Flying lessons

Or: How to throw Captain America through a window, in 10 easy lessons

Summary: "Ready, Wanda? Just like we practiced."

The Captain has a fantastic idea: Teach Wanda Maximoff AKA the Scarlet Witch AKA The Weird Twin to control her powers so she can throw him to places he can't easily jump to. It'll be just like flying. What can possibly go wrong?

Better buckle up that cowl, Cap, it's going to be a wild ride.

(Set in the interlude between Avengers: Age of Ultron and Captain America: Civil War. No pairings, no slash)

Lesson One: It's mostly mental

I don't like American television. The plots and characters are ridiculous, the violence is over the top, and the fashions are hideous. But I watch it because it shows me, not who Americans are, but who they want to be, or who they think they are, or in some cases, who they are afraid they will become. For example, the show I am currently watching (bingeing on, according to Sam) is Fear the Walking Dead. It's right there in the title. It's useful to know what people fear.

I watch TV in my bedroom not because I wish to be anti-social, despite what Col. Rhodes says, but because I can take notes in peace, without Sam Wilson reading over my shoulder. If I were feeling anti-social I would close the door all the way. And maybe lock it too. With my fancy lock that closes from the inside instead of the outside. Not that it would keep Vision out.

I wish I had locked it when I hear a knock, and then the door swings open before I can answer. I turn my head away from the screen, saying "Vision, you have to wait for a—" and then I break off because it's not Vision standing (or floating, sometimes) there. Captain Rogers is leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, all bulgy muscles and confident body language. Despite myself, I sit up a little straighter. I'll never admit it to anyone, but I'm a bit intimidated by him.

"Captain," I greet him. He has told me to call him Steve, but I can't bring myself to do it. He's in charge, and I suspect that he's the reason I'm here instead of a place with the locks on the outside, so I want to make a good impression.

"What are you doing?" he asks casually.

"I'm learning."

"From that?" He squints at the screen just as someone gets shot in the head. Blood and brain matter go flying, and he recoils in disgust. "What is that?"

"Zombies," I say simply. He has distracted me and I don't know which character just got killed. I have to run it back so I can update my notes.

"Zombies?" he repeats, lip curled. "Like. . . Haitian voodoo?"

"I don't know anything about voodoo. They're just zombies."

"Disgusting. Are you. . . taking notes?" He pushes himself off the doorframe and comes into the room to crane over my shoulder.

"Yes," I say curtly, closing the notebook quickly before he can read my notes. I may have written a few observations about fear and certain members of the team that I don't want him to read. "I have a lot to learn about American culture." I point the remote at the screen to run it back, but he takes it out of my hand and turns the TV off.

"Trust me, it's pointless. You can't learn anything worthwhile from this garbage, I've tried."

I hold out my hand for the remote, but he pulls it back out of my reach. "I have an idea," he says. There is a twinkle in his eye and his lip is quirked up in a playful grin. I like to see him smile because it's so rare, but this makes me nervous.

"What's the idea?" I ask warily.

"You can move things with your mind, right?"

"Sort of. . ." is my careful response. This feels dangerous already.

"Vision says you're coming along nicely in your practice sessions."

"Well," I hedge. "I can throw a pillow without breaking anything." I don't add that the room is padded, so the pillows bounce harmlessly off the walls. My one attempt to throw a book ended with shredded paper flying all around the room.

"Good! How about if you move me?"

I squint at him. "Move you how?"

He stretches his arm out, hand flat and angled upward like an airplane taking off. "Throw me, you know, up high. Places I can't jump to. It'll be like flying."

Now I'm shaking my head. This is a very bad idea. Everything I have practiced with so far as an Avenger has been soft. Unbreakable. Unlike the captain's bones, enhanced as they may be. "I can't do that."

"Wanda, you wanted to be useful. Well, this would be useful." He looms over me, and the hopeful expression on his face reminds me of Pietro, how excited he got on the rare occasions when he was allowed to run. But I have to dash those hopes.

"Captain, I can't control it. Every time I throw something, it gets destroyed. I assume you don't want me to throw you into the wall and break you into pieces."

"You just need practice. You can do this! It'll be aces!"

I give him a blank look. "Aces?"

"Swell," he clarifies, but this does nothing for me either.

"Um. . . cool?"

"Ah."

"So will you do it? Please?" He's practically bouncing on his toes with anticipation.

Every fiber in my body wants desperately to say no, but how can I resist such enthusiasm? Besides, if the Captain thinks I can do it, then maybe I can. I sigh. "Ok."

"Ok? You'll do it?" His face splits in an excited grin.

"I'll try."

His grin widens, and then he says in a goofy voice, "Do or do not; there is no try!"

I have no idea what he is talking about, and my expression must show it, because his smile fades.

"Yoda?" he says, head cocked. "Star Wars?"

