don’t want to die, I’m not ready.

[They wanted to see what she could do. At first, they used dolls. She quickly graduated to stray cats.]

[They starved her, wanting to see if the power from the scepter could sustain her. It could not.]

[They thought hallucinogens could enhance her abilities. They were wrong.]

[They thought sedatives could suppress her mind. Suppress they did.]

[They took turns shocking her and Pietro, testing their will as experiments and testing their bond as twins. They could, apparently, feel the other’s pain.]

[They seemed to think she was too rebellious, they wanted to break her. They kept her restrained.]

Clint looks horrified and overwhelmed.

I’msorryI’msorry -- sorry, I didn’t mean to, that was an accident.

She slams the connection shut.

The agents are finally within arms reach. They command her and Clint to lay face down in the grass, and they obey on shaky legs.

Wanda’s breathing is shallow as she registers Clint being arrested first, and she hears him talking but can’t make out his words. She’s next, being hoisted up by her shoulders. She isn’t being cuffed, but there are so many hands on her, holding her in place with fearful hands, like she’s a bomb about to blow them to pieces.

She looks up at Clint sorrowfully, apologetic for filling his mind with her nightmares. She can no longer see his face, he’s being marched away towards an armored van. There’s some sort of commotion happening behind her but she’s fully immobilized and she tries not to panic at that, tries to remember Clint’s assurances.

Something catches her eye, above the building Clint and her came out of. Hope fills her chest, recognizing Vision’s ridiculous cape with relief. Stark is with him too, and though she doesn’t necessarily like him, she recognizes him as someone who could help her. They’re far off, probably near where Rhodey landed, but they should be here in the next couple minutes.

The agents holding her must take the sag of her relief as resistance, because their grip impossibly tightens and the commotion she’s been hearing comes to a climax as she feels a pinch in her neck.

Wanda is livid. Did they think she was resisting them? She hadn’t so much as flinched away from them, a feat she was ridiculously proud of. And now, now they drug her? Well, she’ll show them resistance, put on a show. She begins to fight the hold, happy that the powerless combat training Steve had insisted on is finally coming in handy. She manages to get one arm out, begins to pull on the trickle of power she can now feel returning to her. She frees the second arm and stands alone.

There’s a fizzle, a popping sensation in her sinuses, and red energy finally begins to swirl above her palm.

She grins and then... tries to push the agents away, but nothing happens. The energy is gone, it slipped out of her reach.

The agents are more on edge now than they were when they had her in their grasp. She isn’t sure who the desperate, cornered animal is in this situation, her or the terrified S.H.I.E.L.D. agent she’s staring down.

She doesn’t know who gives the signal, but suddenly they’re on top of her again, fast enough that she can barely counter three of them before she’s right back where she started, fully restrained. That sedative is fast-working, too...

Oh.

She feels thrown for the second time today. They sedated her.

How did they know a sedative would even work on me? Was it their standard practice or was it specifically for me, for my powers?

Clint’s earlier words play on repeat in her head as the approximately forty remaining agents march her towards the armored van Clint previously disappeared into. She wants to look for Vision, hell even Stark’s cocky face would be a welcome sight, but there are hands holding her fucking head in place.

Walking is now somewhat difficult, the sedative is doing its thing, everything is turning to wool.

The agents open the reinforced doors and she sees Clint, finally, sitting handcuffed and belted into a seat. He looks at her and suddenly his intentionally bored, yet mildly frustrated expression morphs into anger. She can hear him raising his voice at the guards inside the van, protesting something.

She tries to track the conflict, but finds it difficult to follow, her eyes keep closing without her permission, and she has to remind herself that she needs to be aware of what’s happening.

Her legs are being lifted, more hands on her body. They’re moving her limbs, maybe, but she isn’t sure because her limbs don’t really feel attached to her torso. They wrap her in something, something that is stiff and smells like disinfectant. Straps are tightened and she can no longer hear Clint. Vision and Stark are totally forgotten as something dense and cold is secured around her neck.

The sedative finally does its job, and Wanda loses consciousness, settles into a wonderfully dreamless sleep.

The Raft awaits.

Chapter Text

Wanda, hey, you need to wake up ...

... wake up, kid ...

jeez, ... they put her on?

... doesn’t look ... call for a guard? ...

Wanda feels herself slowly floating up, up to the surface. Voices are getting louder, getting familiar. Before she breaks the surface, she tries to open her eyes. Oddly she meets resistance, there’s a pulling feeling, and... she is way too tired for this.

... hey, hey look. Her face is sorta twitching ...

Are they talking about her? Her eyes try to open again. With a sensation she could only describe as crunchy, her eyelids crack open and she lets her eyes slowly adjust to the sharp intrusion of light.

“Kid! Good to see you awake,” comes a voice from somewhere nearby. “How’re you feelin’?”

“C- Clint...?”

Her tongue feels too large for her mouth, and she tries to adjust it, make a home for it between her teeth. She also wants to be looking for Clint, for where his voice came from, but moving her head while she moves her tongue is more than she can wrap her brain around at the moment.

Pondering the possibility that her tongue doubled in size, she realizes that the gunk around her eyes is still clinging onto her eyelids. There’s one especially annoying bit that’s sitting in her eyelashes, right in her line of sight. She frowns, tongue forgotten. She reaches her hand up.

Nothing.

She reaches her other hand up.

No hand movement, no arm movement, and certainly no movement from the eyelash crust she’s been glaring at.

Before, she hadn’t really been looking around herself, her eyes had been not-really-focused on some inconsequential bit of floor. Now, Wanda looks down at herself.

Discoveries have been made.

One, looking down presents itself as a unique challenge, due to the presence of something thick around her neck. Looking down pushes the squishy underside of her jaw into the obstruction in a... rather unpleasant way.

