Summary:
Captain America observes and reflects upon two of his teammates as they say goodbye forever again to the only father they had ever known. An elaboration of actual events in Avengers #187; highly recommended reading.
Disclaimer:
Follows a work of fanfiction intended for entertainment purposes only, the creation and publication of which earns its author no monetary profit. All recognizable characters and referenced canonical events are property of Marvel Comics Incorporated. Or Disney, whatever. Or Fox. I absolutely cannot keep track.
OUTSIDE LOOKING IN
He was mindful of how he watched them. He had resolved many years ago to be mindful of how he watched them, for their sakes, and for different reasons – one of the first things he learned getting to know these two, that even if the outcome were identical with them it was almost always for different reasons.
Stunning as she was, Wanda had grown used to men watching her – it registered numbly like routine pressure on a thick callus, and she just catalogued the male originator of such unwanted attention as one of Those Types and carried on. She noticed Steve watching her once, only he isn't one of Those Types and wasn't looking at her like that. He didn't flinch or blink away like one of Those Types might, but chopped two fingers from his brow in acknowledgement to her as she held his gaze right where she had found it. He could tell she was less familiar with being casually regarded as an equal and sexless peer. He could tell she mentally flipped through all the existing headers to file him under, unsure. Leader? Comrade? Friend? He hoped she did not glean what really went through his mind: she's so powerful, more than any number of them combined, and she doesn't even know it. A loaded pistol with a bright orange safety cap, the kind no one expects to ever explode or hurt anybody. He hoped every day that it wasn't just a matter of time. Of course her brother saw that whole exchange but said nothing; he had already sized Steve up and catalogued him separately just the same.
And Pietro; he didn't like being analyzed, especially if you got him right. Over time Steve gathered hints of how Magneto used to treat them in the Brotherhood, his relentless endeavor to drive the siblings apart and pit them against themselves. The gym in particular was always sacred ground for Pietro; exercising his mutant abilities being the only avenue of release he had from the infuriating restrictions that comprised mundane daily life. He was a rocket launcher at a watergun fight, whose physical training in the Avengers consisted primarily of how not to kill someone by touching them at Mach 3. Naturally this had been where Magneto focused the brunt of his 'training', applying the most control the one place Pietro needed the most release just to function without going mad. Deep in the throes of this ritualistic exertion, he honed in on Steve watching him there sometimes, spellbound by the display of limitless vigor and wrath and drive, and locking eyes would come to a rare halt. Steve saw through the speedster's practiced facade of cool resolution, the one perfected after years of Magneto looking at him like a means to an end, like property – Steve saw through to the sad raw truth: that Pietro felt more comfortable being regarded as an unfeeling tool than as a friend.
Now the twins knelt side by side before the altar of their father's lifeless body, remaining in that position for some time. They had straightened the old man's limbs and clothes and hair to afford him as much dignity as possible while lying dead and unceremonious on the damp ground in the middle of this forsaken nowhere. From his vantage behind, Steve couldn't see if they wept or rested or conversed or waited for some new sorcery to kick in and bring Django back to life again. Of all things in these crazy superhero lives, why can't death at least be simple? Why can't it be easier than having to say goodbye forever twice to the only father you ever knew and barely remember?
Maybe they remembered more than they admitted. Maybe as Wanda tucked herself into the nook of Pietro's shoulder and he folded his arm around her, they reminisced over happy stories of the loving family who raised them. Maybe they did have more to mourn than the absence of fond childhood memories. Maybe the Mountain really is cursed.
Eventually they stood up, languid as if their joints had stiffened beyond the years of their lives in that time, and finally separated. Wanda stood sentinel over their father's corpse while Pietro approached where their companions milled more or less awkwardly about, partially waiting and thoroughly helpless.
Captain America didn't mill about, awkwardly or otherwise. He beckoned Pietro closer with an outstretched arm that the mutant never did seem to know how to react to, so Steve always placed hand on shoulder and squeezed, letting him know the exchange wasn't over yet, because normal pauses in conversation could be tricky not to misinterpret at super speed.
