Cassandra sat on the porch steps, arms wrapped around her torso as they rested in her lap, knees elevated with her feet braced against the second step from the bottom. Her eyes followed the children lazily as they ran around the thick grasses in front of the house. She'd played tag with them for the last hour, but she was exhausted now. Head a lead weight, she fought to focus on them, blinking slowly.
It was a calm, gentle morning. Birds chirped faintly from the trees surrounding the property. A soft breeze wisped through the covered porch every so often to lighten the load of the warm sun. The peace of it all was taunting her, daring her to let her eyes close and soak it in, to let the soothing sway carry her to sleep. She could almost do it. Her eyelids were so heavy.
Then, movement caught her eye. She turned her head, the appearance of legs forcing her to crane her neck, and she squinted to see. It was Clint. "Hey, you got a minute?" he asked.
Instinctively, she made a pfft, and loosely shrugged. "I'm on break so—knock yourself out."
"Come with me."
Clint walked down the steps and rounded the corner, following the length of the porch. Cassandra sighed heavily. She'd hoped he would simply sit here. There was barely any strength in her body, let alone in her legs. But she pried her own arms away from her body and reached for the railing before pulling herself up. Her frame swayed just slightly, but she blinked hard, and took a step. Cooper and Lila continued running, chasing each other with squeals and shouts. Oblivious to their disappearing audience.
Cassandra followed Clint just around the side of the house. He'd slowed there, waiting for her to catch up, continuing only when she'd reached him. "Look...I know this isn't the best time, and this might make it worse, but I'm hoping it does the opposite," he made eye contact as they walked together, nearing the elderly barn. "I should've done this a long time ago. I guess I was just waiting for the right time."
"Am I finally getting a pony?" she dryly mused, eliciting a chuckle from him.
He shook his head. "Not quite."
Clint opened the mandoor of the barn and stepped inside. Cassandra followed with a curiously raised brow, careful not to trip on the high lip of the door frame. Dust particles danced through the thin rays of sun that spilled into the cracked planks of wood that held the barn together. An old tractor sat parked not far from the door. Clint walked past it, traveling to the left, deeper inside. He went straight to a cluttered workbench six feet behind the tractor.
Cassandra eased her way through the barn, but perked up at the sight of a beat-up file box on the workbench. Clint turned to face her now, demeanor colored in anxious anticipation and apprehension alike, and Cassandra was more confused than ever. "What's in the box?" she asked, ruefully, as though the answer might be physically harmful.
He stepped aside and lifted a hand in a gesture as she approached. "Open it."
It was beginning to drive her just a little bit insane, the not-knowing of it all. She arrived at the workbench with tense shoulders, colored in a shade of apprehension all her own, and she glanced up at Clint. He tipped his head toward the box in a brief gesture and she sighed. "If this blows something in my face, I'm going to punch yours," she warned, lightheartedly.
"I wouldn't blame you."
She reached both hands toward the box, slipping her fingers below the lip of the lid on either side, and shimmied it upward. It was stiff, making a sharp sound, like it'd been stuck to the box itself. But when it finally came off, the contents were revealed, and Cassandra sucked in a sharp breath. There was an array of items within the confines of the cardboard. Papers, notepads, and pens stacked on the left with miscellaneous knick-knacks and dirtied packets of flower seeds. A combination of children's and adult books in the center, a small and withered photo album on top.
On the right, a folded blanket square and a stuffed toad. An involuntary gasp escaped her and her eyes shot straight to Clint's in a panicked jolt. "What is this?" her voice trembled through the question.
"When I turned eighteen, the house became legally mine. Mom's will was mostly informal...she only really had one in case dad did something," Clint explained, folding his arms as he leaned back against the workbench. "I took what was written down and put it in boxes. This is the stuff she wanted you to have."
She turned her head to stare into the box but her expression remained the same. Eyes rounded, lips pulled thin, nostrils flared through a shaky exhale. Her veins ran cold, placing the lid beside the box on the workbench—stare never leaving the worn, once-glossy plastic eyes of the stuffed toad. "And that?" she tipped her head in a small nod toward the toy.
