Author's Note: Thanks for your support! =D You're all so amazing. Sorry I'm late.
Warnings: Grief, depressive thoughts.
Chapter Four:
She can't feel her legs. Wanda doesn't know why, in the face of all of this, that's what stands out to her the most. Vision is a crumpled mass of gray, lifeless machinery, and she can hardly focus on anything beyond how numb below her hips is.
Vision is—
What just—?
It's...
The man's grip around her arm is tight and painful, not supportive. He means to do harm. He already has. His fingernails are roughly digging into her skin, and Wanda wishes that she had grabbed her jacket before exiting Clint's house on Lila's birthday. That feels like it was a lifetime ago, and she can't make a good judgement about how long it has been.
Her toes are tingling, her calf muscles straining beneath skin as if trying to tear their way out from underneath and breathe fresh air. They've been like this since the man released his spell, but now she can hardly feel the pain anymore.
Because she can't feel below her legs.
And Vision is dead.
Sobs swallow her scream quickly and she gasps, heavy and hard, trying to breathe. She can't. Her lungs might as well be paralyzed for all the good they're doing her. They won't expand, constantly retracting and tightening inside of her, curling around her heart as if attempting to protect it.
Because Vision is dead, and it hurts.
Eyes are on her, but she can't take her gaze off her beloved. Vision. This can't be happening. It has to be some sort of awful dream. When she wakes up, she'll be on the plane about to land on the Barton farm. She and Pietro—the thought of her brother makes another part of her ache—will be talking. She'll never get into the stupid argument and storm off like a petty children.
They'll never be ambushed.
Vision will never be taken.
Vision won't be killed. She creates nightmares; she knows them, and she knows that this...wake up, she pleads with herself silently, wake up.
Nothing happens.
This is real.
She needs to get to Vision's body. She needs to see if there's still hope for him, or if the damage will be irreversible. She needs to hold him. Sobs still rattling through her, Wanda jerks roughly with her captured arm and the man gives after a moment. Her brute force did nothing. He released her. She doesn't know why, doesn't care, and crawls the few feet between herself and Vision, collapsing on top of him.
"Vision," her voice is surprisingly steady. She wants to howl and shatter. She traces his face gently with her right hand, tears causing the world to blur. He's so cold. He never radiated much warmth before, but it had been enough to reassure her that he was alive.
He's dead.
He's dead and she needs to stop pretending otherwise.
He is dead.
His forehead is caved in, letting her see a glimpse into his skull. There isn't a brain, and she didn't expect one. There's only a network of wiring with what she suspects is a central hard drive where he stores the data. It looks like a crude mess of what she remembers the inside of Ultrons looking like. There's a giant burned gash into his left eye socket, still smoking, and she suspects it's from when their enemy's leader—king?—reflected the Mind Stone with his glove.
He's lifeless. There is no way he could have survived that without access to another computer. She knows that Ultron made his escape through the internet. Vision does not have that option. Not in deep space and as weak as he was.
He's gone. No part of him is going to live on.
"Vis, please. Please, it's time to wake up now," Wanda whispers, trying to keep her voice steady. She's failing. Her tone is a rasp and tears streaming down her face cloud her view, making it hard to distinguish anything in the blurred mess. Vision's remaining lifeless gray eye stares up toward the heavens. He's never going to see anything again. He's dead.
"Please." She strangles out. She traces his broken cheek again and gasps, a sob working its way from her throat.
Vision doesn't move. He doesn't twitch. He stays there, dead weight, limbs lifeless, eye open towards nothing. Wanda's hands are shaking, the broken, swollen bones of her left hand aching with every rattle. She is unable to catch her breath with how heavy the tears are in her chest.
She remembers with sudden clarity how it felt when Pietro had been shot. How every part of her body had been on fire, but she'd been so cold inside. As if someone had poured liquid nitrogen down her esophagus and told her to hold it there. She hadn't been able to breathe, flinching back. She'd never seen his body fall. She'd only felt him die. The first time she saw him was in the hospital at the Helicarrier.
This is so much worse.
She can feel how still Vision is. How dead. She can't do this. She can not do this.