Two, her arms... aren’t where they should be? She checks both sides, just to make sure, but they are certainly missing from their usual spots. Upon further investigation, she realizes that she also cannot feel her arms. She’s telling her brain to wiggle her fingers, but her fingers, should they still exist, do not wiggle.

Only mildly concerned at the prospect, she now looks for Clint. Her eyes take their sweet time coming in and out of focus. She wants to know where they are, how they ended up here, but her mouth is lagging far behind her head.

“Wanda, look up here for a moment, will ya?”

She obliges him, finds him standing behind a barred opening in the wall, about four meters in front of her. She isn’t sure what he’s looking for, but does her best to keep her attention on him.

His eyes search her face, making a clear effort to not look below her chin. He mutters something under his breath that she can’t catch, and turns to face his left, talking to someone she can’t see. No - he turns to her right. No... his right? If she had her hands, this would be much easier to figure out. Pietro had taught her a trick for figuring out directions with her fingers, but her hands weren’t here right now, and neither was he.

Wait -- where was Pietro?

Now this, this is truly confusing. Confusing and upsetting in a way that nothing else has affected her so far.

Pietro isn’t here, she can’t see him, can’t feel him. She can’t even feel him the way she used to before...

Before...

Her straightjacket smelled like bile. The air was still, which made her isolation somehow worse. If there were a draft in here, maybe she would shiver. Shivering would help her feel less like she was floating, less like she was watching her body from the corner opposite. Instead she sits on a bench and wishes she could feel Pietro. Dr. List, he had discovered a new cocktail of medications that could actually suppress her link to her brother. She didn’t even know if he was still in the facility. He could be dead, for all she knew.

Her mother used to tell them to watch out for each other, that they needed to hold hands when they left the building and they were never to go where the other could not follow. That was one rule that Wanda and Pietro never wanted to break, an easy-to-cross line they never even felt the urge to toe.

Now, Mother, look at us. We’ve broken your rule, we’ve broken so many, but this one hurts the most. We waltzed in here, Father, and allowed them to break us apart. I cannot protect him like this, I can’t keep him safe like I’m supposed to.

Footsteps echo through the halls of the facility. Time to go back to work. The only silver lining, she thinks as she stands, is that she’ll be able to feel Pietro while she works. Dr. List hasn’t figured out a way to suppress specific parts of her mind, so it’s all or nothing for them to experiment on.

A key slides into the lock on her cell, and in steps Strucker himself. He only visits on special days, the days that leave her barely alive and struggling to find a reason to stand back up. She basks in the feeling of air brushing her cheeks as they drag her out of her cell, into the dark and drafty hallway.

Wanda gasps, and jerks her arms, trying to break free of the straightjacket. She still can’t feel her hands, but that won’t stop her from getting out. She had escaped them before, many times with bruised ribs and once even with a broken wrist -- she could do it again.

When she hears footsteps echoing through the facility, she twists and pulls harder. Strucker is here today, she just knows it. Someone calls her name, someone standing in front of her.

Oh, god her head hurts and this just makes it worse. She’s never had anyone else in her cell before, and she doesn’t know how she’ll find the heart to leave them here when she breaks herself and Pietro out. She looks up, slowing her struggle for a moment, preparing herself to see the face of someone she’ll have to abandon in this ring of hell.

She sees Clint looking at her from behind iron bars.

Her face contorts in confusion, she can feel tears threatening to spill onto her cheeks. She tries to tell him something, but her throat is tight from fear and overwhelming panic. All that comes out is something sad and strangled, definitely not the words she meant to say, almost too quiet to hear over her thundering pulse.

“Easy now, Wanda, we don’t need you getting hurt.” His eyes are desperate, like there’s something chasing him, or perhaps watching him, waiting for the moment to pounce. He looks like prey.

“I need you to stop moving. Please, kid, for me, don’t move. Please.”

He wants an answer, a confirmation that she heard him.

She just nods, a few quick, shaky jerks as the tears finally spill over. She cries silently, trying to hear his every word. Nothing is making sense, she doesn’t know where she is, or how Clint got in here, her memories are becoming muddy.

“Alright... alright,” he pauses and rubs one hand on the back of his neck. “That’s good, you’re doing great, Wanda. Listen, we think you’re still comin’ down from the sedatives they gave ya. You already look way more alert than you did a few minutes ago, when you woke up. I know you’re confused, but everything will make sense soon. Okay?”

We? Who are we and who are they? She takes a moment to gather herself, take in his words.

“Clint, where are we?” she asks, “Where is Pietro? I... I thought I left him with you?”

His face crumples for a moment. He begins to shake his head, slowly.

“No, Wanda, he...” he licks his lips. “Maybe you should close your eyes, try and get some rest-”

“Clint,” she interrupts him sharply, “Where is my brother? I know you know.”

“Kid,” he sighs, like he’s made up his mind. Before he can continue, she cuts him off again.

“I’m not a kid.” She’s no longer crying, her body is past that point. The flood of emotion from before has left her irritable and frustrated, tired beyond belief, and Clint is not helping.

He exhales sharply, frustrated with how this conversation is going and looks over to his right again.

“Once you’ve calmed down a bit, we can tell you everything. The other two knuckleheads are just over there,” he points in to the left, where he’s been looking, “and, well - they’re telling me that I’m doing a shit job of this.”

He pauses to chuckle, trying to diffuse the situation, blanket his words. Wanda is finding it hard to parse out who the other two people are supposed to be.

“You are doing a shit job of this,” she bites.

He takes a deep breath and turns to face the others, his face saying what do I do?

She watches his side of the silent conversation, his face contorting wildly as he shifts through panicked emotions.

Something inside of her snaps.