Clint shrugged. "It was yours, so I put it in the box."
The toad had once been a symbol of safety. She'd wrap her small, delicate arms around it and squeeze, applying pressure until her fear dissipated and sleep took her for the night—or whichever came first. Every day, every place she went, she carried that stuffed toad. It was her best friend, confidant, and comforter. However, she was five years old the last time she saw that cotton-stuffed toy. October eighth, nineteen ninety-two. The date was burned into her brain like a haphazard brand.
After all, it was the day her mother died. Or, as she'd learned in recent months, murdered. She remembered that morning, running a high temperature and being allowed to stay home from school. While her mother had things to do during that day, she would periodically make a point to sit with her, check in, and spend some time with her. She watched cartoons with her while Cassandra was camped on the living room couch. Her tiny frame was wrapped in a quilt, the blanket folded inside the box draped across her lap, with the toad snuggled in under her arm.
Those were the last positive memories she held of her mother. Now, she reached into the box, slowly clutching the stuffed animal with her fingers, and carefully lifted it out. It was much lighter than she remembered. The toad had pouches of beads in its feet and backside, but they weren't any heavier than the stuffing anymore. She gave it an experimental squeeze. An image of the toad in its youthful glory filtered into her vision then, the toy left behind on the couch as she left the house.
Cassandra paused. Why was she leaving the house? Why was the angle of the image so off? It was far too high for it to be from her eyes, but it was her memory. She was carried, she realized—out to the car in her mother's arms, the image ending as the front door of their house closed behind them. But once that image faded away, another took its place, and they started coming to her in quick blips.
Scenes moved quickly through her vision as faint, garbled sounds accompanied them. They were faded and mumbled and sounded like they came from the other end of a broken radio. Pressure pushed at the space between her eyes. She could see the backs of the front seats, the top half of the windshield. The sky was faintly blue, fighting off the gray from the morning rain. And then it all vanished, draining into itself like an old television set being turned off.
"Cass, you okay? Cass? What's wrong?"
Clint was a half-step away from grabbing for her shoulder and shaking her senseless, his voice breaking the loop of images. She blinked rapidly and tossed the toad back into the box, before reaching up and rubbing the heels of her hands into her closed eyes. "I'm fine," she forced the words out, throat uncomfortably dry. "Sorry, I just- I was remembering some things."
A small exhale of relief flushed through Clint, shoulders relaxing. "Don't scare me like that. I was about to start using you as a kickboxing dummy," he said, tone lightheartedly and gently humored.
She huffed a small chuckle instinctively, and sniffled as she let her hands fall to her sides. "It's been a long time since I last saw this stuff."
"Twenty years this October," he nodded a little. Then, it hit him. He'd almost forgotten the reason he decided to give her the box today. So he reached back and grasped the stapled papers, loosely folded and stuffed into the waist of his jeans. "I, uh...I feel like you should have this, too."
Cassandra's eyes moved toward him cautiously, anxious for what he might be giving her next. But she relaxed at the sight of paper. "What is it?" she asked the question as she took them from his hand. The papers bounced open and a sea of black letters came into view. Although, one in particular caught her eye at the top—deed.
"It's the house. I didn't know she left it to me...we both thought it was going to Barney, but- it was me. He didn't take it well. In all honesty, that's the fight we didn't come back from," Clint spoke candidly.
Cassandra stared up at him with rounded eyes. She hadn't known just what broke them apart and caused them to stop speaking so long ago. But this reasoning did make sense. Barney was almost closer to their mother than she was. He was also the oldest. It was only natural to assume that would be something left to him in the will. Cassandra wondered, for a brief moment, why she'd chosen Clint instead. Did she think he would be more responsible with it? Was it simply favoritism?
Then, it clicked. Clint had said he wanted her to have it as he'd held it out. There was a swirl of something vague but uncomfortable in her chest as the paper felt heavy in her hands. "I can't take this," she shook her head quickly, shoving the paperwork back toward him.
