It's been too long without some angst. I am the angst monster (if ya'll have any recommendations for good angsty Maximoff fics, please send them to me. There aren't enough good ones around). So here you go. Hope you enjoy it.
oOoOo
The first time it happens, it takes Clint by total surprise.
After a week of settling in and getting to know the place, after familiarizing themselves with the grounds and animals surrounding the farm, after painstakingly beginning to assimilate into this strange little home, the twins slowly grow more and more comfortable. Though they're still guarded and tend to be quiet—especially Wanda—Clint can see the difference that even a simple week can make. Pietro laughs more and swings Lila around in circles until she can't walk in a straight line, and he's caught Wanda helping Coop build massive towers of bricks and Legos with her powers. They help with dinner, and once Pietro twisted a towel into a whip and smacked Cooper in the rear.
He's happy to see that they're happy.
At the moment, he sits at with Pietro, down in the living room as he sips a beer. He hadn't meant for it to happen, really; Pietro had simply been sitting in Clint's living room at eleven fifteen at night, pretty much lost in thought, and Clint has a right to do the same. His wife and children and the female half of his charges are all asleep, giving him a blessed moment of relaxation. So he takes a seat on the couch, next to Pietro on the love seat, and they're both content to sit in relative silence, commenting sporadic comments on the game that Clint switches on. Before he knows it, it's nearly one, but it's such comfortable, rare camaraderie that it's hard for him to say they should go to bed. So they sit for the next game, and Clint's eyes are actually starting to feel tempted to slip shut when he notices Pietro jerk, a hand flying to his head. A piercing shriek comes shooting from upstairs.
As if one, Clint and Pietro shoot to their feet. As Clint swoops down to retrieve a spare bow he keeps under the couch, he catches a glimpse of panicked blue eyes as Pietro whispers, "Wanda," before shooting up the stairs in a familiar blue blur. His feet sound th-th-th-th-thud on the stairs, impossibly fast, as Clint nocks an arrow to the string and follows. He silently swears as his thick woolen socks make him slip on the hard wood, and another scream sounds, this time accompanied by a cry for help.
Clint moves a little faster.
Like muscle memory, he reaches the top of the stairs and swoops to his left, already tense and ready to fight should he need to. At the end of the hall, he sees Pietro clutching the handle of Wanda's door, jiggling it back and forth almost hysterically.
"Wanda-Wanda let me in-Wanda-"
A burst of red light crackles from beneath the door, accompanied by a strangled sob and babble in Russian.
"Wanda!" Pietro cries, banging his fist on the door. "Vpusti menya! Pozhaluysta, Myshka, vpusti menya!" His hand crushes the knob as he wiggles it desperately back and forth,
Clint lapses into mission mode; his face is set as he marches down the hall, jaw just barely clenched. He approaches the commotion, and, without even warning Pietro to move, turns and kicks his leg up. Pietro manages to dodge out of the way, and in one sweeping motion Clint roundhouse kicks the door down.
Between flying splinters and a quarter of the door haphazardly waving on its hinge, Clint scans the room. The lamp next to Wanda's bed is knocked over, its bulb shattered, and glass litters the ground from a broken picture frame. Half of a cracked cup lies in a puddle of water on the floor. Wanda's blankets are thrown in a pile on the floor next to her overturned chair, accompanied by the few books she's been reading from downstairs.
And on the bed, Wanda sobs from where she cowers in the corner nearest the wall, clenched hands over her head pulling her down to her knees. Brilliant crackles of crimson spark in the air, one going off a foot from his head.
Pietro barrels in past him, clambering up on the bed and grasping for her arms. "Shh, Myshka, shh," he urges, pulling her clenched palms from her head. "Is just a dream, is just a dream. Vstavay, Wanda!"
She pulls away from him, her elbow catching him in the chest. He snarls in frustration and gathers her to himself, still keeping a firm grip on her wrists. "Keep still. Is just a dream. Come on. Come on, Myshka." Carefully, he rocks her back and forth, murmuring Russian nonsense into her hair as her frantic struggles dissolve in sobbing. She clings to his shirt, her face buried in the crook of his shoulder as she trembles.
After a habitual, cursory scan, and seeing that the situation does not involve a possible intruder threatening his charge's life, Clint sets down the bow and takes a step back, nearly running into his frowsy, sleepy-headed wife wrapped in a robe. Like clockwork, he encircles his arm around her waist, and they observe the proceedings quietly.
"Mne zhal'," Wanda weeps into Pietro's skin, "Mne zhal', mne zhal', pozhaluysta prosti-"
"Shh," Pietro hushes her, cradling her gently. "Is all right." Burying his face in her hair, he murmurs gently in Russian as he clings to her as if he were lost at sea and she his only lifeline.