The drugs may still be in her system, but she can feel power inside of her, right were she can reach it. Her head feels much clearer now. It dawns on her suddenly, what has really happened, how much of a fool she has been, and she watches the man on the other side of the bars with horror.

The conversation with “the other two” seems to have filled him with a new resolve, and he turns back to her with his mouth open, ready to speak. His words die when he sees her face, his newfound resolve shifts back to worry.

He looks like he’s diffusing a bomb. They looked at her like she was a bomb about to blow them all to pieces.

“I know what this is,” she stares at him stonily.

As subtly as she can manage, she continues trying to manipulate herself out of the straightjacket. “You’ve stolen another face, you’re still trying to gain my trust. Or maybe you’re trying to break me. Either way, it won’t work. I know your tricks, List, you’ve held me for too long.

“Something is different this time. I can feel it. But you’re the same monster you’ve always been. And I’ll continue to do what I always do.”

Wanda leans forward. Something is stirring.

“I’ll ask you again, Doc. Where is Pietro?”

The man in front of her looks like he has no clue what to say. Hydra must have upped its budget for the freak science experiment division, this poor schmuck is a great actor.

The power inside is consuming her, all of the negative emotions that had been tugging her to and fro are now feeding into her panic. Despair, fear, confusion, -- all still present, but buried beneath a haze.

She can barely see from behind the red in her eyes.

“Wanda, it’s me, it’s Clint -- y’know, Hawkeye!” he tries to smile, but his face remains haggard, “Coolest ex-Avenger. Ring a bell?”

Feeling is somehow returning to her hands, though she hasn’t removed the straightjacket yet. Pins and needles explode up her arms.

“I don’t want to hurt you. You’ll be free to go if you just tell me what I need.

Where. Is.

Pietro?”

“Pietro, he... Wanda, he isn’t here. Don’t you remember Ultron? The destruction of Novi Grad? I think you’re confused, kid, Pietro died, about six months ago.”

She scoffs. “You’re lying.”

How dare they. How dare they use him like this, treat his death like a variable in their little tests. What this man says, it strikes a distant chord in her heart, tugs a painful string. She doesn’t know how they did it, everything in her head is so scrambled. It’s like that time Pietro taught her how to do a cartwheel and she threw up her lunch promptly afterwards.

“You are lying to my face. I won’t play along with you, not this time.”

She punctuates her statement by busting the seams of her straightjacket clean apart, fabric unravelling to thread.

In an instant, she’s in front of him. There’s a deep pain within him, she can sense it as she approaches and she almost feels sorry for him.

Her eyes close and she reaches out, looking for information on her brother, where he’s being kept. She’s breaking them out this time, she swears it to herself. They’ve done enough, they aren’t helping anyone by being tortured in these cells. They can change the world somewhere else, somewhere where they can be together again.

His mind is strangely familiar, and information on Pietro is not difficult to find. This man had been thinking of him, while they were talking, it was easy to pluck out of his consciousness. But, this thought, this conviction that Pietro had died... It was solid, unwavering. He was certain of it, and he was deeply emotional, he was grieving.

No.

She examined this feeling, she pulled at it. She found a memory, Pietro being shot, he was shielding a child.

No.

She remembered this too. She had felt every bullet, she breathed his last breath. No wonder she could not feel him.

Pietro was dead.

Grief hit her like a freight train, ending the split second it took her to enter this man’s mind and recover his memories, her memories. It was over. The world was moving in slow-motion around her, but it was like time had stopped.

It was drafty in here.

Wanda collapses to her knees. Red. It was all red, everything she saw, she felt, she heard. The tears in her eyes only added to the effect, it was like she was swimming in a pool of rubies. Her chest was pulsing, not just with her grief, but with surges of red energy being forced out from between her ribs. They started off weakly, but were growing stronger each passing second, would soon become visible to the man she’s been talking to.

Pietro was dead, and she was stuck with Hydra.

The power within her is overflowing, it feels dangerous. She stands, shakily, and looks around her, at the man in front of her, at the facility she is doomed to die in.

“I can fix this.” She clenches her hands a few times. She isn’t sure who she’s talking to, the man or herself. He might be talking to her, but what he has to say to her doesn’t matter anymore.

“I- I can fix this, I can get us out of here. I was o- only planning on saving Pietro, but-” she inhales sharply. “Peitro cannot be saved. Not anymore. But you and I, we can leave. You have kids, don’t you? I saw them, you think of them often. I’ll take you to them.”

She ends her rambling by raising her fists.

“No! Wanda, please, don’t, you’re going to get hurt-”

His pleading is interrupted by a tickling sensation at her throat. It quickly grows more painful, becoming a shock she can feel in her bones, it’s like her body is on fire.

Before she collapses for a second time, the power within her shifts -- it’s found an outlet.

Shattered to pieces, the remnants of the shock collar fall to the floor around her feet. What’s been started, however, she cannot stop. Years of emotion and trauma, locked away, finally let free.

Everything hurts so much and she doesn’t know how to make it stop. Grief, pain, fear and confusion, all overwhelming her, overwhelming the something inside of her that began to stir earlier.

She looks over at the man -- Clint? -- and tries to reassure him with a smile, to tell him that she’ll protect him.

It looks like her musing has come true. She really is a bomb.

There’s an explosion of scarlet, and then everything is black.

Chapter Text

Stupid. He is so immeasurably dense.

And this time, Vision isn’t referring to his ability to modify his mass.

For the past 19 hours or so, the synthezoid has been aimlessly drifting throughout the Avengers compound, wishing that Mr. Stark had created him with an iota more of intellect, or faster processing capabilities. If only the inventor had possessed such foresight, or even had the thought to create an artificial mind dull enough to not realize the crushing weight of its own imbecilic decisions. It would have been a merciful act in light of the nauseating cocktail of guilt and regret now clouding Vision’s mind.