Something touches her hair and Wanda flinches, jerking forward slightly—further on top of Vision's boneless body—and twists around for a source. Her captors' leader is behind her, large purple hand lifted a little over her head and expression blank. He's kneeling beside her on one knee, looking strangely soft.
Wanda's never been more tempted to rip through someone's throat and keep going down until she grabs something vital to yank at.
Wanda's fingers curl around Vision and she hiccups between sobs. She feels so pathetic. This is hardly her first captive situation. Showing weakness isn't how it's dealt with. Bursting into tears was not her wisest move, but what was she supposed to do? She can't steady herself. She can't calm down. She wants to keep screaming.
Behind the large purple man she sees the horned woman and pale man she stowed away with fidget uncomfortably. Everyone beyond the leader looks uncomfortable, as if uncertain what to do in the face of such emotion. A part of her is snidely satisfied by that. Good. Let them be uncomfortable. It's the least they deserve for murdering an innocent.
Her…
The leader gives a sympathetic sounding sigh, drawing her attention back to him. He drops his heavy hand on her head again, stroking her ratty hair.
Her entire body goes rigid beneath him.
"I understand, little girl," he murmurs quietly.
Wanda's lips tremble and she can barely choke out the words. "You could never…"
"Oh, but I do." He interrupts, voice somehow soft despite the deep rumble of it. She feels sick. She thinks she's going to vomit all over this reflecting floor and she can't say she'll be all too upset about it. "I have lost those I love as well."
Wanda chokes, lifting her right hand to her mouth to muffle her crying.
"There is no shame in grief," the leader assures, pressing harder against her scalp. She hates his touch. It's uncomfortably smooth, like it doesn't hold the ridges her own does. Without blisters, calluses, or identifying finger traits. "Do not hide your tears."
"I hate you," Wanda whispers, pulling her hand back. Saying the words gives her strength. Anger is easier than grief. Hate is easier than loss. Anything is easier than this despondency threatening to drown her. She turns to him and raises her fists, slamming them against his broad chest. "I hate you!" she screams.
Her broken hand burns beneath the physical aggression, but she slams her knuckles against him again. The block refuses to let her touch at her magic, and that's a mercy for his sake. She would have torn him to pieces if she could. Grabbed at anything inside his chest and yanked on it like he's pulled at her heart. He killed her vozlyublennaya.
She hits him again, and again, and again, only stopping when she sees him lift up a hand from the corner of her eye. The other has not stopped stroking her head, and it makes her sick. Through her tears she sees everyone in the room still, stopping their advance. Many have drawn weapons, moving towards them, likely with the intent to stop her from permanently damaging the leader.
If only she could push through his thick skin and break his ribcage with her bear hands.
Without looking towards the others, the leader gives a small smile down at her. "One day you will thank me. You'll see."
Disgust sharply smashes into her gut and she grabs for her magic intending to actually do harm, yanking and yanking, but nothing comes beyond the pulsing pain. Not even a small trickle of the familiar hum that has followed her since HYDRA. She sees the pale man she came with grimace openly the further she pulls, but his block holds.
That little—
No. She's not going to do this. She's an Avenger. She avenges. Vision's death will not go without retribution!
She jerks up to her feet, intending to rush at him—not really sure where to go beyond there, but bodily harm is likely—but her feet give out before she even takes a full step. They're still numb, yet weirdly stinging. The leader's large hand catches her before she can hit the ground and she recoils from it.
"Little girl, be at ease—"
"Khvatit menya trogat'!" Wanda shouts, pushing back from him. No one seems confused by her switch in tongue which startles her. They'd been speaking almost perfect English for a majority of her capture, she hadn't expected them to understand Russian. Where did they even learn either in the first place?
The leader only sighs a little and lets her go. She falls to her knees almost immediately, ramming them against the hard, reflecting floor and wincing inwardly at the pain.
Her palms take her upper body's weight, stopping her from smacking her forehead against the ground. The last thing she needs is to embarrass herself further in front of these people. She's already done plenty to lose sleep over.
