To Pietro Maximoff, life happens in slow motion.
He forces himself to move as though he is stuck in molasses, placing one foot in front of the other in seconds that seem to take years. He thinks about it constantly, consciously.
To some, the world passes by in a blur. To him, it drags on and on and on.
but memories always come back
It always happens when he's stopped concentrating. For a single, infinitesimal second, when he stops the drumbeat of slow slow slow inside his head, when he allows his feet to twitch, his heartbeat to race, and adrenaline to fill his veins, his nightmare is real again.
He should have known that it was too good a feeling to last.
Pietro takes six steps in two seconds, and then he can't breathe. Hands fly to his chest, he tries to cough but he can't, and his fingers fumble at the pocket that contains the picture. the picture
The world shifts, moving faster than he's ever experienced, and he's sitting.
Sitting in chair. Elbows on wooden table. Hands folded.
He cracks open an eye. Wanda is praying.
we thank you for this food
He squeezes both eyes tightly shut. He knows what happens next.
He's on the floor. His shoulder aches. His body is wrapped around a warm mass. His back is pressed against a bed spring. Everything is still.
wanda
He cracks open an eye.
Sunbeams make paths through clouds of dust. Where a window once allowed a trickle of sunshine to filter into the building, light now floods in through a gaping hole.
He blinks. Dust in everywhere. His hair is white with it, it clouds his eyelashes and he feels it gritty on the floor. He realizes the warm mass is Wanda, and thinks the still means they are alright, before he hears.
Wanda is still praying.
As dust settles, he sees red in the rocks where the table was. Red on Mama's gray skirt. Red on Da's best brown shoes. Red dripping in his own eyes.
Red lettering, not a foot away from his nose.
STARK INDUSTRIES.
He doesn't dare breathe.
His eyes have memorized the scroll of the letters, the spacing, the way the dust settling over the U resembles a halo when viewed through the haze. Wanda has stopped praying, and her hand is tight against his.
Is it an angel, a miracle? Pietro doesn't know, doesn't care. After hearing screams all afternoon and into the night, he wonders if there is such a thing as angels or miracles. He wonders if the universe is playing some cruel joke. He wonders how much time has passed.
The rubble and dust and carnage floats in and out of his vision, but the red letters don't move. They are printed on the backs of his eyelids and tattooed on his retinas.
Wanda's arm shifts against his stomach. He wonders what it's like to breathe.
And suddenly, he can. The world returns just as quickly as it changed, and Pietro's chest rises. Falls. Rises. Falls.
The picture is in his hand. Crumpled. Wrinkled. Torn. Dusty. He looks at it for less than a second, yet gazes at it for what seems like eternity.
wanda goodbye
Pietro pushes away the mantra. He pushes away Sokovia. He pushes away Stark Industries. He pushes away the dusty sunlight and cement and blood. He pushes away limits.
He runs.
He collides.
He stops.
He breathes.
He jerks.
He falls.
He sleeps.