(If anyone else watches GoT and has already seen the second episode of this season, feel free to come screaming at my inbox. Also, Civil War. Scream at my inbox about Civil War.)
Also I realised that I may or may not have a slight crush on Scarlet Witch myself, so thank you Elizabeth Olsen for making me consider the possibility of bisexuality? I guess.
WHATEVER-
CHAPTER XII
Nearing the Edge
(Alternatively: The Downwards Spiral of Angst.)
She finishes retching into the sink and grabs the cold hard edges, musing that her knuckles would probably be white, if it wasn't for all the red covering them.
There's so, so much blood, and she's used to that, to blood and guts and death and pain; it's oddly enough the smell of burnt hair that's upsetting her stomach, and she would laugh if her body wasn't threatening to give up on her. Burnt hair makes her think of Aidan, of anger and cruelty and him holding her hair in a death grip over the kitchen stove, of a sighing Malcolm and a hurried run to the hairdresser who bought the stories of a clumsy girl trying to lit the fireplace without tying her hair, who tried to console a crying Ash saying that 'short hair makes you look more refined anyways, hun' .
But burnt hair also makes her think of her mother, and that's why the hairdresser saw her crying, and that's why her stomach revolts at the scent.
Her mother is never good news.
Ash raises her head, stares at her reflection and bites her tongue to avoid screaming because what she sees are eyes that flicker between black and red and a too-wide smile filled with pointy teeth that barely part to let a bifid tongue through.
(There's a part of her, cold, clinical, that takes in her racing heart, her shortness of breath, the tingling on her arms, the pain in her chest, and concludes, detachedly, that she's having a panic attack.)
(The second in her life, after the first time her mother started pumping poison through her veins.)
She needs to get out of here. She needs to tear the dress away from her, to rub her skin red until the blood and grime and smell comes off, she need the gashes on her back to stop throbbing, she needs her arms to stop feeling leaden.
She needs to get out of here.
This place has too much darkness inside, too many dark whispers; what should be a safe place is now a prison and she doesn't want to get trapped inside, alone, terrified.
A quick knock on her door makes her tear her eyes from her reflection and she swallows a whine; a thousand ideas of what terrible creature could be behind the wood already formed, only to suddenly empty her brain upon hearing Wanda's voice.
"Ash? Tony came to my room and said you might need my help?"
Well, the part of the witch that tries to latch onto logic thinks, they don't call him a genius for nothing, after all.
And she wants to answer back, she really wants to, but her throat is dry and her tongue made of sandpaper and she makes the mistake of looking into the mirror again... except this time what she sees it's much worse.
It could be her, with the same soft features and steel eyes; it could be her... if it wasn't for the dark hair, for the near dead expression. Ash has always resented looking so much like her mother.
She closes her eyes, hard, and covers her face with her palms for good measure, anything, anything to put a barrier between herself and that terrible vision, and next thing she knows there are gentle hands prying her arms away, holding the sides of her face, asking what happened? And she still wants to answer Wanda but can only manage to shake her head.
The other girl is still talking, but Ash can't really understand her words, until-
"We need to get you clean, yes?"
Yes, she begs, yes, there's too much blood and she hates this dress, and then her eyes open wide when she watches Wanda go to her bathtub.
"Not here," the witch croaks, "I can't- I don't want to be here."
She expects to be asked more questions, but instead Wanda simply takes her by the hand and smuggles her across the hall and into her room, her bathroom, without anyone bothering them.
(Ash has never been particularly religious, but she thinks that if angels are real, then they must be like Wanda, warm and smart and so much more than what she deserves.)
Wanda helps her out of the terrible dress, muttering apologies every time it sticks to dried blood, and then turns towards the tub to leave the witch at least a semblance of privacy to take off her underwear by herself while she readies the bath.
When she's done, she crosses her arms over her chest, not because she's self-conscious about nudity- she never has been-, but because is the only thing she can think of to keep herself together.
Breathe, in, out, in, out...
For some time now she's noticed herself unravelling, her mind stretching, and she's not sure how much longer before she snaps, breaks, shatters in pieces.
In, out, in, out...
And she thanks whatever superior entity there is out there, because maybe it's not being alone, or not being in her room, or the bathtub filled to the brim with warm bubbles and the scent of lavender she's come to associate with Wanda, but the panic attack is fading now, and she feels a bit more like herself, a bit less like a hollow shell filled with nothing but poison and despair.
Ash lets Wanda help her into the tub, hissing as the water comes in contact with the wounds on her back, and sits there in silence while the other girl sits on the edge, right behind her head, and moves the mass of hair to inspect the gashes.