Breathing heavy, Wanda stares at the floor and refuses to look anywhere else until the leader's voice catches her attention. She looks up by habit to the noise. "Ebony," the purple man says and a tall man with a flat face and long silver hair looks up, snapping to attention. His fingers go to his sides from where they were pressing together at his front. "Take Wanda—" she hates that he knows her name. Hates how it slides off his tongue like he has a right to be speaking it, "—to a cell. I think it would be best to let her sort out her thoughts, don't you agree?"
"Of course." The man, presumably Ebony, says. His voice is higher than she expected it would be.
Sort out her thoughts!?
"Let me." A voice cuts in before Ebony finishes his first step. One of the only two women in the room lifts up her head. She's blue, Wanda realizes. Not the kind of blue that poor lighting would cause, but her skin is actually the deep hue. Her left hand is glittering metal, one of her eyes in a similar condition. Between everyone in the room, she's one of the few without horns or scales.
The leader pauses.
The blue woman takes a step forward. "It won't be any trouble, Father."
Father!? This is her—what? Wanda realizes numbly that when they'd walked into the room, the horned woman had addressed the purple man the same way. Father. This is their father? They're sisters?
How could they just let their father murder a living being infront of them and be so unaffected!?
"I think," the leader's gaze flicks to the pale man for a moment, "that you are rather needed elsewhere."
The pale man's fists clench, his head dropping lower than it already was. Black hair so dark it's almost blue covers his thin face. Wanda's eyes narrow with suspicion, but she hardly has time to contemplate it further before long fingers brush against her shoulder. Wanda jerks, hobbling up to her feet in a jerky movement, instinctively raising as her fists clench. She attempts to draw on her magic to further the defensive posture, but the stab of pain that smacks against her gut makes her release a squeaked wheeze.
Ebony's eyes narrow the slightest. He's tall. Wanda has to look up to see his face properly. She's never been exactly short—a few inches taller than Pietro for most of their early teen years before he finally hit his growth spurt and over took her—but everyone around her seems so massive. She feels like a child barely coming up to their knees.
She wept like one, too.
Vision.
Her heart gives a twist, the gnawing numbness settling below her knees again.
"Come, child." Ebony says. His high, but surprisingly frail voice is strangely flat. He tips his head in the direction of the exit, and Wanda plants her heals and grinds her teeth against one another. She looks towards Vision; ignores the leader's heavy stare.
"I am not leaving him." She tries to make her words heavy and commanding, but they barely come out as a whisper. It sounds like she's asking a question.
Ebony's lips don't quite smile. His long fingers reach for her again, wrapping around her bicep before she can swerve out of the way and he hauls her forward a step. She staggers, trying to balance, but finding the action harder than she really cares to admit.
Ebony pulls her again, like a mother yanking on their child's hand to move them in the direction that they want to go. Wanda's cheeks heat at the thought, but all embarrassment is brushed aside as she looks back and sees Vision's lifeless gray body once more.
If she leaves him, what will become of him? Will they give him a proper funeral? Is there still a way to revive him? If she got the Mind Stone and the...the corpse back to Earth, could Tony and Bruce...could they…
Ebony yanks on her harder, obviously impatient. Wanda stumbles over herself, nearly tumbling face-first onto the floor. Curse these legs!
"Wait, I—" she tries to protest. Plead.
"He is no longer your concern." Ebony says smoothly. He keeps pulling. Pushing. Yanking. When they exit the room, she feels something in her chest give with relief. The suffocating presence of the Infinity Stones immediately lessons and she draws a deep breath, suddenly realizing how much her eyes hurt. They're puffy but sharp, leaving her to suspect that they're red and swelling.
That purple man had three Stones. Wanda has never seen so many gathered in one place. The only time she's known of Stones being in close proximity was when New York was attacked, but the Tesseract and Mind Stone weren't exactly side by side for very long.
He had them in a glove.
What is he doing?