When I shake my head with a shrug, he lets out an amused snort. "I finally get a chance to use a movie quote, and you don't even know it."

"What does it mean?"

"Never mind. Six a.m. in practice room 3."

"Six a.m.?!" I say incredulously, but I'm talking to myself because he has already bounded out of the room, calling "Rhodey, hey Rhodey GUESS WHAT?!"

I sigh again as I turn the TV back on. I need to find out who died. Not because I really care about the character, mind you. It's just research.

I get to practice room 3-one of the smaller rooms, with a high ceiling and padding on the floor and walls-at 6:05 the next morning to find the Captain already there. He's doing windsprints, just to fill the time, I guess. It's not like he needs to work out; he just seems to like it, which is disconcerting. Who actually likes to run? Well, I can think of one person, but I don't want to dwell on that right now. I'm feeling grumpy enough as it is.

He pauses in front of me, hands on his hips and a grin on his face. He's not even winded. Who can be that chipper and energetic at six in the morning?

"Hey, Wanda, I wasn't sure you were going to show up."

"I promised, so I'm here," I reply with a shrug. He's barefoot, wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and suddenly I feel overdressed in my usual boots and jacket. "Maybe I should have worn workout clothes."

He dismisses my concerns with a good-natured shake of his head. "Don't worry about it. Your workout will be mostly mental," he says, tapping his temple. "Just try to move me a little."

"I really don't have that much control," I warn him, but he doesn't seem concerned.

"Come on, just a little."

I take a deep breath. "Fine." Closing my eyes, I reach inside and visualize the doorway that leads to the Chaos. Emotion is what has always unlocked that door and released the magic. Fear. Rage. Grief. But I am afraid to use it on the captain because the effect is too strong. If I fling him with the amount of force I used on the pillows and book, he will end up shredded as well. I will have to see if I can open the door without emotion.

Very carefully, I pull on the handle, but the door stays shut. The second pull also gains me nothing. A bubble of frustration rises in my chest, and the third time the door yields to my hand, opens just a crack. Filaments of bright red light sneak through, sliding like thin, agile snakes. So slippery and fast. I try to catch them and shape them, but they slide through my fingers and are gone. I open my eyes to find the captain watching me expectantly.

"Sorry," I mutter. "I'll try again." I reach inside again, but again the door remains closed until I am frustrated, and then it gives just a crack. The emotions are necessary for the door to open, just as I already thought. I will never be able to access the Chaos when I'm completely calm.

A thin red string of light snakes through and I catch it, shape it into a ball in my hands. Opening my eyes, I aim carefully at the center of his chest.

"Ready?" I ask, but before he can respond, the Chaos escapes my grasp and the red light shoots out. The bolt catches him in the stomach and knocks him backward several meters, where he lands on his backside with a thump.

"I'm sorry!" I cry. "It slipped!"

But he is already on his feet again, eyes sparkling. "Don't apologize. I'm fine. That was great!"

"I don't think you want me to knock you down."

"No, but you were able to move me! We just need to work on control." He stands in front of me again, shoulders squared, knees and elbows bent. "I want to go UP."

"I am aware of the direction you wish to move."

He has that expectant look again, so I close my eyes with a sigh. Concentrate. But not too much, because the harder I concentrate, the further the door opens. Emotion is necessary, but I must control it.

The emotion I feel this time is my old familiar friend anxiety. I must control it, but I am worried I cannot, which creates a positive feedback loop. With my stomach in knots I visualize the door. It swings open a crack and the red filaments slip through. I can feel them racing down my arms and through my fingertips. I catch them, roll them around in my hands.

This time as I release the coiled ball of Chaos, I flick my fingertips upward. The red filaments grab the captain and toss him up into the air almost a meter, like a puppet. Too much! I dial it back, then instinctively use my fear to summon another filament to catch him when he starts to fall. His arms flail awkwardly and he lands with another thump on his hands and knees.

Again he pops up and bounces on the balls of his feet with a huge grin. "You did it!"

I did? I suppose I did, but I don't share his enthusiasm. My anxiety is too thick; I feel like I am being strangled.

"Come on, do it again!" he encourages me. He points to the ceiling. "Higher this time."

"I can throw you higher," I say grimly. "But I have no control. I might slam you into the wall or ceiling."

"I can take it," he replies confidently, hands flung out to the sides. "Bring it on!"

Frustration and anxiety jockey for position on the way to the door this time, and I have no trouble opening it enough to allow the Chaos through. I toss him up into the air, nearly two meters this time. At the apex he lets out a shout—I think he is hurt, but the expression on his face is pure joy.

I shoot another bolt and catch him clumsily, but better this time—he lands on his feet with a cry of triumph. "That was awesome!" he shouts. "Do it again!"