"It's all right." Pietro said in a low voice, "She's just very tired," of course referring to Wanda's wellbeing under the assumption anyone would share that concern foremost. His grey eyes were reddened and unsteady and staring a thousand miles too far in any direction. "I am very tired," he admitted, raising a hand to rub his brow, still bruised a sickly shade of blue on one side although the accompanying gash had long since crusted over. As soon as his eyes shut, Steve took stock again of his other injuries. The mutant looked exactly like someone who had fallen off a cliff and been dragged through the woods and not slept for days before waging psychic battle against a demonic entity to free his sister's hostage soul and stood now working up the nerve to do something about his father's dead body. All in a day's work – yet people wonder why nervous breakdowns are commonplace in their line of work.
"Listen, the jet came down pretty hard – Hank said we have a while yet before it's through the checklist and back up to specs. Why don't you two take a little more time?"
"Oh. Well, no, that's not necessary. I mean-" his hand migrated to rubbing the back of his neck. Steve had noticed he wasn't standing up quite straight – if it were possible to buy stock in chiropractic medicine, the Avengers should really look into it. "We already decided to leave him here." Pietro winced. "That sounded terrible. What I meant is; we would like to lay him to rest here." His thousand mile stare made its way around the parameter of the clearing where their supernatural skirmish had come to its end, lingering where Django's poor heart gave out. "These forests were his home. Our home. We think this is as good a place as any. God… IcannotpossiblysaythisworsenowonderthatWandakeepscrying." He lowered his hand in a fist and took a measured breath – Steve recognized this as Quicksilver Body Language for reining his powers under control – when dealing with Pietro, 'powers' being mostly synonymous with 'emotions'. The mutant's voice ploughed more forcefully through weary pain, "The village proper would not seem to suit him, and there is no sense moving him elsewhere. Our happiest days were spent apart in remote woods just like this. He would be content here in the peace and quiet."
"I think you're right." Don't pry, don't emote – all of that just drives him away, especially at times like this. Steve gestured beyond the other man's shoulder and offered the only comfort that would be welcome, "Let's check in with Wanda, eh?"
Pietro nodded, blinked, came to, and appeared to wonder in that moment what exactly he was even doing away from her to being with. Steve knew: he was being a dutiful soldier who had assessed the situation and owed his captain a field report. He tapped the mutant's shoulder -like drumming on wrought iron draped with suede- and let go. They joined Wanda where she had remained, her face bone dry and an off color. Seeing this activity, the rest of the team gathered closer around, unspeaking. Soon Bova arrived with a blanket brought from her cottage nearby. Steve took it from her when no one else seemed to register the purpose and knelt to drape the fabric over the old man's frail form. Before covering his face creased with a thousand hardships and cares, he twisted around to see the twins. They had found each other again, side to side and arms entwined. They looked terrible – dirty, rough, hollow. Steve consciously subdued the rising urge to just up and take them home right then – technically, they were home. Braced together plagued by what he imagined were familiar maladies for them back then -exhaustion and hunger and heartbreak- maybe they even felt at home.
"Is it time?"
"Yes," replied Pietro at once – but Wanda flinched, and Steve did not miss it.
"Wanda," at the word, she sank a little further into her brother's embrace, "this doesn't have to happen right now."
"No. I know – but no. He is gone, Captain. Please, just…" she freed a hand to wave in a hurrying motion before wrapping it across her brother's center.
"Okay." She wouldn't make eye contact, she probably couldn't bear to, and he wondered what the probability was of Pietro's ribs snapping if she held on like that much longer. He unfurled the blanket over Django's head. "Goodnight, mister."
After a moment of silence he stood up and turned to face the twins. "Well. Do you have any… traditions?" Suddenly he felt a lot like a thoroughbred American in rural Europe. 'Roma' culture, the culture they had been raised in, was foreign to him and close to a total mystery. He had made a friendly effort to retain what little either of them revealed over the years, but that amounted to little enough and included exactly zero information regarding funeral practices. "Uhm. Is there anything either of you want to say, or special customs, or… is there something we should do for him?" It didn't help that they became visibly more and more upset as he spoke.
In barely a whisper that might have come from either or both of them, "I do not remember," and then in succession their heads bowed, the weight of nothingness settling down heavy and hard.
Without another word, Steve set about to help bury not the father his friends knew and lost, but the father they could have had yet in living memory never knew. He didn't need to signal the other Avengers to come and give a hand – they just did.
~fin~