Hi all! Minor spoilers for the beginning of Civil War are in order. I haven't seen the movie yet, but I've read a fuckton of spoilers and part of the junior novelization. Steve/Wanda are my first love, but I've recently discovered a soft spot for these two and I think they have a really interesting dynamic that I was itching to explore a little more. Hope you enjoy!
The morning sun is just starting to color the black sky as Wanda steps into the gym at the Avengers Compound. She's made a habit of coming here during this time of day, as it seems to be the only time the place is really quiet. Of course, no one on the team is a particularly heavy sleeper so they'll all likely wake within the hour – except for Steve, who's already set out for his daily run.
Beginning her routine as she always does, she warms up her hands with slow turns of her wrists and extensions of her fingers. She paces back and forth across the mat, focusing on her upper body as she rolls her shoulders up to her ears and back.
Then, with a steady breath, she conjures up her first spark of energy. She holds the scarlet force between her hands, just letting it hover there for a bit as she continues her warm up exercises.
When she's ready, she closes her eyes and wills her mind to let itself become distracted. The hope is that when she brings herself back, the energy will still be contained safely within her grasp and not engulfing the entire room.
As her thoughts wander from one trivial thing to the next, slowly pulling her from the present, she does her best to maintain just enough presence of mind to keep her control. She allows herself to stop registering the sound of the mat compressing underneath her feet, but not the feeling of her fingers tensing and relaxing in front of her. It's all about balance.
But then, her mind lands where it always seems to land lately… at a café in Lagos.
A disease center, a suicide bomber, and an explosion she couldn't stop.
When her eyes fly open, she's alarmed to see that the sphere of energy has doubled in size and has started to trail its way up her arms. A terrifying thought flickers in her mind – the thought that if she doesn't interfere, it will just keep spreading until it's wrapped itself around completely. It would be so easy to let it consume her.
But instead, she reigns it in. Only when it's made its way back to where she can see and control it does she let the mist dissolve into the air.
With a shaky breath, Wanda presses her palms together and squeezes hard enough to feel her racing pulse. She's just starting to count the beats of her heart when a voice breaks her concentration.
"You're holding back."
If Bucky is surprised at the way his interruption startles her, he doesn't show it. His expression remains as neutral as it has been throughout the past few days he's been here. No hint of curiosity in his tone or his body language, but there he stands in the entryway, as if waiting for a response.
So, she gives him one.
"That's the point," she explains.
Bucky seems puzzled by this, but doesn't comment.
Wanda studies him for a moment, contemplating her next move. It's silly, but she's reminded of a time many years ago when a stray German Shepherd stumbled upon her and Pietro's shelter in Sokovia. It was a vicious thing, and it had good reason to be, but Wanda simply stretched out an open hand and the animal let her stroke its chin.
Gently, Wanda asks, "What do you know about me?"
Bucky considers this for a moment, and she gets the sense that he's deciding how much he should tell her.
"I know what Steve's told me," he answers with a shrug.
"And what is that, exactly?" she pushes.
Another shrug.
"Mostly your capabilities. Telekinesis. Mental manipulation. Levitation," Bucky stops the list there. He takes a deep breath, then: "And that you're one HYDRA's pets, like me."
Wanda tears her gaze away from him, blinking rapidly as buried memories flood her mind. She's been so focused lately on her future as an Avenger that it makes her villainous past seem like such a long time ago – like it was another life, really.
Bucky's use of the present tense gives her reason to suspect that he doesn't quite feel the same way about his.
She shifts her attention back to where he still stands in the entranceway. It's then that she notices the position of his body. He's angled in such a way that his right side is pushed further ahead than his left, allowing him to conceal his metal arm in the shadow of the hallway. She wonders if that had been a conscious choice he made, or if it's become such a habit to hide the reminder of past crimes – those he's committed and those committed against him – that he doesn't even notice he's done it. She has a feeling it's the latter.
"Were," Wanda argues, for his benefit as much as hers. "Not anymore."