So I do it again, and again, and again, over and over until my jaw aches from grinding my teeth. After nearly twenty throws, I am exhausted, but he is clearly just getting started.

"Let's try for some lateral movement," he exclaims in excitement.

"Lateral. . . movement?" I falter.

"Yeah! Throw me over there!" He flings his arm out exuberantly to his left. Right. Lateral movement. I've done that before, but I've never been worried about where the thing I was throwing landed, or even if it landed. Things have been known to explode, which is why I only use the Chaos on my enemies.

"You can do it, Wanda!" the captain says, eyes shining.

I squeeze my eyes shut and channel my anxiety toward the door, keeping a careful lid on the intensity. The Chaos slides down my arms. I flick my fingers and red ropes shoot out to toss him into the air. A second later I motion to my right; as soon as I let it go I realize it's too much force. His back arches as he is whipped to the side.

"Shit," I mutter under my breath. The next bolt catches his leg and interrupts his momentum, sends him tumbling toward the ground. "Shit shit shit shit. . ."

At the last second he tucks, rolls, and pops up onto his feet with an enormous grin on his face. "Did you see that?!" he cries.

"Yes. I was standing right here," I deadpan.

"That was FUN!"

"I'm glad one of us is having fun," I grumble, but I can't help the little smile that tugs at my mouth. His excitement is contagious.

"Do that again!" he shouts, like an overstimulated toddler.

After five more tosses—up, to the side, catch (or occasionally, miss), repeat—my arms are trembling and my head is pounding, not from the exertion, but from holding back. Finally the captain waves me off just as I'm preparing for another strike.

"Ok, that's enough for today," he says, voice still as perky as ever, even though he has been repeatedly slammed against nearly every surface in the room. I'm annoyed to discover that he still has energy to spare. "That's a great workout. I'm starved! Let's go get some breakfast."

I'm thirsty and almost limp from fatigue, but I wouldn't say I was hungry. In fact I feel faintly nauseated. But I'm not going to say no to taking a break. I nod my consent, too tired to speak, and the captain slaps me on the shoulder (oof!) and leads the way to the stairs, scooping up his hoodie on the way. I dutifully trudge up the steps, which he takes two at a time. At least he's kind enough to wait for me at the top.

In the kitchen I go straight to the coffee pot while he starts in fixing himself "breakfast", which turns out to be five pieces of toast covered in disgusting bright orange cheese. While the cheese is melting in the toaster oven, he pours himself a huge glass of milk and stuffs his hoodie pockets full of granola bars. On the way to the table, he snags an apple and two bananas one-handed from the bowl on the counter, with his plate and glass balanced in the other hand. He has left toast crumbs scattered from one end of the counter to the other, but he doesn't seem to notice. No wonder Natasha always complains about the kitchen being a mess.

I sit and sip my coffee, watching him skeptically while he quickly downs four pieces of toast and an entire banana. He is so focused on the task that he doesn't even look up until he has taken the last bite of the banana, and only then does he seem to notice that I'm not eating anything.

"Oh. . . sorry, do you want a piece of toast?" he asks, pushing the plate my direction. The cheese has solidified into a rubbery bright orange mass with a plasticky sheen on top. I feel my gorge rising.

"No thank you," I say, pushing the plate back to him.

He shrugs and takes a bite of toast. "Banana?" he asks through a full mouth. He holds one out and I take it with a nod of thanks. Fresh fruit still feels like a luxury for me, after years of bland, tasteless rations.

He polishes off the toast in only two more bites, then swallows hard and says, "Need some calories after a workout like that. You should eat some protein."

"For me it was mostly mental," I respond, holding up my cup of coffee.

He chuckles. "Right." He brushes the crumbs from his hands off onto his sweats. "So tomorrow morning let's work some more on that lateral movement."

"I can't control it." My tone is whiny, but I can't help it.

"You can't control it yet," he chides me gently. "You can learn. Same time, same place."

I groan. "All right."

"That's the spirit! Well, I'm off to watch Sam fly around the gym." He gets up and heads out, leaving his plate on the table. I take my cup to the sink, throw away my banana peel, then look around at the mess and decide it's not my problem. Why should I clean up after him? I'm not his mother.

I hear heels clicking on the stairs. Only one person in this place wears shoes like that, and she's not exactly someone I want to find me standing in the middle of a messy kitchen. I hustle out before she enters. As I quietly sneak up the stairs to my room, I hear Natasha's raised voice. "Argh! Who left this mess?! And what happened to all the milk?!"

Chapter 2 coming soon: Why Captain America hates the cowl

Author's note: I kind of did my own take on Scarlet Witch's powers in this story, because the movies don't exactly explain them, and the comics' version is, frankly, convoluted and self-contradictory, according to my "research" (a few google searches—I haven't actually read the comics). If you want to write me a review telling me all the ways I'm wrong, feel free!