He could have prevented this.

He pauses his pacing (it was less pacing and more floating, like a deflated balloon, untethered) in front of a large picture window. He can see the tree-line well from here.

Mr. Stark was still with Colonel Rhodes at an undisclosed hospital. Tony had refused to even look at Vision. He only had eyes for his half-alive (or half-dead) friend, which Vision preferred, for numerous reasons, actually.

He has never felt like this before, never felt so utterly useless.

Wanda, soft and unyielding, admonishes him. You’ve fucked up, Vis.

What a sweet sort of pain, to hear her as though she is here with him. As though she is not locked up in the most high-security prison the United States’ military budget could afford.

He wonders when she became so irreplaceable to him that his supercomputer brain gained the ability to compulsively recreating her vocal patterns, filling in the words with what it thinks she would say. If she were here, right now, Vision would apologise. He would lay his heart out for her, he wouldn’t be able to resist the urge if he tried.

Unfortunately, there was no logic here from which he could formulate her response to his regret, only an unpredictable minefield of emotion.

Orange and pink clouds streak the sky, the sunset is deafeningly quiet.

Shooting Rhodes had been bad enough. Assuming the man survives... and Mr. Stark would settle for no less... well, Vision couldn’t imagine what he would do to show how remorseful he was, and he had no clue how to begin to compensate the man for the grievous injury he had suffered.

And then there was Wanda.

The only friend he had made thus far in his shockingly short life. She was the only person here who looked at him like he were her friend, as well. A mutual exchange of human affection that no one else at the Compound has been able to maintain as well as the Sokovian teen.

Teen... a teenager.

So often, she has the upper hand in their friendship. She has many more years of empathy and human relations under her belt than he has under his. He forgets. He forgets that she is just as young as he is, in many ways.

She continually surprises him with how much she seems to enjoy spending time with him, even recently seeking him out rather than waiting for him to come knocking on her door.

Will she do that now, invite him to watch her favorite sitcoms with her, or show him how to cook her favorite meals? He sincerely doubts it. Whatever trust they had once shared was surely severed, and Vision felt adrift in the world.

He can almost see them being apprehended, looking down at the grass where the field turned to forest. Mr. Barton was taken quietly. The experienced Avenger knew he had no chance against the SWAT team he faced. Similarly, the SWAT team knew what they were getting into -- Hawkeye’s arrows were deadly, yes, but with proper precautions, they were confident in their ability to lock him up, with or without his acquiescence.

The Scarlet Witch, however, was virtually unknown. The SWAT team had probably only been warned that she was a dangerous variable, that she had killed dozens with a flick of her wrist. They had surrounded her, a short, physically unintimidating teenager, with at least forty SHIELD agents.

The rest was difficult for him to see, flying as fast as he was. There had only been one flare of red sparks before she was being part dragged, part carried to the awaiting armored vehicle.

The two of them, himself and Mr. Stark, had only been able to land with the understanding that if they attempted to approach the train of departing vehicles they would meet the same fate as their fugitive friends.

After that, there wasn’t much left to do but leave. Their hands were tied.

Mr. Stark had promptly about-faced and made a beeline back to Colonel Rhodes’ side. His face betrayed no emotion as he flew away.

Later, he found out that Captain Rogers and the Winter Soldier had successfully escaped the airport. Ms. Romanov had disappeared, as well. Mr. Wilson and Mr. Lang were apprehended similarly to Clint and Wanda, and the four of them arrived at the Raft only a few hours ago. Everyone else was either in hiding or was protected by their signature on the Accords.

Vision floats, lost. Only a few feet above the floor, but not really in the room. He’s miles away, swimming in self-condemnation.

The sun has long since dipped below the tree-line.

A throat being cleared echoes through the room, and Vision turns from the window. He is greeted with a ruffled Mr. Stark, looking at him expectantly. The room’s only lighting comes from a high, bright moon above the clouds.

“There you are, Moonage Daydream. Thought maybe your processing was jostled at the airport.”

Mr. Stark shuffles awkwardly, and is still clearly uncomfortable to be in direct conversation with Vision. He appears to be on the verge of either bestowing a harsh lecture, or turning tail and retreating to his labs.

Vision shakes his head. “My hardware seems to be in excellent condition. I’m afraid I was only lost in thought. What can I help you with?”

Vision touches down to the floor and takes a few step sideways, perching on the La-Z-Boy that Ms. Romanov occasionally fell asleep on.

Tony makes no move to sit.

“We’re needed at the Raft.” With that, he begins to -- as Vision had predicted -- retreat.

“And why is that? Did they request both of us?” He stands, prepared to follow Stark. The question he wants most to ask sits dead in his chest.

Tony stops, turns back to Vision. His visible frustration melts away when he looks at Vision once more, seeing something in his face that causes his own to soften.

“I don’t have many details, either. Meet me on the jet in ten minutes, and I’ll do my best to fill us both in.”

Vision has nothing to get together for the short flight, so he waits in the hangar until Tony joins him, and they board together. Once they’re in the air and on course for the island, Tony pulls out what Vision believes to be a burner phone. He somewhat sarcastically waves it towards Vision, eyebrows raised.

“I got a call from a certain fugitive and his red-haired friend. They were attempting to jailbreak the rogue Avengers, but something is bad enough there that they’ve decided to risk their freedom to involve us.

Either this is a huge trap, or shit went seriously sideways at the Raft. I haven’t been able to make contact with the SHIELD agents there and I’m hesitant to ask nearby bases for any updates. Nat and Cap may be plotting to ambush us on arrival, but I’m more inclined to think this is a serious plea for backup. We don’t need to draw any unwanted attention to us or them.”

Tony finishes fiddling with some minor suit repairs, likely a task meant to keep his hands busy as he spoke. When he looks up, Vision can see how tired he looks, how much the splitting of the Avengers is weighing him down.