"They're not deep," Ash informs, "just ugly and sting a lot."
She can't see her but she's sure Wanda nods, "any other wounds that are as bad?"
"No," and then she recounts, because making lists calm her, "I've got a busted lip, bruised ribs and some scratches and bruises in general. Maybe my ankle's twisted, but nothing's broken as far as I can tell," she licks her lips, and then, lower, "and a bit of my hair got burnt."
"Okay," Wanda rummages around behind her, "this might sting," she warns, before setting to disinfecting the three long gashes- they look like they were made by claws- and she hoped Ash would at least hiss in discomfort, but she's completely still, completely silent.
"You okay?" Wanda asks, then she realises it's a bit of a dumb question, and adds, "with the sting?"
Ash laughs a bit, sort of shrugs with one shoulder, "I've had much worse, I can take much worse."
Wanda wills her heart not to break upon the conviction of the witch's voice in that truth. Just what exactly 'much worse' means to her? Instead of voicing her thoughts, she just finishes with her back and passes a sponge to the witch, who instantly starts scrubbing at her skin. If her movements seem a little slower and jerkier than usual, if every few movements her attention is back into cleaning her hands, Wanda ignores it and instead focuses on shampooing her thick hair.
For a while, they're both silent, until Wanda casually comments, "I've never see you wear black before."
She can tell how Ash's shoulders tense, the smallest sigh escapes her lips, and she halts her motions altogether- her skin is rubbed red at this point, anyways.
"I don't," and then she admits, "my mother wore black and I-" she sighs again," I hate wearing black."
She blows at the bubbles a bit, and Wanda rinses her hair, noticing how the water that runs is pink. She squishes more shampoo on her hand.
At some point, between the warmth and the gentle movements massaging her scalp, between a the sense of safety and the scent of lavender, something tight, coiled, begins to unwind inside of the witch, and she realises her friend hasn't asked anything, not really, and yeah, maybe she can't help the tears that sting at the corner of her eyes, and still...
"It was for the job," she confesses, and with that she can't stop herself, "it wasn't even supposed to be that hard, just... delicate. There was this guy and he wanted us to draw a contract for a group of, uh, fiends, think like really big, black, mantis, with knife-like edges all over. Well, they don't really speak any human language but were interested in learning more of this world and aren't really that aggressive, just... easy to offend.
So Malcolm was supposed to draw a contract, and I was supposed to act as a translator and the first few meetings were fine! Everything was in order and all parties were playing nice, and then-" she huffs, "then, right on the last meeting, before everything was signed, the stupid, stupid excuse of a man decided to press the things further because, heh, why not try and one-up a bunch of fiends at the last minute? Turns out, it doesn't matter they don't speak the language, they still get the general meaning of insults."
"What happened then?"
"Huge fight," she sighs, "bloody fight. There were... gunshots, and, and the screeching those things made, I just-" she swallows, puts her thoughts in order, "I've seen pretty messed up stuff. I've hurt people, killed people, I shouldn't be this affected, but it was- I mean... It was the first time I've seen Malcolm bleed."
"What happened to the guy?"
"Dead in the first two minutes. One of the fiends slashed his neck right through. And then attacked us. They're all dead, of course, you just, you don't make Malcolm bleed and expect nothing to happen. But it was so messy. I don't like messy."
With that, she falls silent again, and Wanda wonders if she should say something, and what could she say? Nothing, really, and knowing Ash doesn't mind silence, most times welcomes it, she rinses her hair one last time and start to apply conditioner.
And that's when she finds the burnt hair.
It's not too terrible, honestly, it's just a thick lock, behind her ear, that's been burnt to a length that doesn't quite reach her shoulder, it should be fine if she just cut the ends and it was easy to hide.
But... she does need more colour...
Twisting the hair in her finger, she opens her mouth to propose an idea- and that's when the door swings open.
Ash jumps slightly, making some water slosh out of the tub, and she doesn't have to crane her neck to see who intrudes, not when Wanda's suddenly yelling in very irritated Sokovian, when the same accent yells back, and the witch maybe buries herself a bit more into the bubbles, because if there's anyone who she doesn't want to see her like this, it's him.
The door closes again, and Wanda huffs, rinsing the conditioner out of the witch's hair.
"Sorry about that," she says, "my brother doesn't know boundaries sometimes."
Ash doesn't know if Wanda's referring to the fact that she's nude, in a bathtub- because that's ridiculous, it's not that big of a deal, and there are bubbles everywhere anyways-, or to the fact that she's hurt and vulnerable and pretty much cracked open.