But he held up a hand to block them, eyebrows knitting slightly in confusion. "Why not?"
"She wanted you to have it, Clint," anxiety mingled with an urgency she wasn't sure had a certain origin. It was the strongest emotion she'd felt all day—something gripping her spine and telling her to run. It was uncertain just what she feared more. The thought of possessing her childhood home or being forced to come clean about her parentage. "I can't take it—I won't. I shouldn't have it."
Clint took back the papers only to stop her attempts to shove them at him, pushing him to take them by force. Once her hands were free, she turned on her heels and started walking, moving quickly toward the still-open mandoor. Behind her, she could feel the cold hand of terror on her back, guiding her forward. But Clint wasn't simply confused now—he was concerned. "Cass, come on," he called after her.
She continued through the mandoor without a glance back, and he tossed the papers onto the workbench before starting forward. He all but jogged toward the door and slipped through, eyes quick to find her as she was almost to the side of the house. "Cass, stop!" he called. "What's so wrong about you having the house?"
The hand on her back eased as exasperation turned her on her feet, whirling her to face him with a lump in her throat, eyes threatening to fill, and words tumbled from her lips like water breaking through a dam. "Because I'm not your sister!"
Clint was a few feet away but he paused, squinting against the sun. Had she really said what it looked like she said? Did he read the movements correctly? He couldn't possibly have. Something had to be wrong—there was a mistake somewhere. "What?" was all he could say.
Cassandra's lungs were burning and her hands trembled violently through the signs, the corners of her eyes maintaining a stick as she struggled to swallow. "Mom stepped out on dad, probably more than once—and I don't fucking blame her," her admission came out shakily, but it felt like an exhalation. Like she'd finally let that held breath go. "But she did, and that's how I got here. How else would I end up being the only mutant in the family?"
He leaned back on his heels as the words were formed, and reality was starting to sink in. No, not sink—dig. It tunneled into his chest and carved a path straight to his cardiac muscle. The mixture of realization and hurt was like acid against the vital tissue and it burned. "How long have you known?" he asked quietly, defeated.
Heat seared down her cheek as Cassandra answered, "A few months."
"Months?" Clint's eyebrows elevated with shock. "When were you going to tell me?"
"I don't know," she confessed, with a shake of her head.
"Were you going to tell me?"
"I don't know."
The answer was a realization within herself that ached. It wasn't surprising, but it was painful to hear out loud. She'd been so scared to say anything at all for fear she might lose what family she had left, that she hadn't thought she could lose them in keeping it from them—either outcome was utterly terrifying and gut-wrenchingly lonely. "Cass…" Clint took steps forward. "You're still my sister. Did they teach you anything at that fancy mutant school? We have the same mom. No one liked our old man anyway. It's good you're not related to him. You lucked out."
His voice was achingly soft, restrained in its calmness as he fought to keep his own composure. There were things he needed to feel. Things he needed to work out within his own mind. But he couldn't stand still and keep silent. Cassandra was in fact still his biological sister, even if just by a mother—and so much more. He loved her dearly, and he knew he didn't want her to think otherwise, regardless of his own emotional turmoil. The revelation was understandably difficult for everyone involved.
It was to be expected. Even still, they both feared the same drastic and horrific ending to it. He stood a foot away from her now and he tried desperately to convey that fear through his features, pleading with her to understand that it was mutual, that this was not enough to push him so far away. "You're not angry that I didn't tell you?" she hiccuped, both cheeks streamed with glistening warmth now.
"Yeah, I wish I knew sooner. But I understand why you kept it to yourself. You've been going through so much, Cass."
She shook her head slowly, "I'm so sorry."
"It's okay."
A rush flooded through her with relief. It was overpowered, strong enough to bring a tremble to her muscles in its wake, and it was visible. Her feet shuffled in the dirt and Clint moved forward, pulling her against his chest as his arms wrapped around her frame—and she cried into his flannel as she struggled to reciprocate against the weakness of her limbs.