“As far as I see it,” Tony continues, “this is a truce. I don’t want to see anyone else hurt” he looks down at his hands again for that part, “because of these Accords. Until the end of this mission, you, me, Cap and Nat are on the same team, capisce?”

His eyes flick up to Vision.

“Capisce,” he confirms.

Tony turns his back and takes a seat in the pilot’s chair.

How is it possible for Vision to be dreading this more than his previous plans for the evening? Sure, an unending cycle of mental self flagellation is no barrel of monkeys, but the unknown of what might be waiting for them at the Raft is far worse.

Adding to the confusion, what could cause Natasha and Steve to call Tony of all people? They are on opposing sides of a political war, but it runs far deeper than that. The rift between them, between Tony and Steve especially, is a personal matter.

It’s clear that Tony has been thrown off balance, as well. He wasn’t exactly on steady footing to start with, and judging by the way he’s currently obsessively configuring and reconfiguring the jet’s flight path -- he’s a ball of anxious energy, and Vision doesn’t want to be in his way when he unravels.

The jet is quiet. The clouds now cover the once bright moon. The world is dark as Vision holds his breath and waits.

Chapter Text

The percolator bubbles and steams, the sound and smell of freshly brewed coffee slowly drifting through the sleepy Compound. Clint yawns and stretches tall, spatula high above his head. Hot oil sputters and splatters onto his Robin Hood tee. The kids had gotten it for him a few Christmases ago, and it’s already nearly worn through. Footsteps and softly spoken greetings echo down the hallways, and Clint smiles as he dishes up some blueberry pancakes for the two tired-looking Avengers entering the kitchen.

Sam and Scott finish their food quickly, with many compliments to the chef, and the three of them enjoy a quiet, content breakfast together. Compound staff members wander in and out, helping themselves to the excess of food Clint had made, or simply refilling their travel mugs with coffee. Soon enough, the visitors retreat, the food runs out, and Clint is once again alone in the kitchen.

It’s just another Wednesday morning.

___

Sam is standing in the absurdly elaborate entertainment center, sifting through Stark’s impressive DVD collection. It’s barely past noon, but he fully intends on using his day off to the fullest, which means parking his ass on that sofa ASAP and refusing to move until he gets hungry again. Thanks to Clint’s excellent breakfast, he gives himself an easy six hours of sluggish bonelessness to enjoy.

Movie days are a bit of a tradition in the Compound, saved for days when there’s truly nothing better to do. Most of the Compound’s residents are out of the country, working on a special promotional tour for the Avengers. The heavy hitters with the press -- Cap, Stark, and Nat -- were headliners, and pretty much everyone else tagged along, excited for a chance to promote the super group and to live it up like movie stars for a few weeks.

Now, those who remained in the Compound were those who volunteered to stay. Clint offered to do a couple of more intimate interviews to accompany the press junket, but opted out of the tour, wanting to keep his private life to himself and his family.

Sam stayed because he’s actually going to be a surprise guest at a big convention in Vegas near the middle of the tour. He has some new flying stunts he’s been working on, and offered to join later than everyone else. This gives the effect of not only making him seem like an expensive guest star, but is a practicality to ensure that he doesn’t eat concrete in front of the fans.

Scott wasn’t really an Avenger, so he wasn’t invited to join the tour. Sam doubts anyone would have stopped him from going (hell, even some kid that Stark mentors tagged along), but Scott seems perfectly content to stay instead at the Compound. He was also telling them over breakfast how his daughter, Cassie, was excited to visit this weekend.

And of course, there was the new recruit, but she was probably still sleeping. Training yesterday was fun, but hard on the kid.

Sam sinks into the sofa, on his favorite worn cushion. The opening credits begin to roll. He knows that soon enough, the rest of his friends will join him, lured in by popcorn and his excellent taste in films, and the theater will be noisy with poorly hushed commentary and bad inside jokes. Until then, he allows himself to bask in his alone time.

It’s just another Wednesday afternoon.

___

Wanda wakes to a flash of scarlet and fear. She’s breathing so erratically, tears still flowing down her cheeks... had she just woken from a nightmare?

She forces herself to breathe deeply, in and in and in until she is no longer seeing red. She sits up and stares in shock at her bedding, at the decorations on the walls. It’s her room in the Compound. In the Avengers’ Compound.

The Avengers. The Accords. The airport.

Wanda blinks a few times and tries to recall the dream she had woken from. But try as she might, it was gone, tendrils of her memory slipping through her fingers. The harder she tries to remember, the faster they flee.

Well, at least they were gone. She wipes the tears from her cheeks and clumsily pushes sweat-soaked hair back from her forehead.

Footfall thunders in her skull as she walks to her mirror. And when she looks at herself, she doesn’t recognize the girl looking back. Without her permission or even understanding, she again falls into a panic. Her eyes are locked with the creature inside.

This creature, it looks like Wanda, but more desperate, more dangerous. Its eyes are wild and strangely enough, as understanding as they are cold. They are also a deep crimson red.

In the mirror’s image, the room behind her shifts, begins to fracture like television static. It flickers, and in the areas where her reality falls away, a new one appears in its place.

Concrete walls, glass dividers. A shattered collar on the floor, still somehow blinking red.

From the cracks, Pietro appears. He moves like... well, quicksilver, flowing over top of the two discordant realities taking shape in the mirror. She had never remembered that many holes in his chest. He looks at her, but he is just an empty vessel. Her dear brother no longer resides there.

Her mirror image, its eyes are growing brighter, and its hair begins to lift off its shoulders as though lightning is about to strike down upon it.

The room is now almost entirely awash in sickly fluorescent lighting that makes the concrete walls look green.