She's pretty sure it's the second one.
"It's alright," Ash sort of shrugs again, letting Wanda start to untangle her hair with her fingers, "I know he means well."
"That, he does," Wanda chuckles, "he worries a lot, Pietro. I told him to make himself useful and go get some clothes for you."
"Thank you."
Once she's done with her hair- and has trimmed the burnt ends of that lock of hair-, Wanda leaves the witch alone in the bathroom, to allow her a minute or two of privacy while she gets her some underwear- because she's pretty sure that her brother keeps some boundaries intact, even in the frantic state he appeared to be.
She opens the door to her room, and runs face-first into her brother, who's peering over her into the empty bedroom with a bundle of clothes in his arms. Wanda sighs.
"What happened?" He asks in Sokovian, brows furrowing.
"Her job went awry."
"But what-?"
"You'll have to ask her yourself, Pietro," Wanda tries to step around him, but he doesn't let her, "stop hovering! You always did it to me, now you're doing it to her too!"
"But her back-"
"It looks worse than what it was. Listen," she put a hand on his shoulder, "I know you're worried, I know you care, but think if she really needs someone breathing down her neck right now."
He sighs, "you're right, it's just I-" he trails off, pushes the clothing into her arms, "I asked Natasha to get some underwear for Ash."
"Oh," that saved her a trip. And she had been right about certain boundaries.
"Let me know if she needs anything else?"
Wanda nods, and she's certain, at that point, that if she asked her brother for a square watermelon for the witch, he would actually run himself all the way to Japan and back.
Once again in her room, she closes the door behind her and sets the clothes on her bed, only to smile at the blue fabric. She briefly wonders if his brother realises how transparent he is.
"Wanda?"
"Yes?" She finishes putting on her pair of soft cotton shorts and looks at the witch. She tries to hide a smile.
"Is this-?" Ash gestures towards the blue hoodie that dwarfs her she's just put on, "is this your brother's?"
"Yes," Wanda replies, "I asked him to bring something comfortable, maybe I should have been clearer?"
The witch snorts, and stretches her arms in front of her, watching the way the sleeves cover her hands and some more, with a look between intrigued and distrustful, "well, as far as comfort goes, I suppose it is comfortable." And soft. And so incredibly warm.
As they push back the covers and climb into bed, Wanda briefly wonders if Ash realises how transparent her brother is.
She wakes up in a tangle, arms and legs draped over one another, nose pressed against smooth skin. She inhales lavender.
Even though she's woken up three times now, it's still dark; the only difference now is that she hasn't dragged Wanda from dreamland this time. Softly, she disentangles herself, trying not to wake her- she's probably earned a piece of heaven to herself now, comforting a crying, hysterical witch two times so far- and takes a minute to watch her.
Even sleeping she looks gentle. Ash know what she can do, she's seen her in action before; she's a force of nature if she wants to.
She just chooses to be kind.
She's wondered sometimes, before, like now, what would happen if she were to kiss her; sometimes, like now, she wants to. Something soft, and sweet, and easy; just pressing lips together.
(Every time, Ash gets a gut feeling that no, she shouldn't, and she doesn't want to anyways, not really.
At this point, she knows she loves Wanda, and yeah, she's beautiful, but it's not like that, they're not like that, and it's probably just her emotionally stunted heart trying to show affection and not really knowing how.)
Sighing, she gets off the bed in silence, her throat suddenly dry, and pads down the floor intent on going to the kitchen and drowning a couple glasses of water- and she stops when she opens the door.
She looks at the form of Pietro slumped against the wall, head lolled against the side- that must be uncomfortable-, softly snoring, and to the puppy sleeping soundly on his lap, who's also snoring.
The witch tries to close the door silently behind her, and winces when it creaks slightly, the noise rousing the dog, and the dog rousing the man, and he's suddenly blinking slowly, trying to focus, and she can't help but snort softly.
"There's a joke in here about guard dogs somewhere," she mutters.
"I don't know," he replies in between yawns, "you don't understand humour," and then he stops, and cranes his neck upwards, eyes on her, gaze suddenly awake and sharp.
Her throat feels drier.
She doesn't let him actually say anything, instead gestures towards the general direction of the kitchen, and starts walking without really waiting to see if he understood the message.
She doesn't turn around either when she hears his bare feet following her.
Inside the kitchen it's better, easier, it's known territory and she can put her thoughts in order there. They're still in silence when she starts to heat up water on the kettle, still silent when she tries to reach for the tea she's left on the cupboard- tries, because something, her ribs or her back or maybe both, throbs and makes her hiss, and he simply reaches with the hand not holding the dog and puts all the jars on the counter in front of her.