"Take me back." Wanda commands, looking towards the room frantically. "I have to—I have—" how can she explain that she needs to remain by her lover's corpse just in case there is a way to bring him back? She needs to make sure that the body remains in one piece so if she can get the Mind Stone back, Tony and Bruce will be able to fix him. "You have to let me—"
"I don't have to let you do anything," Ebony says, not even bothering to glance towards her. His steps are even and long, forcing her to pick up the pace to stop herself from being dragged. A part of her is sorely tempted to grow lax and force him to carry her, just to be an inconvenience. "It would be for the best if you would stop making demands, child."
"You killed him." Wanda says. She doesn't know what her point is. Maybe she's in shock. Her mind doesn't feel cloudy enough for that. She can't process this. It doesn't feel real. She'll wake up in a few hours, uncomfortable, but able to rise from her bed in the Compound and go find Vision. Or he'll phase through another wall and make Pietro curse him to into purgatory for the umpteenth time.
They lapse into silence. Their feet dread the ground in a rhythm, but she's not paying attention to it. She focuses on the corridors of the ship, trying to memorize the layout even if she knows it's pointless. Even if she does escape...she's in space.
Space.
She knew, of course, that Thor was from another planet and therefore other life exist beyond her homeworld, but it's a different thing to know that and to see it. She has spent so much of her life in the small clustered area of Sokovia that she can't comprehend how vast the universe has suddenly gotten. These people are not from Earth. This isn't a simple fix where she can take them out and then get herself to the nearest phone, calling for a pickup.
Even if she does manage to overpower them, something she's reluctant to admit isn't very likely without her magic, she has no idea how to man a spaceship. Her experience with mind control is rudimentary and fails more often than not. She's not the Mind Stone incarnate. She took some of its abilities, not everything.
Escape back to Earth is looking impossible. Not without help or a rescue; the former is ridiculous and the latter she strongly suspects will take months, if not years. (If ever.) She's stuck here. All because she was an idiot and tried to play hero. She's not going home, and neither is Vision.
Ebony leads on, and Wanda follows in silence. After going down a few levels on the ship they come to a stop on what she suspects is the detention wing. The ship, from what Wanda has picked out in their traveling, is massive. It must be the size of a small town. Wanda could get lost for the better part of a week trying to navigate through the mess. Pietro has always been better at keeping a mental map between the two of them.
And he's always been there to keep it.
Why did she have to be such an idiot? So petty? If she had just been thinking, would any of this have happened? She knows with certainty that her last words to her brother wouldn't have been something she would regret. Wounds that they slashed open mean so little now. She'd give almost anything to go back to the Barton farm before this whole debacle started.
When Vision was alive.
The detention wing smells similar to what she remembers HYDRA's experimentation rooms to: human suffering. Vomit, blood, other bodily fluids, molding soup, infection, and—oddly enough—a persistent tangy baking smell. It's...it's almost like cinnamon, but stronger. Maybe nutmeg or orange slices. That one's different. HYDRA didn't smell like baking, and the Raft was bleach or salt.
But tangy?
She makes a noise in the back of her throat as the first whiff hits her, but Ebony doesn't seem to notice or is unaffected by the strong scent. The long hallway stretches out in almost complete darkness, only the occasional flickering, hanging bulb offering enough light to illuminate the near walls with.
It's an attempt to disorientate, she thinks; no will get far in the dark like this.
Wanda digs her heals into the ground, suddenly realizing how much she doesn't want to be here. Her mind has been a scattered, frantic mess since the leader picked Vision up by his throat—before that, sitting in the cell unable to move for hours upon hours—and suddenly seems to snap back together somewhat.
She struggles against the grip, her protesting movement echoing down the mostly silent long hall. She hears a few bodies shuffling behind locked doors, coughing, moans of pain. It seems so little in comparison to her riot. She might as well have invited a marching band to follow after her. She's heard them in July in New York. They're so loud and it—
Something heavy slams against a door on her right, a prisoner moaning for help.
Wanda jumps, nearly pressing herself against Ebony in her surprise. The tall man makes a soft shushing noise, but whether or not it's for the prisoner or her, she can't tell. He shoves her away, her fear obviously unwelcome.