Eventually, her sobbing subsides, and she is left trembling in its wake. Clint debates on whether or not he should leave this tender moment, but then he sees Pietro gently unclasps Wanda's stiff fingers. He breaths a sigh and scolds her softly, and beside Clint, Laura gasps.
Blood drips out from between the cracks of Wanda's slender fingers.
"S-sorry," Wanda stammers, "I—I—ya slomal—"
"Is all right," Pietro encourages her softly, using the back of his knuckles to move away the curtain of hair clinging to her face. Her eyes are swollen and tear streaked, and Pietro tenderly brushes a stray tear from her cheek. "No harm—can you get it out?"
Wanda sniffs and nods. Her chest hitches, and she has to steady her breath before concentrating on her torn hands. Red light bubbles along the cracks in her skin, and Clint can see tiny shards of glass pull themselves from her hands and hover in the air. She winces as they pull away, but doesn't waver. Laura appears, ghostlike, and when Wanda is done with her task Laura wipes her hands with antiseptic wipes and binds them up as Pietro leans over and disposes of the glass in a trash can.
Clint makes to leave the room as the ministrations end; now that he is obviously not needed, he feels that he should intrude no longer. As he backs towards the door, followed by Laura, he notices Wanda clutches at her brother a little longer, a little more desperately, than normal. Her hands brush the top of his chest, and every time he moves away her eyes grow the slightest bit panicked.
Jesus, that dream must have been rough.
Clint knows what that's like.
As the two adults leave quietly, Clint catches Pietro kiss Wanda's forehead out of the corner of his eye. The Enhanced wraps his sister securely in a blanket, murmuring some joke in the process. Wanda laughs softly, and Clint takes that as his cue to leave.
oOoOo
Something bothers Clint as he stares at Pietro over a cup of coffee the next morning. It's not there's anything wrong—on the contrary, though the bags under his eyes are a little darker than normal, he's joking and conversing with the Barton family easily. Laura makes a comment, and his eyes twinkle as he makes a snappy reply. Wanda rolls her eyes and sips her tea, good-naturedly debunking whatever her brother just said, and the kids are sleepy-eyed and laughing. All events of last night seem to be forgotten.
So what the hell is the problem?
He stews all through breakfast, and it's only after everyone but Pietro has left the table to go about their respective tasks that he realizes what it is.
"You felt it."
"Huh?" Pietro looks up from the newspaper he's perusing. His bed-head is crazy, ruffled curls shooting up every which way over his head, and Clint feels some kind of fondness for the kid.
"Last night. You felt Wanda before we heard her scream. I saw you flinch."
Pietro blinks and sits back, setting down the newspaper carefully. He opens his mouth to say something, closes it, opens it again, and finally lets it snap shut.
"Why?" Clint prompts him.
"Ah…" Pietro gathers his thought carefully before continuing. "Is hard to explain… In laboratory, where we are enhanced, something happens. I am not sure what, but we are…joined, I think. Of course we are twins before, but now…" He huffs, frustration written across his features. "We have a link, yes? I sense her, and she senses me."
"So you can read her mind?"
"Not exactly, no. More feel. For instance, last night, when she has a dream. She feels in mind." He taps his temple for good measure. "Here. But I feel different."
Clint stares. This is magic science bull shit. "Not following."
"I just know. I feel here—" He thumps his chest. "But also in my mind. Is strange, I don't know. Wanda is better with this. I just run." He smiles wolfishly.
"So it hurts?"
Pietro shrugs. "I suppose you can think of it that way, yes. But not physically. Mentally."
"But you know what she was dreaming."
"Yes." Pietro chuckles. "I am sorry if you thought someone was in the house; she does damage sometimes. If the dream goes long enough."
"What was she dreaming?" Clint asks carefully, feigning nonchalance.
Pietro's gaze darkens, his features falling. He messes with the corner of the discarded newspaper as he answers, "The day we became Avengers."
The day I died. "Oh."
Jesus Christ.
"Does it happen often?"
Pietro shrugs. "Depends. Has not happened since we came here, though."
Well, that's one thing going for them.
Aaand that's enough of that. The kid's been up all night dealing with his hysterical sister, he doesn't need to relive dying all over again. Clint pushes his chair back, stands up, and stretches before downing the rest of his coffee. "Well," he sighs, "I guess I better go repair that door."
oOoOo
Vpusti menya-Let me in
Pozhaluysta-please
Vstavay-wake up
Mne zhal'-I'm sorry
prosti-forgive
ya slomal-I broke
I hope you guys liked it! Drop me a review and let me know. Thanks for all your support, you stud muffins.