Sorry about that nasty little cliff hanger last chapter…it will get resolved in this chapter.
This story is almost finished. There is only one more chapter after this one-which means I'll probably start thinking about future stories I'll be writing. Should I keep writing in the Avengers category? Feedback is appreciated.
Disclaimer: see Chapter 1
Enjoy!
As soon as Pietro stepped inside the operating room, he was hit with the sweet, tangy scent of disinfectant. He remembered it well, from his own hospital visit. It brought up bad memories.
The universe just couldn't allow the Maximoffs to be happy. They'd lost so much and been through the mill so many times…heck, it had even tried to kill him. Although Pietro supposed he could justify that because he was the older sibling. That was his job. It had been his choice to make and he was proud of the decision he had made, especially on the spur of the moment like that. He was supposed to protect Wanda. And he should be the one dying, not her.
A nurse showed him to a chair next to the operating table. Wanda was unconscious again; an IV was strapped to her arm and a heart monitor kept a steady pulse in one corner of the room.
Pietro really hated heart monitors.
Gently he took her hand. "Wanda, wake up."
She stirred slightly, still worn out. "Pietro…"
"I'm right here. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."
"Am I going to die?"
"Of course not. Your heart is still beating, isn't it?"
"Yes, but for how much longer?"
"It's just a bullet wound. You'll survive. You'll survive, I'll scold you for making unnecessary sacrifices, and we'll go back to the Tower. Just like normal."
Wanda laughed, but the laughter quickly turned into a full blown coughing fit. "How does it feel?" she asked. "To be the one waiting, wondering, and not quite daring to hope?"
"I prefer to be the one on the table."
She glanced across the room at another doctor, who was filling a syringe with a booster dose of anesthesia. "He wonders if he should overfill it, just slightly. It would make my passing swift and painless. Quicker than falling asleep, Pietro."
Pietro glared at the doctor in question. "I'm not going to let you die."
"What are my options? Either the bullet is removed and they puncture my lung, or the bullet stays in and I die anyway. And that's assuming sickness doesn't do me in first."
"There are always other solutions." If only he could think of any offhand.
"I want you to stay with me, until whatever happens next happens."
"I'll never leave."
Just then, the doctor came over with the anesthesia. Pietro gave the syringe a once over distrustfully, but the amount was correctly measured. For the first time, Wanda seemed almost nervous.
Pietro squeezed her hand reassuringly. Remember that day when we were playing in that abandoned lot after school and you cut your hand on that piece of glass? For a while, you didn't even know you were injured. You never showed pain, even though it had to be hurting you. You've always been strong, Wanda. You can be strong now."
"What if I never wake up?"
Pietro sighed. "Death is beautiful. It's beautiful in the simplicity of it. It's simple, compared to all the things we've lived through that are simply unnatural. It's peaceful and calming. It comes in the form that is most calming to you, to lead you through to the afterlife. But you'll never experience that because the doctors here are going to make sure that doesn't happen." None of said doctors would meet his eyes.
Gently, the doctor emptied the contents of the syringe into her arm. "Count backwards from one hundred, Wanda."
Wanda closed her eyes and automatically complied. "One hundred…ninety nine….ninety eight…ninety seven…ninety…" Her grip on Pietro's hand slackened slightly.
The doctor placed a hand on his shoulder in what was obviously meant to be a comforting manner. "We'll work as hard as we can."
"Don't let her die. She's all I have left."
He managed to last approximately five minutes before he had to leave. To call him a mess would be putting it mildly. He felt as though he'd been hit by a bus and then run over by a train-twice. Yet he didn't cry. His father had once told him that crying was weak-and the Maximoffs had been many things over the years, but weak was never one of them.
He found a small and out of the way staircase where he could just think. It was plain-so plain that if he focused hard enough he could almost pretend he was back at Avengers Tower, in his own bedroom.
His phone buzzed with texts inquiring after Wanda's condition. He responded with short answers, just saying that they'd put her under again and they still didn't know the outcome of the surgery.
He didn't notice Clint until the archer sat down next to him on the concrete stair. "Doing okay?"
"Not really." Pietro replied.
"She'll pull through."
"What if she doesn't?"
"She will. Let me distract you for a few minutes. Tell me about the two of you."
"What?"
"What was it like living in Sokovia with your parents?"
Pietro actually had to think about. It had been so long since he'd thought about those days-mostly because they seemed like a fairy tale. It was easier to believe that they'd happened to some other little boy-not to Pietro Maximoff, who had been on and off the streets since he was ten years old. "We were a family-our father was a member of the government and he always had enough money to give us nice things on holidays and birthdays. We weren't rich by any sense of the word, but we were comfortable. Wanda and I have always been inseparable. Even when we were young, we were always together."
"I'm sorry, kid. I feel responsible. If I hadn't invited you to come with me on furlough-"
"No. We both had an amazing time. I'm so glad you invited us."
"My pleasure." They sat in silence for about five minutes, waiting for something. What exactly they were waiting for neither of them could say.
"I suppose I should go back in there." Pietro said eventually, breaking the silence.
"Don't you want to?"
"Yes, but…it's hard for me to see her like that. I feel like I could have prevented it all if I'd been smarter, faster, and stronger. Out here, it's easy to imagine that everything will be all right. But when I get in there, I'm overwhelmed by the noise and the smell of disinfectant and it all comes back to me. I know what she's going through, but this time I can't help her. She's in a place where even I can't reach her."