Wanda takes in a shuddering deep breath. She knows fear. She uses fear. She should be comfortable here. Something close to a whimper sounds on her right. She thinks she can hear someone praying, but the language isn't one she recognizes. Her stomach is seeping with an awful dread, her heart frantically fluttering around in her chest screaming.
She is going to die.
What are they doing? Who is the leader? Who are her captors period? She has no idea what's going on. Who they are. Their endgame. Why they took Vision. How they found him. She has so many questions, but she gets the feeling that Ebony won't be open for an interrogation.
If she didn't have the block, she would have chanced a mind search. Tapping at her powers is something she doesn't want to tempt right now. Her headache is bad enough as it is.
Ebony turns sharply and Wanda bites on her tongue to withhold her surprise. She hadn't realized that the corridor was longer than a single hall. The lack of lighting is a terrible stroke of genius.
At long last, Ebony comes to a stop. It's sudden enough that she nearly walks past him, her feet used to moving as her mind addled elsewhere. Ebony keeps her beside him, lifting out his other hand towards something. She hears a scanner beep, a low light flickering in the dark bright enough to momentarily blind her.
Ebony releases her arm and shoves her towards something. Wanda lets out a yelp of surprise as the ground suddenly drops a good two feet and lands hard on her left arm. Nothing gives, but a stab of pain rockets up her broken fingers, reminding her of their plight. Her shoulder will definitely be bruised tomorrow, but at least there's no more broken bones.
Wanda presses her lips together, twisting around to look back at Ebony. She half expects him to step inside the cell himself and drag her towards more chains and shackles, but he only stands in the doorway. Wanda swallows warily.
She wants him to stay, but she wants him as far away as possible, too.
"You are peculiar." Ebony murmurs, "I can see that the Stone has left her blessing on you."
Why does everyone keep going on about that!?
"Thanos will return to speak with you," he continues, voice that careful even tone. Thanos. That's the leader's name, then? When Ebony speaks again, it's dropped low and almost pained. "You are acting foolish with your protesting and fighting. In all the years I have served him, I have never seen my father give mercy to the undeserving...if you want to survive this, do try to pull yourself off that list."
Wanda eyes him. Her breath twists in her chest, lungs compacting. "Why are you telling me this?"
Ebony's quiet for a long moment. "A word of caution, perhaps. I have never seen something quite like you. Touched by the Stone, yet unblemished. I am, of course, curious."
Her eyes narrow. Her hands burn with the memory of HYDRA's scientists digging their blades inside and whispering try again, I think we must have missed— "I am not a thing for you to study." She says flatly. Her voice is steady. She didn't expect it to be.
"You seem quite convinced about that."
Dozens of things threaten to spit off her tongue. None of them are pleasant, or exactly something her mother would be proud to know came out of her mouth. She's tempted, very much so, to spit at Ebony's feet. Instead, she breathes, and says, "Let me have Vision's—" she has to work her mouth around the word; it tastes like ash in her throat, "—body. I'll cooperate."
Ebony laughs. Short and harsh. It makes the hairs of her neck stand up. "You believe you have a choice? You misunderstand this situation completely."
"I do not—"
"Rejoice," Ebony interrupts, and in the poor lighting of a lightbulb a few paces away, she sees as he places his fingers together, letting his thumb tip against the edge of his chest. "For although you may not see it yet, you have been gifted with salvation. Thanos will redeem you. He will make you better. And in the end, you will owe him your life as I do my own. You may see this as suffering, but no. It is not. My father—" there's pride in those last two words, as if he worked hard to earn it "—will see to you when he pleases. Until then, Miss Wanda, I do recommend you keep quiet."
He backs up, and the door automatically slides shut behind him without another word.
The last bit of light drains away, leaving her completely alone in the pitch-black dark. It's heavy enough it seems to weigh on her shoulders, inky and thick. Her first instinct is to panic, throw up her hands and flail them up and down frantically, but it won't help. She swallows, pressing her hands against the metal beneath them in grounding.
Breathe. Think. Concentrate.
It's dark.
Don't lose control.
It's dark.
You're going to be fine.
Where is the light!?