After dinner, she carried the file box full of small things from her mother to her room. She'd nudged the door open and closed with her foot before dropping the box on the bed. With the lid on it once again, she didn't care to look inside. Instead, she shuffled into the bathroom, and ran hot water in the shower. That was the problem with old houses—it was always cold. There was an ever-present chill in every room despite the best efforts of heaters and fireplaces.
Cassandra grew accustomed to sweaters and thick socks growing up. The house had been old and settled when she was a girl. She wondered, for a moment, just what it looked like now. Had it settled further, begun to visibly slope? Was it in a state of disrepair from a lack of attention? No one had lived within its walls in nearly twenty years. Surely, it was worse for wear. Her mind drifted to the garden as she peeled away her clothes, folding them haphazardly in a small stack on the counter.
Edith had spent a lot of time on her garden. It was her favorite task, her favorite place to be. She would take Cassandra outside with her, as a small child, and let her play in vacant dirt while she harvested, watered, and pruned. Maybe that was it? Cassandra had wondered why she liked flowers or even plants in general. There was no shortage of either growing up. Maybe she simply took after her mother in that way? Or, perhaps, her fondness for gardening came packaged in a nostalgic attachment of Edith?
When she stepped into the shower, the warm water was a shock to her chilled skin, but it was more than welcome. She tipped her head forward and allowed it to pour over her features. This kind of reflection was always so exhausting. Remembering, wondering, feeling. It took so much of her strength, draining her mentally to the point of frustration. She'd been drained so much already, what with the situations at the school. Now all she could think about was the man she loved, hopelessly lost and gone from her life forever, and the mother she lost too soon.
It weighed heavily on her shoulders, pinching the muscles where they met her neck, and her temples held a dull ache. She took deep breaths, leaning back from under the stream as she attempted to relax. Though, it was fairly in vain. She tried to busy herself, then, with washing up and rinsing. Trying to keep herself focused on a task unrelated to the subjects haunting her. It helped for the brief moments she spent on them. However, the second the water was turned off, her mind was racing again.
She loosed a heavy huff of exhausted annoyance. It was a never-ending stream of thought, little blips of things taking turns at the forefront, as she dried off and dressed for the night. Her bare feet took to the cold wood of the bedroom floor, pattering groggily toward the bed. What she needed desperately was sleep. All else would be easier to bear, she knew, if she could rest one more night.
The box remained on the right side of the bed, perched on the corner near the foot of it. Cassandra climbed into the left side beneath the quilt and reached up a hand to pull the bedside lamp's chain. Then, in a second, she was taken by slumber. It was so thick, so strong, that it whisked her away faster than she'd ever fallen asleep before.
There was a brief moment of dark nothingness. It almost felt as though she could reach out into it. She wouldn't see herself, but she would feel herself reaching, grasping for something invisible. The darkness was quick to change, thrusting an image before her eyes. Backs of seats, the top half of a windshield, a gray-blue sky. Her heart began to pound as the trees faded past the window to her right in a line. It hadn't just returned in its stillness—it was moving.
Her eyes looked down to find her legs, feet dangling off the bench seat, skin covered by purple pajamas. They were thick, soft. She could feel the fabric on her arms. It was warm in the backseat, but she knew from memory that was her high temperature. She was sick. Though, that was all she had. There was no cough, no sore throat, or even a stuffy nose. Her ears could pick up the garbled sounds of a quiet radio from the front.
Hands on the steering wheel were her mother's. She could feel an urgency bubbling up in her chest as she opened her mouth to call to her—but no sound escaped. Somehow, deep in the pit of her stomach, she knew why. She hadn't spoken to her on the car ride that day. She'd sat in the back quietly, watching the trees, unfocused. The only contact she'd had with her was her sporadic glances in the rear-view mirror, making sure Cassandra was still lively.
Then, she saw it—a gnarled tree a few feet from the road. It's odd branches climbed bare toward the sky, and she recognized it. Barney had told her it was struck by lightning the year before. But the image delved deeper, calling to something at the back of her mind. She could feel it getting closer, a sense of deja vu threatening to overwhelm her as it approached, until it finally smacked her between the eyes.