She wonders at exactly what point he started to know what she wants (needs?) before she says it. Five minutes after starting whatever Game they were playing before, probably.
Or maybe she's just become that transparent.
"So," she starts, while putting chamomile in a strainer, "what did you name that mutt?"
He huffs at her, "don't call him that," and distracts himself for a second scratching behind the ears of the once-again-sleepy dog, "Lucky."
"That's..." she adds the steaming water into her mug, "surprisingly cliché"
"Tony said that," he purses his lips, nods when the witch silently offers an empty mug, "but it fits him."
She can feel him practically buzzing with the need to ask her, she can tell, and that makes her appreciate even more his abstinence. So she decides to be nice, for once, to make things easier.
"The job went bad..." and with that, she takes a seat- not without cringing- and waits for him to sit opposite of her before telling him the rest of the story.
Afterwards, he's silent for a while, alternating between sipping from his mug and softly petting the sleeping dog he's put on the counter- Tony would have a fit if he found out, probably.
"I don't think I like what you do," he says, with a finality that sends a knife right through her heart.
"What part?" Her voice sounds sickly sweet and she does nothing to stop it, "the blood magic, the illegality, the cohorting with dark beings, the occasional murder-?"
And he's fast, she knows, but sometimes she forgets, and some other times she's suddenly reminded, like how now his fingers are abruptly under her jaw, tilting her head up, his thumb softly tapping against the skin next to her busted lip, and he sounds so, so sincere when he says "the part where you always get hurt."
It's too much.
She gets up, or tries to, because the sudden motion is too much for her and she stumbles and he's right there then, in her space, hands hovering over her shoulders, but he's not touching her and hey, maybe he finally discovered just what's her breaking point and is respecting it, the part of her mind that longs for sanity offers.
She straightens herself up. Crosses her arms tight. Tries to hold together the seams threatening to burst. And he's close, so close...
She allows herself a moment of vulnerability, letting her head fall forward, forehead against his chest. He tenses briefly, but doesn't put his arms around her. Neither she wants him to.
"I hate you," she mutters between tears, "sometimes, I really do hate you."
"Why?" He shouldn't sound so calm, he really shouldn't.
"Because," you get under my skin, "you make me like this," her voice is dripping poison and she's waiting for him to push her away, to run like hell because maybe it's not just her voice, maybe she is poison, but... he doesn't.
Instead, he allows her to simply take a step back, dry her tears with the back of her hand, and look at him cautiously.
His eyes are unending pools of quiet blue, sad, maybe, but not angry, not hurt.
"Do you want to go watch something?"
"I-what?" There's a moment of ire, of violence, because she just told him she hates him, she wants to push him, to claw inside his chest and grab his heart in her hands and squeeze to see if that makes him angry, but it passes, and leaves behind something dried and shallow.
Moments later, Ash finds herself on one end of the couch, Pietro on the other, Lucky sleeping soundly between them. They're far apart and she's hugging her knees, not really watching the movie he's put.
She considers how irrational this whole situation is.
She also considers how from the moment she pushed herself to the limits to save his life, she's been constantly irrational with him.
She's all delicate softness against sharp edges, Pietro thinks while she starts to drift, and maybe the sharp edges are starting to dig into her, at least. And she doesn't have to try and fix it all on her own, but she's not realising that.
This whole thing goes far behind getting hurt on a job, he realises, this whole thing has been probably brewing for some time, and just when had he first noticed the dark circles underneath her eyes? The trembling of her hands while she drank her morning coffee?
He should have confronted her at some point; he should have bribed Wanda into telling whatever she knew about the storm brewing behind the witch's eyes.
And yet... and yet, in between all the mess, the blood, the pain, the anger... still, he can't help but think that he had been right after all.
She does look much better in blue.
The next time she opens her eyes it's day time, and she's again all tangled up with Wanda's limbs, no recollection of having walked back there, but she doesn't really care. It's warm and the hoodie is soft against her skin; she's drained both emotionally and mentally.
And it's still not right, she's still not right... but maybe, eventually, she can figure this whole mess she's turned into, and she can be okay.
(Or, at least, the real catastrophe doesn't happen until a few days later, anyways.)
Remember when those first chapters made this story seem as something cute and lighthearted and Ash was occasionally having fun?
Ha. Ha ha ha ha.
(I'm so sorry you guys, the angst is still not over and I know this is shorter than usual, I just. I'm sorry.)