He takes a minute to digest that.
"No, I suppose not," he says slowly, as if he still doesn't quite believe it.
Wanda finds herself itching to ask more about the past he shares with her, but it doesn't feel like quite the right time. Someday, perhaps. Someday when they've had more time to cope with it all – when he's feeling less like a weapon and she's feeling less like a wild force that needs to be contained.
But for now, she won't push. She'll give him space and let him make the first move if he wants to go there.
Returning to her routine, she turns to make her way over to the line of punching bags on the other side of the gym. As she begins wrapping her hands, she keeps waiting for the sound of his footsteps pitter-pattering down the hallway, but it never comes. A quick glance over her shoulder confirms that he hasn't left – in fact, he's slowly crossing the threshold.
She finds herself feeling relieved, but continues with her practice before jumping back into conversation. She can hear him wandering around the gym behind her as she performs her jabs and kicks on the bag, but focuses most of her attention on keeping her powers in check. She knows she could destroy the thing without even moving a muscle, and the temptation to do so is always strong during training sessions. She's been getting better at resisting it, though. Whenever her hands begin to glow, she's quick to smother the smoke.
"It's because of what happened in Lagos, isn't it?" Bucky asks from behind her, breaking her concentration.
A sigh escapes her, and she reaches out to still the swinging bag. The relief she had felt at his presence suddenly starts to dim, and she realizes that¬ perhaps she wasn't trying to give him space as much as she was trying to distance herself.
"Rogers told you about that, too, huh?" she asks over her shoulder.
"He said you've been struggling with it," Bucky replies, a hint of interest in his tone.
Wanda gives one last resounding punch, and then turns toward him. He's much closer to her than before – so close that she can see just how dark the bags under his eyes are and that there's a gash on his forehead partially hidden behind a tuft of hair.
His eyes are what catches her attention the most, though. There's something about the way he's looking at her that makes her trust him enough to open herself up.
"I'm not a stranger to casualties," she starts to explain as she unwraps the cotton from her hands. "But I can't stop replaying that moment in my head… over and over and over again, it loops."
Bucky flinches a bit at her admission, his right arm reaching up to squeeze his opposite shoulder. Wanda gets the sense that he is familiar with the feeling.
"Eleven people died because of me that day," she continues. It's the first time she's said the number out loud, and it feels strange to hear it in her own voice instead of through television speakers. In a whisper, she repeats: "Eleven."
Bucky's lips tighten, as if he's trying to stop himself from speaking, but the effort proves to be futile.
"At least you know how many people you've killed," he says. His tone is overwhelmingly bitter, but there's also a soft underlying sadness that she's not sure he means for her to hear. She finds that her heart starts to ache in sympathy for him as much as it aches for herself.
"That is true," she agrees, hesitating for a moment before she admits, "but I don't know how many I will."
His face softens, a mirror of her own compassion.
She keeps going because it feels good to say all of this out loud without feeling like she's being judged for it. "I don't know just how much destruction I am truly capable of. If I lose control again… if I make one wrong move…"
Bucky's eyes drop to her hands as she raises them into air between them, a cloud of energy shooting up from her palms.
"If I don't learn to control this…" she trails off again, transfixed by the sight of her own hands and the power they yield.
Her vision blurs from tears that she hadn't noticed forming, and for a moment all she can see is red – until a bit of silver breaks into view. She blinks until she's seeing clearly again, and when she does, her breath catches in her throat.
Bucky's placed his metal hand in the middle of the cloud.
For a moment, he just holds it there. She imagines he's adjusting to the sensation. Then, he starts sweeping his hand from left to right. It must feel similar to trying to clap underwater, and it takes some effort, but eventually the cloud evaporates.
When it's gone, Bucky draws his hand back to his side and meets her gaze. There's an expression on his face that Wanda can only describe as sheepish, and she finds it rather endearing.
"Thank you," she says then, because she feels it's important for her to say and for him to hear.
And Bucky smiles.
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