It was familiar only for the sake of her recurring night terror. Only a second after the realization hit, her body was lurched with an incredible force. Finally, she made a sound, but only a sharp gasp of utter surprise. The right side of her head connected with the glass, impact and splinters cutting into her skin, and her vision swirled—but so did her body. It felt like the whole world was spinning.
Her vision was nothing but gray-blue, cold wetness soaking into the fabric at her back. Despite her disorientation, adrenaline and terror spiked through her, and she fought to push herself up. Her fingers dug into the wet grasses on either side of her as she lifted her head. There it was—the tree. It was above her right side, those bare branches looming over her, spinning along with everything else. Warmth contrasted the cold against her skin and she reached for her face.
The space where she'd connected with the window ached and throbbed, pulsating and worsening with every passing second. She could feel something hot and wet, sticky on her fingers. As she retracted her hands to look, they were covered in crimson red. Her hands were doubled in her vision, sending red to every corner of her line of sight, and her heart was in her throat. Then the image shifted. She could see a car on the side of the road, smoke billowing from the dented hood.
But the road was empty. There was no other car in sight. With rows of trees on either side, she knew from memory they were too far from town to be noticed yet. Another shift—she saw the gray-blue once more, something soft blocking the view from her right eye as she reclined. Still, what she could see pulsated, her body bounced lightly. She was being carried. By whom, she had no idea. She'd assumed a first responder, maybe someone that found the accident.
A voice rang into her ear, unmistakably masculine, with a familiar gruffness that sent a rushing chill along her spine. Cassandra was thrust into consciousness, sucking in a harsh breath as she sprung upright, a hand racing toward her head instinctively. But there was no injury. No blood. No voice. "Logan?" the name trembled from her lips in a whisper, her eyebrows knitted tightly. Though, her whole body lurched as a deep, somewhat muted sound rang into her ears.
Her eyes darted around the darkened room in search of the source, the only light being the faintest blue glow from the window. The world outside was just beginning to wake up. Birds chirped, echoing through the glass, and it aggravated her already frayed nerves. The noise needed to stop before she snapped. She splayed her hands atop the quilt and felt around quickly, vibration traveling along the mattress—and her fingers hit something hard. A cell phone.
She'd forgotten she left it on the bed the night before. With shaking hands, her fingers stumbling over themselves, she answered the phone call that erupted the device so early in the morning without checking the caller ID. "Hello?"
"Hi, I'm looking for Cassandra Barton?"
It was a female voice, steady but with a hint of nervous uncertainty. Cassandra scrubbed a hand over her closed eyes. "That's me," she replied. "Who is this?"
"I'm sorry- my name is Jane Foster, I'm- well, it's kind of an interesting story. I saw you on the news, and-"
"Wait, Jane Foster? Thor's Jane Foster?" Cassandra asked for clarification, eyes snapping wide. Her fingers absentmindedly poked at the right side of her head, the patch of skin she'd once seen bleed.
Jane was quick to respond. "Yes! Yes, that's me."
"How did you get my number?"
"I have a...technically savvy friend who helped me find contact information," Jane explained it swiftly, before moving on to a different topic. "I've been doing research, and I'm working on a project you might be able to help me with. It's an artificial wormhole. Now, I know what you must be thinking—but you're a teleporter, right?"
"Yes…?"
"I hate to ask this, but I'd like to study you. Well- I'm hoping by studying how teleportation works, I can better understand what I'm dealing with."
Cassandra paused, but her heart thudded loudly in her chest. It all seemed so unreal. Awaking from a nightmare only to receive a phone call from a woman who wants the same thing—to go to Asgard. "You're saying...you believe that your wormhole will work if I help you? It's a genuine possibility?"
"Yes, I believe so. I know it's a lot to ask—you're probably very busy and you have your own life going on, and I totally understand-"
"I'm in."