She can hear, faintly, the sounds of her parents talking. They were chattering on about Sunday’s grocery list.

A key slid into a lock. She tastes bile on her tongue.

Straightjackets. Deafened. Hydra. Clint. Drugged. An explosion.

Dr. List snickers in her ear.

“Don’t die on us now sweetheart.”

Strucker sighs.

“If she’s dead, maybe the boy won’t be so... difficult.”

List’s breath is still hot on her neck.

“Oh, but she’s so much stronger. If you want one of them dead, take the boy.”

His voice stretches into a grin.

“I like this one.”

Icy hands grip the sides of Wanda’s face and she gasps, jerks her head up. The creature, it strokes her face with tears in its eyes. It releases her but leaves one hand extended through the glass and she takes it.

The hand pulls her in immediately, with inhuman strength. The glass cracks and cuts her, pulling red from deep within. But it doesn’t hurt, she doesn’t feel the warmth of blood or the cold of the creature’s hand. The static, the voices, everything fades into a delicious, inky darkness, and Wanda is submerged once again.

In the darkness, the creature weeps and winds itself around the sleeping girl.

Again. We have to try again.

How much longer can we keep doing this?

___

Wanda jerks awake, heart pounding. She’s breathing shallowly, her eyes are puffy.

She rolls over, curls up in fear, and ends up staring in surprise at the wall in front of her. It’s her bedroom in the Avenger’s Compound.

The creature waits, hidden. They’ve been doing this for hours.

It prays that this is the last time, that the new memories will stick.

Wanda blinks, swallows. And something crumbles.

Memories begin to trickle through. She stands up, shaking, as the memories burst through the barrier like a raging river.

Whatever it is that Wanda created, it’s breaking her. In this reality of her own creation, she’s the most difficult to mold.

And then there’s the creature in the mirror.

It’s crying, or laughing. Heartbroken, it grows colder each time this happens, taking the frozen bits of the girl. Trying to leave her warm again.

It pulls her into its embrace once more.

___

Wanda wakes to a flash of scarlet and fear. He cheeks are tacky from her tears. And for some reason, she tastes blood.

She sits up and stares in wonder at her bedding, at the decorations on the walls. It’s her room in the Avenger’s Compound.

Hadn’t she fallen asleep in the library last night? Someone must have taken pity on her and moved her into her bed. She smiles.

Wanda stretches tall once she emerges from her cocoon of blankets. She peers into her mirror.

The creature remains hidden, waits.

She sticks her tongue out, the source of the copper taste. Sure enough, a small part was bitten into. Some dream she woke up from, usually she sleeps lightly enough to wake up when Nat sneezes across the hall.

God, it’s way past morning, she slept like a log. The clock reads just past two. Training yesterday really must’ve wiped her out, she hasn’t slept like that since she used to pull all-nighters.

For as well-rested as she is, she’s still yawning as she gets dressed and ready for the day. Well, for what’s left of the day.

Before she heads to the kitchen for something to eat -- she’s fucking famished -- she gives herself a cursory once-over in the mirror.

The creature tenses. Now or never.

Wanda leans in, fogging the glass with her breath. She squints. Her hand reaches up.

Please. Don’t. Remember.

Please.

She smudges her eyeliner a little more.

Smiling wide, she leans back, bounces on the balls of her feet once, twice, and then exits the room.

It’s just another Wednesday. And she feels like it’s going to be a good one.

The creature sags.

Thank you. Thank you for not remembering.

I’ll hold onto the memories. Just please be happy.

Be happy enough for the both of us.

___

Scott is kneeling at a fuse box, using his phone flashlight to try and determine exactly which breaker tripped and caused the doors to the grounds to become jammed. He was looking forward to taking a walk before Sam inevitably talks him into watching movies for the rest of the evening. Unfortunately, Tony’s labeling system is total nonsense, and flipping breakers doesn’t seem to alter any electricity at all. Out of frustration, he even flipped the “Main Power” switch, only for it to have literally zero effect on the Compound. No AI telling him to knock it off, no staff members rushing over to herd him towards something less potentially destructive.

Damn it, he has a Master’s in Electrical Engineering and he’s finding it impossible to figure out the wiring in here. What was Stark thinking when he installed this system?

This whole day he had been in one of the labs, working on a couple of old pet projects. It had been great to just hunker down and get the old tinkering juices flowing. But now, he has an itch to figure out this puzzle. Sure, Tony’ll probably be ticked if Scott alters anything, but for now, he just wants to go outside.

He stands and has to pause, waiting for his sudden lightheadedness to leave, before he can start moving. Stark’s fuse box had been emotionally damaging, but it now seems that he’s developing a headache, too.

His intended destination is a couple of hallways away, a seldom-used electrical room he noted on the floor plan a few months ago. It’s so far out of the way of the main living spaces that he hasn’t yet had a chance to check it out. Apart from the parking garage, it actually might be the furthest room from the center of the Compound.

As he walks, his head starts to pound more intensely, and Scott stops to leans his shoulder on the wall. Maybe he underestimated his headache. If it gets any worse, he’ll be worried about the potential of being forced into an infirmary bed.

Something tells him that he needs to continue forward, so he pushes up and away from the wall. Before he can start moving, he hears footsteps from behind. They’re loud, echoing in the abandoned halls. Without the full crew in the building, it all feels... empty. Scott has never been able to place the feeling exactly, he doesn’t know if he even actually noticed it before right now.

But now... Now he can see that the walls in this part of the building are dismal concrete, cracked like cobwebs. There’s a poster, warning the reader about prisoner escapes, and there’s a small window way up high, barred with steel.

Further down the hallway, where the door to the electrical room should sit, is a wall. It shimmers like a refracting crystal, crackles with audible energy.

Something is wrong, this isn’t the Compound.