"She needs you-now more than ever. You want to help her? That's how you do it. You push aside your own fear, your own guilt, and you stay with her. You don't worry about what the doctors say is going to happen. You focus on what you want to happen, no matter how improbable. And then whatever happens happens, but at least you'll know you did everything you possibly could."
He was already on his feet. "Be honest, Clint. Do you think she'll survive?"
The archer carefully considered for a moment before he spoke. "If she really wants to, there is no doubt in my mind that Wanda can get through this."
Pietro steeled himself and nodded. Let's try this again.
The surgery lasted for three hours. The doctors worked around Pietro as though he wasn't even there. For his part, he ignored them-preferring to relive happy memories throughout the years. Occasionally, he shared them with Wanda in a low voice.
Finally, one of the doctors cleared her throat. "We have to decide now if the bullet is staying in or coming out. We can't put it off any longer."
Pietro was surprised to find five pairs of eyes looking at him. "What?"
"We're giving you the decision to make. If we operate, there's a chance we could puncture a lung. But if we leave the bullet in…that's that. It's up to you."
He didn't even have to think about it. "Take it out." It was better to have a little chance rather than no chance at all.
Immediately, the room jumped into action. Pietro thought his heart would beat its way out of his chest, but he forced himself to look down. He'd run out of memories and stories to tell, so he just thought. When he was younger, he and Wanda had always been convinced they had mental telepathy with each other. He hoped for his sake that they did. Pull through. You have to pull through. He squeezed his sister's hand, which had gone limp in his.
He wasn't expecting a response and he didn't get one.
That was probably the most grueling thirty minutes of Pietro's life. He often wished he had a cup of coffee to calm his nerves, which were so frayed he couldn't figure out how they were staying together. Mysteriously, when he texted Clint to bring him a cup or two, he received no response.
Finally, the doctor breathed a sigh of relief as she wiped her bloodstained hands on a clean towel. "It's done." She glanced at Pietro and smiled. "Would you like to see the bullet?"
Pietro held it almost reverently. It was covered in a thin film of blood-his sister's blood. It was tiny-barely larger than his fingernail. He had trouble believing that something this small could cause so much damage-could literally stop hearts.
This bullet had almost cost him his sister.
"So, is she good to go?" he asked.
"Absolutely not. She lost a lot of blood…she'll need a couple of transfusions to correct that…and her fever needs to break before we can give her a clean bill of health. But yes, her injury is no longer life threatening."
Such a wave of relief overwhelmed Pietro that he felt extremely dizzy. He had to grip the sides of his chair to keep upright.
A nurse glanced at him in concern. "Why don't you get something to eat, Pietro? We can clean up in here, and your sister will be well taken care of. Heaven knows you've earned a rest."
Pietro retreated to his stairwell like a soldier returning home from a brutal and bloody war. Wanda was going to be all right.
He wanted to laugh, maybe cry-or make a combination of the two. They'd come so close, but things were finally starting to work out. He thought he was finally in the clear-
-at least until he was called back to the operating room twenty minutes later.
"I don't know how it happened!" the doctor who had performed the operation insisted. Pietro examined the name on her plastic badge: Kim. "One minute she was fine and the next…"
The beeping of the heart monitor was pounding through Pietro's skull. It was high pitched and fast-something was wrong.
Something was very, very wrong.
"What happened?" Pietro tried to keep his voice calm and even, taking a page from Clint's book. But it was very, very hard to do.
"Heart complications." another doctor told him. She proceeded to spout a string of numbers that made no sense to Pietro but seemed perfectly understandable to everyone else in the room.
The heartbeat was too fast.
"No." Pietro whispered, taking a seat again. Even though the bullet was out-he'd held it himself-Wanda hadn't changed. She was still unconscious; her breathing was still too far on the shallow side. "You can't die. Not here. Not now. Not after everything I've gone through in the last twenty four hours-all the coffee, all the phone calls, all the prayers. I'm not going to let you.
"Have you been trying to make a point? Because I get it now. I understand how it feels to have a loved one inches away from death. I've felt the anxiety, the hopelessness, and the desperation. I've gotten the point. Now stop. Snap out of it.
"They brought me back for you. They tried not just because of my powers but because we're twins. We need each other. Each completes the other. I could have lived a happy afterlife. But I came back for you. So I could be with you. And now I want you to stay with me."
The heart monitor was still too loud.
"Wanda, you're my sister. My little sister, in case I have to remind you. You mean the world to me. I would literally do anything for you. I would do whatever I had to do to make sure you're safe and happy. I love you more than you know. You're the only thing I have left-the only family. Don't let me face this world alone. Do better than I did."
He heard those dreaded words. "She's flat lining."
And then there was silence. Complete and total silence. Even the heart monitor ceased to beat. Its display showed simply one green line, long and unbroken.
One.
"Call it."
Pietro felt numb. He had to stay that way and pretend it didn't matter to him-otherwise the pain would tear him apart from the inside out.
Two.
Why wasn't the AED working?
"Time of death: 9:32 P.M."
Wanda's hand felt leaden in his own.
Three.
Wanda, give me a sign.
He squeezed her hand one last time. Hot tears blurred his vision and he wiped them away irritably. Clint had been wrong, yet he felt no sense of accomplishment or purpose.
He was alone, completely and totally.
Just then, the heart monitor began to beat again, slow and steady.
And his sister squeezed his hand back.
Review, follow, and favorite!