Vision is dead. She's not going home. Vision is dead. She's not going home. Vision is…
Wanda collapses onto her side, curls into fetal position and panics. Grieves. She remains in the dark and no one comes. There will be no rescue this time. She's on her own now.
There's a pipe dripping in the background. An unpredictable rhythm, sometimes pouring water out frantically or slowly. The sound lulls her mind into a dazed haze; gaze focused forward on nothing. She listens. Drowns out the sounds of the other prisoners moaning and weeping to listen for the water.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
000o000
"This is infected."
"I know."
"I told you not to do anything stupid."
"I know."
He feels, rather than sees, Nebula's scowl into his back. "Then why is it infected?"
Nova sighs, looking down at his fingers. He's picking at his right palm with his left hand, a nervous habit he can't remember the origin of. Not much of a surprise, given everything. Nebula's deft fingers wipe up his spine and he winces, biting on the inside of his cheek as the wound burns against the open air.
"I didn't have time to clean it between everything else." Nova mumbles out. "Midnight kept us busy."
"She nearly killed you." Nebula counters darkly, wringing out the rag into the sink on his left. The water comes out mostly red. Blood. "Again. Does she have no sense of self preservation? If she had killed you, Father would have wrung her neck."
And he'd be dead, but that's not important.
"She's not at fault," Nova argues, but his voice is quiet. "We had to get it done as quickly as possible. Father is pleased with us. That's enough."
Nebula's heavy stare lands on his head. He can tell she disagrees, even if she says nothing. The realization startles him somewhat. Nebula, who has done everything to land inside their father's good graces, is arguing against doing that? Hypocritical.
"It's going to need more stitches—" Nova's shoulders slump "—and your inactivity for at least a week."
His head snaps up. He feels color drain from his face. "I can't just—"
"You can and you will." Nebula argues, throwing the rag inside of the sink. The small washroom of her quarters suddenly drops in space. The walls feel like they're closing in and he thinks he's going to be sick. He can't...unless he's unconscious or dead, his father always has work for him to do. To simply slack off of that…
Father doesn't need any more reasons to send him back to the Other.
He can't go back.
"I'll speak with Father." Nebula promises, tone somehow placid. "Given the circumstances, I think that he'll—"
"What will I do?" Both of them startle, whipping around to look towards the exit of the washroom. Neither Nova nor Nebula heard something enter the room, let alone tread the ground to the entrance. They'd been so focused on the wound and it…
"Father," Nebula's head dips, hand snapping to her cover her heart in respect.
Nova attempts to follow, but his movements are slower and obviously stiff. He feels his face heat at the realization that his bare chest is visible for Thanos to see. It's not the first time it's happened, but only when he intends to cause harm. It's different when it's by choice.
Nebula was trying to help him. He'd barely made it two steps out of the throne room, on an adrenaline high with the realization he and Midnight had made Father proud, but it had come to a crashing halt when Nebula grabbed his arm. She'd noticed his stiff movements. Her intention was only to help, but it feels like he's been cornered and trapped, waiting for the final blow.
Thanos ducks underneath the doorway, stepping into the small space. Nova sees Nebula's entire body stiffen, but she hides it well. He inhales—not nearly as deeply as he'd like, given his back—trying to keep his breath from freezing inside of him.
"I wasn't expecting you." Nebula recovers herself quickly. "What are you doing here?"
"I wanted to speak with Nova," their father says, head tipping somewhat. "Is that the same wound Midnight gave you rashly before you left for Terra?"
He and Nebula share a look. When it becomes clear she's not going to speak, he tries to, "I…I'm...it." Nova hates his father's stare. It makes everything in his chest seize, his head burn with the reminding ache of the Power Stone against his skull. He clears his throat.
"I see." Thanos rumbles, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Unfortunate."
He swallows, apprehension eating away at him. When the silence stretches, Nova speaks, even if he knows it's breaking protocol. He wasn't addressed first. "Father? What is it you need of from me?"
Nebula's gaze frantically flits to him.
Thanos's yes are studying him heavily. Looking for something. What has he done? "I am curious, my son, what you know of Terra."