The footsteps stop, and he finds himself not wanting to turn around.

“Scott, what are you doing all the way over here?”

He turns, he can’t help it.

Wanda is looking at him with great concern. “You really don’t look well, what’s wrong?” She stands like she’s afraid of scaring him.

He doesn’t know what to say. What the hell can he say?! He squeezes out, “Oh, hey! You’re finally up. The uh, the doors they... well, the fuse boxes are nonsense, it’s like. It’s like this building isn’t actually using electricity... which sounds wild, I know.”

She doesn’t look like she’s rushing to say something, so he continues. “I’m on my way to the electrical room, had to stop for a bit of a breather. Monster of a headache coming in.”

He stops, backtracks for a second, “But, of course, I’m fine, really. I’m sure just lying down for a bit will be perfect. I told Sam I’d join him in the theater tonight, so you know I have to be in good shape for that.”

Wanda hasn’t moved still, but the her face had shifted as he was rambling. The concern she had shown earlier was gone, she looks... haggard.

“I’ve been talking too much, sorry kid,” he jokes, hoping to alleviate the weight in the air.

She doesn’t smile, she just stands there, in the middle of this dim hallway like she was carved there out of granite. The fluorescent between them flickers, and then dies, and the only light left is red spilling through the bar of the window he noticed earlier.

Scott can no longer see her face, but he’s fully unsettled by her total lack of movement. He can’t decide if she’s still like a statue or still like a predator, coiled to strike.

He takes a couple of steps towards her and starts to raise his hand to her shoulder. In the middle of the motion, in the blink of an eye, there’s a flash of scarlet.

Television static erupts, he feels like his eardrums should have ruptured within seconds. Wanda looks at him, eyes red, inhuman. She grasps his head tightly between her palms and squeezes.

“Do not ruin this for us. Do not go digging around the edges of this place.”

Their eyes are locked. This isn’t Wanda.

Scott jerks his head back in terror, falling on his ass. His prison jumpsuit does nothing to pad the fall.

“W- Wanda, please...” He didn’t know what else to call it, but he needs it to stop. It hurts him, whatever this creature is doing. It’s in his head.

It winds itself down onto the floor, stretches its face up to be level with his. Its eye shimmer with unshed tears.

“Shhhh, shhh, dear one. Go back to sleep.”

It sounds just like Wanda.

Scott is struck silent with fear, so with no further protest, the creature cups his head in its hand. Palm on his temple, it strokes his forehead with its thumb.

His hand flies up to get this creature off of him. Wanda jumps back, freeing her wrist from his grip.

“Scott...? You look very peaky, I’m going to help get you to the infirmary. Do you think you can stand? Can I help you?”

Oh. That’s right, he’s lying down. And Wanda, she looks fine, totally normal. Totally not dangerous.

Totally not an inhuman being of terror with an icy grip and soothing whisper.

He can see her face now, the light above his head isn’t broken, and it isn’t even a fluorescent bar -- it’s a fancy can light that’s identical to the lighting in the rest of the Compound. He can no longer hear static, and the wall at the end of the hallway is gone. The door to electrical is right there, why didn’t he see it before?

Scott’s beyond confused, but accepts her offered hand. She gently clasps his shoulder, and begins to guide him out of the hallway, back towards the bulk of the Compound. She’s looking intently at his face as they walk, clearly concerned for his well-being. Scott’s mobility is going downhill each second, but he still runs his hand along the wall as he walks.

The wall that is no longer concrete, but smooth, painted plaster.

___

“Got any queens?”

“You know damn well I do, bird brain.”

Sam hands over his three queens, and Clint smugly smacks down another book.

“You know, ‘bird brain’ fits you way better than it fits me. You’ve got the, y’know, wings. The flying.”

Sam levels a glare at him over his cards, and grumbles, “Give me back those threes you stole from me.”

“Fine, have your threes. I’ll win without ‘em.”

Sams eyes narrow as he drops the devastating blow.

“I also want your fives... and your aces.” He extends his hand out, palm up, anticipating sweet victory.

Clint blanches.

“Y’know... I used to admire you,” He hands Sam six more cards, and Sam promptly lays down three books.

They both know how this is going to end, and it isn’t looking good for Clint.

Sam holds his last card aloft. “Hand them over, and bask in my glory.” He flips his remaining card to show a ten of hearts, and collects his final book.

Clint’s head hangs low in defeat. Sam excuses himself for a victory lap and another round of drinks.

Go Fish has been keeping them surprisingly well occupied while they wait for Scott to get checked by medical team. He had looked like shit when the two of them, he and Wanda, had shuffled by the archery range on their way to the infirmary.

Who the... Who the fuck is that? Clint rushes to climb down from his perch. He scrambles to catch up with the hunched figures, recognizes them as Scott and Wanda, and proceeds to freak the fuck out. Of course, he doesn’t let them know that.

He asks them both, many, many times, what happened to them -- most importantly Scott, who looks like he has raging fever, all pale and sweaty.

From neither of them did he get a single response. Thankfully, the infirmary was close, so he didn’t have enough time to blow his lid at his clearly not-okay friends. Scott was quickly whisked away by nurses, and Clint took one look at Wanda and requested for her to be examined, too.

Now, finally, Wanda appears at the doors to the waiting room, nodding in understanding at the instructions a nurse was giving her.

Clint rushes over, can barely wait until the nurse leaves to see how she’s doing.

Wanda turns, gives him a grimace that he imagines was supposed to be a smile.

“Wanda -- are you okay?” He has a hard time concealing his worry, and his words come out more upset than gentle.

Her eyes look less vacant now.

“Oh, uh... sorry Clint. I think...” She trails off, and lifts a trembling hand into the air between them. “They cleared me to leave but I think I still feel some shock.”

