AN: Basically this was inspired by the beauty of the fic that is "Paradise" by TheLostMaximoff. Read it immediately after finishing this. I have always been a huge Pietro sympathizer but his portrayal of Wanda sparked me to want to write something with the both of the twins. The italicized quotes are from the lyrical genius that is Spencer Krug, no copyright infringement intended. Ditto to Marvel and their characters.
Also, I have a WatXM website now, which is linked on my authors page... maybe come see it? / her shameless self promotion.
Winged/Wicked Things
By: kelly1
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If I found you in this city and called it Paradise, I'd say, "I love you but I hate this city and I'm no prize." You want to walk around like you own the joint the way that Icarus thought he might own the sky. I said, "You can't settle down until the Icarus in your blood drowns."
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Wanda Maximoff drew a delicate line through the sentence she had written moments before, agonizing over eliminating it with as much effort as it had taken to write it down at all. She chided herself; this whole idea was an exercise in futility. Her older brother didn't remain in one place long enough to receive mail.
She curved his freedom expansively around in her mind: the excitement, the edge, the uncertainty. Everything in Genosha was planned out for her, every day the same. The arrival of the German mutant had provided a brief moment of relief, but even that light was snuffed out for her as too dangerous. However, the encounter had changed her perspective, allowed her -- no, forced her, to look at their father's plan through new eyes. Just a small pinprick in her faith, enough to wonder if the news of Pietro she received was the truth or careful misinformation. She missed him vehemently.
Communication with him would have been patchy at best with his work with the Brotherhood, even if she had been trying. She hadn't been, of course. A year had passed since they last spoke, since the conception of Genosha had forced them apart. She had been convinced at the time that she had never wanted to see him again. He was a monster, needlessly violent toward humankind in a misguided attempt for mutant superiority; a poster boy for the dangers of hubris; a threat to their cause with his vigilante actions. Her father had convinced her that he was being unnecessarily dangerous, acting on his own volitions, that he would be a threat to all mutant kind with his extremist examples. And yet...
It wasn't too long ago that those extremist examples, those dangerous ideals had been her father's. Oh, Pietro had been the golden child then, the favourite, and she had been relegated to the outcast position, scorned for her lack of dedication to the cause. The cause. How he would rail: the need for homo superior to rise against their sapiens predecessors, a precedent set by their treatment of homo neanderthalensis, the natural progression of the species. And Pietro, so righteous and so condescending by his side. Exalted.
It had been so easy to be smug when the tables had turned.
Of course, even if she knew where her brother was, there was still only a small chance that whatever she had written would reach him. Though the majority of the mutant population on Genosha were unaware, all communications -- email, phone, post -- were monitored, censored, and often terminated by one of Magneto's divisions. At the time, it had seemed a move for the best, it prevented dissention, it allowed them to flush out those who were unenlightened. Now she was trapped by it.
Her father had promised that she would have carte blanche with her communications. It had seemed unimportant at the time, she was cutting her ties to the outside world when she had moved here, but it had still been comforting to know; a gesture of good faith. She thought of the only email she had sent in her entire time here, to Pietro, a week after his expulsion from Genosha, after he had made no attempt to contact her. She had apologized. She had asked him to come join them, that she was sure she could make Magnus understand. For all his flaws, for all their disagreements and petty jockeying for number one position under their father, he was still her brother, her twin. She wanted him to be a part of her life, and to be a part of his. She loved him.
Of course, he hadn't replied, a typical Pietro move. He was the most stubborn of the siblings and wouldn't concede his anger until he decided he was ready, even in the face of an apology. She had brushed it off. Now she doubted if he received it at all.
As the well known daughter of Magneto, finding black market mail avenues had proven difficult. Despite how subtle they had attempted to be with detaining the undesirables, people knew who she was, what might happen to them. No one had wanted to be involved lest it was some sort of set up.
She carefully rewrote the line she had crossed out.
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Unravelling heavenward, it saddles two tiny birds or other such winged things: either way they are struggling; either way they are miniature; either way they're invisible; but either way they're confused as hell would have them. Their pattern of flight is chaotic and blind but its right cause chaos is yours and it's mine. And chaos is luck and like love and love blind. Confusion lies in which of the wicked things you lie with.
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"Maximoff, are you ready to do this or not?" Domino was crouched to his left, their target, a Kelly sympathizer and MRD desk jockey, locked in her scope half a mile to the east, enjoying a glass of wine on his penthouse balcony. It was a simple bag, tag and, since he was feeling magnanimous tonight in light of the anniversary of his injustice, release. A scare and a reminder that no one who so openly opposed mutant kind would be allowed to feel safe. They sure as hell were never allowed to. "What is wrong with you tonight?"
This was one of the reasons he hated working with women -- they were too perceptive of "feelings" and "emotions" and other unimportant bullshit. She was right of course. A brain as overcharged as Pietro's had a nagging habit for remembering dates - fine in terms of birthdays and important events, not so advantageous in terms of life shattering anniversaries. The day he was ostracized from the walls of Genosha, for example.
Magneto had forgiven him to a point. He was allowed contact, given the dirty but essential work of securing the safety of the colony and mutants from the outside human world, but there would be no prodigal son reception were he to return. Wanda was the favourite. She always had been.
Pietro had fought, clawed his way to the top. He had always done what was necessary, rose to their father's fanatical rants on the need for homo superior to prevail years ago. He made the hard decisions, while Wanda was allowed to sit back, to not buy in. Had Pietro done that he would have be shunned by Magnus long before now, but she remained privy to all they were doing. And when Genosha was realized... he rewarded her. Her! And then, the salt in the wound, Pietro was punished for upholding the exact ideals that Magnus had force fed him.
He did not want to blame her. To be honest, he missed her desperately. Wanda was the real reason the anniversary stung. It had been the last time he had spoke to her. He tried not to picture her face on that final encounter, so disappointed in him, so secure in her position next to their father.
'Your sister does not wish to speak with you Pietro.' The booming patronizing voice of their father echoing in his head. He had tried to talk to her the day after, to explain that he was only doing what Magneto had asked of him all these years. Pietro was not the violent monster she thought he was, that she told him he was with her eyes that day. She wouldn't even reject him herself.
And so he had emailed. Once a week for the last fifty-two weeks, though he always told himself after each one if she didn't respond he wouldn't write her again. Of course, she hadn't replied, a typical Wanda move. She was the most stubborn of the siblings and wouldn't concede her anger until she decided she was ready, even in the face of an apology. He had hoped, on this bitter anniversary, that he would have at least received something in return. Even bald malice would be better than this silence from her. She was his twin.
"The only thing wrong with me tonight is my annoyance toward second in commands who'd rather shoot the shit than their target," he commented dryly. "I've been ready for ages; let's get this show on the road Thurman."
Just one more email tonight... and if she didn't respond he wouldn't write her again. He mentally rolled his eyes at how extraordinarily pathetic he was. Really.
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