Nova pauses. The question throws him, but he blinks and tries to right himself. It wasn't what he expected at all. A demand of what he did wrong. A chastising. What he can do better in the future. A failure of expectations. A report. Something normal. This isn't…
Normal.
Then again, when has his father ever sought him out unless it was in anger?
"I…" he stops, thinking, before he manages to claim his voice again. "I'm not terribly familiar with it. I researched it before we landed, but I didn't…don't…"
He bites at his tongue. Speak up. Stop stuttering. Rambling.
"Excellent." His father says suddenly, and Nova lifts his gaze up, brow furrowed.
"I beg your pardon, my lord?" Nova questions.
"You have done very well, child," Thanos assures, "quell your fidgeting. This is not chastisement. I need someone to look after the girl." Nova's stomach does something funny. The Witch. He hasn't seen her since Ebony dragged her from the throne room, and he was rather alright with that. He was trying to be. Fretting over her condition is distracting. She's fine. Likely.
"Someone to study how the Stone entered her. You kept her contained and you know enough about Terrans—" since when!? "—to find success in the endeavor. Search out what the mortals did to achieve the bonding and report back to me. You have a fortnight."
A quiet voice in the back of his head insists that two measly weeks isn't nearly enough time to collect the data he's asking for, but he doesn't know the source. He hasn't studied something like this before. Two weeks is reasonable. A challenge. It's not like he's terribly busy anyway.
Father is trusting him with something else.
Nebula fidgets visibly. Father's heavy gaze lands on her and she straightens out, answering before Thanos can ask. "He's sick. A fortnight isn't enough time. He needs to recover."
Father looks him up and down. "He's well enough off."
"I am." Nova agrees, nodding. He glances towards Nebula. "Your concern is appreciated, sister, but unwarranted. I'll—"
Nebula jabs a metallic finger on the inflamed skin on his back and he gasps, words drawing short. His fingers dig against his knees as he attempts to breathe. When his vision settles, Father's staring at him. His gaze is so heavy. "Your weakness is pathetic. You have survived much worse than this."
Nova's teeth grit together.
"You have three days for rest." He spits the word like it's physically painful to say. "Then your fortnight begins."
Panic claws up his throat. He starts to stand, protesting, "Wait, I can start now—"
His father nearly sneers. "Sit down. Your sister was right in attempting to provide medical care for you. You can do nothing until you're more put together. You're barely standing as it is. Remember, Nova, I have entrusted Wanda's care to you." Thanos says and Nova feels the words settle on his shoulders. More responsibility. Shouldn't he be proud? There's only so much dread.
"Yes, Father." Nova murmurs, looking down.
Father exits the room without another word, and Nova doesn't look up until Nebula relaxes from the corner of his eye, indicating that Father has left completely. Nova releases a shuddering breath, placing his head in his hands. "I'm going to fail." He whispers. "Why can't I ever please him?"
Please anyone?
Nebula is quiet.
"I can't do this…" he breathes out, squeezing his eyes shut, "I can't...I wish Gamora had left me to die." That slipped out. He hadn't meant to say it. The admittance feels raw, like it's being torn off of his soul without his consent. Nebula stills in the corner of his eye.
When she finally moves again, its to rest a hand on his shoulder. He tenses beneath the touch, but forces himself to relax. It's just Nebula. She...she'll still hurt him, but it won't be terribly. He won't be crippled.
"Nova…" her voice is low. Her lips are pinched together. He's drawn her up speechless. Great. This is why it's better to be quiet.
Nova shrugs off her hand, pulling his head up. "Just start the stitches. We don't need to talk." He'd rather they not. He can't control what's slipping off his tongue. He thinks he might scream at her. If she had just shut up then Father wouldn't have had any reason to be angry with his wound. She pointed out that he needed rest. And now Father is angry with him.
Again.
He wishes this would all just stop.
Nebula remains still for a long moment before sighing heavily and moving behind him. She seems to be debating on whether or not to say something, but thankfully stays quiet. She stitches up his back, and he doesn't fidget once.
Author's Note:
Next chapter: December 20th, 27th or some time in between that.