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock,” he says, gentler this time. He quickly pulls a chair to where she’s standing, and she takes a heavy seat.

He takes off his jacket and drapes it tightly over her shoulders. He then crouches in front of her, and asks, gentler this time, “Wanda, what happened?”

Sam, with lucky timing, arrives holding coffee and stops short at the sight of Wanda. He quickly recovers and sets the coffee down in order to wrap her in a tight hug. He keeps it brief, not wanting to overwhelm her.

He joins Clint on the floor. If they weren’t both so worried, it would be funny, crowding around Wanda like kids waiting for a story.

Wanda must see the humour, though, as this time the small smile she gives them is genuine.

“I’m so sorry for worrying you. I didn’t sleep too well last night, and Scott gave me a good scare.”

She pauses and begins to pick at her cuticles, embarrassed.

“I think I also might have fainted. Don’t tell anyone, please.”

Sam and Clint look at each other, and then back to Wanda. They give her a chorus of, “No,” and, “We won’t” and, “No way.”

“Alright then,” she smiles again. “As for Scott, when I found him he was feverish, hallucinating about the walls and the lights. I was headed to the good showers, I think, when I saw him just standing there, in the hallway. I can’t remember why I was there, thinking back. I really should have eaten lunch first, I felt all light-headed.

He started talking to me, none of it made sense, and then he got all quiet and just stared. Then he suddenly dropped like a bag of stones, it was so scary, I thought he had died. I think that’s when I fainted.”

Wanda rubs a spot on the back of her head.

“He was able to get onto his feet pretty quickly after that, so I helped him walk, and well. Then you found us, Clint, and now here we are. Scott is set to be released tomorrow, I think. His fever has already broken, they just think it was a nasty flu.”

She narrows her eyes at her audience of two. “All I want right now is to eat some popcorn and watch one of your excellent movies, Sam. Deal?”

Sam stands and extends his hand to help her up.

“Deal.”

The three of them, after ducking into Scott’s room to wish him a quiet goodnight, head into the theater.

Wanda sits on the beanbag, her usual spot. She closes her eyes for a moment, relaxing. Relaxing until she hears shuffling next to her.

She cracks an eye open to see Clint setting up an extensive food and drink station next to her. Apple slices, toast, popcorn, water, juice, and a freaking bowl of soup.

“Clint.”

He freezes.

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“Why are you mothering me. I told you not to mother me.”

He finishes his place setting.

“I’m not mothering you. I’m a dad. This is what dads do.”

They share a look, one that says, “Thank you,” and, “Of course,” and he retreats to his spot on the couch.

Sam starts the movie only to pause it about five minutes in, spending another ten filling them in on the backstory.

Wanda is asleep no more than fifteen minutes later.

___

Okay.

Everything is okay. This is working.

The creature allows itself to celebrate now.

This is the furthest she’s ever gone. Only one reset, and that one wasn’t even her mind at stake. The others, they might need a brief reset here and there, but those are usually brief and painless.

Wanda has been a constant struggle. But now, the web she’s woven has finally began to weave itself around her, too.

Tomorrow will be a Thursday, and the creature is going to make sure it’s flawless.

Chapter Text

The Raft is an island on the East River. It’s not on an island, that must be emphasized. The massive building simply juts out of the water with far more confidence than any man-made structure ought to have. The only way out of the prison is into the freezing river below or into the heavily patrolled night sky. Tonight, however, the regular patrol of helicopters is nowhere to be seen. In fact, the waters are similarly devoid of their usual patrol boat traffic. Vision and Tony share a concerned look as the jet descends onto the roof.

The two climb out and onto the Raft. They make their way to the rooftop entrance, and Tony presses the intercom button next to the doors. Nothing. No awaiting voice, no static disruption. The system is dead.

Tony sighs and looks at Vision. “I’d bet the wiring got fried somehow. This place was built with a nearly endless power supply -- they’ve made sure of that.”

Then what could have done this?

They’re both thinking it. Neither of them ask it.

“Good news there,” Tony continues, “is that some of their doors are locked electronically.” He pushes the door open with ease.

Vision stares down into a pitch black stairwell. Tony, seeing or sensing his apprehension, sighs and heads back to the jet. He returns with two flashlights, clicks one on and hands the other to Vision, and heads down the stairs without a glance back at his companion. Vision, uncharacteristically slowly, turns his own light on and follows. In the doorway, he pauses to remove his shoes. He sticks them, one on top of the other, in the space between the door and the frame, propping it open. He feels awkward in his sweater and jean combo with now only sock feet, but hurries to catch up with Tony, who seems to have reached his limit of being alone with Vision.

They continue through the twists and turns of the seemingly empty halls, wordlessly growing more worried with every step they take further into the building. They should have seen something by now. They should have heard people.

The message on the burner phone directed them towards a suite in one of the officers’ living quarters. This residential area is the first section of the building where Tony and Vision have been able to turn off their flashlights. The hallways here are lit in faint red and blue. The red comes from blinking emergency indicators, and the blue is from small safety lights placed along the bottoms of the walls to light the walkways.

While they walk, Vision looks for any sign of the other Avengers. Captain Rogers and Natasha must have passed through here. And, of course, there are are also those who were arrested. Sam, Clint, Scott. Wanda.

Around every corner, Vision hopes to see her.

Without warning, Tony halts their brisk pace and Vision stumbles into his back. He quickly steps back, an apology on his lips. Something about their surroundings make him hesitate to break the silence.

Tony is tense with annoyance. He doesn’t even shoot Vision a look before he opens the door they’ve stopped in front of. A door with a very familiar number on it.

Vision hadn’t even realized they made it to the suite. He was too busy looking for traces of Wanda.

No wonder Tony is tense. He’s about to come face-to-face with the friends he thinks have deserted him.