Flying lessons
Or: How to throw Captain America through a window, in 10 easy lessons
Summary: "Ready, Wanda? Just like we practiced."
The Captain has a fantastic idea: Teach Wanda Maximoff AKA the Scarlet Witch AKA The Weird Twin to control her powers so she can throw him to places he can't easily jump to. It'll be just like flying. What can possibly go wrong?
Better buckle up that cowl, Cap, it's going to be a wild ride.
(Set in the interlude between Avengers: Age of Ultron and Captain America: Civil War. No pairings, no slash)
Lesson 2: Why the captain hates the cowl
Six a.m. is an insane time for a workout. Only babies and crazy people are up and raring to go at that time. Correction: make that "Babies, crazy people, and Captain Fucking America."
I'm five minutes late again, and again I find him doing windsprints with a casual air. At least this time I've dressed semi-appropriately—shorts, t-shirt, and hoodie, all borrowed from Sam because Natasha's didn't fit and I was too shy to ask Colonel Rhodes. Sam's sweatpants were far too long, so shorts it is.
The captain stops in front of me and looks me up and down with a grin. The clothes are much too big, which makes me feel like a child. I hate to feel like a child. I fold my arms protectively over my chest.
"Shut up," I mutter, and he chuckles.
"Come on, let's get going," he says jovially, rubbing his hands together. "Just up and down a few times to warm up."
Just up and down, he says, like it's the easiest thing in the world. And I suppose for him it is. I'm doing all the heavy lifting; he's just along for the ride.
The dominant emotion I'm feeling right now could be described as "grumpiness," but that's not enough to open the door, so I add in the fact that Natasha yelled at me last night about the mess in the kitchen, and Vision can't seem to get the hang of doors, and it's SIX IN THE MORNING, and channel that grumpiness into a low level buzz of anger. It's enough. The Chaos snakes down my arm much more easily this morning, and I find it less of a chore to toss him up into the air, much to his delight. Catching him on the way back down is always harder, but I manage well enough that he lands on his feet almost every time, and even when he doesn't, it doesn't seem to bother him.
"Ok, you're doing great!" he says after about the tenth toss. "Now for some lateral movement." He gestures with both arms to his left. "Lateral movement."
Patronizing son of a bitch, my anger snarls. I'll show him lateral movement.
I snap the bolt of Chaos out and toss him up a couple of meters, then gesture to the side with my whole hand this time. He accelerates hard, much harder than I had intended. Instead of just a few meters, he zips across the room right into the wall facefirst, so fast that he can't even get his arms up to protect his head.
He bounces off the wall and falls. With fear replacing anger, I wrestle the Chaos to try to catch him, but he hits the ground with a smack.
"Captain!" I cry, running toward him, and he responds with a groan. By the time I reach his side, he has sat up and is rubbing his head ruefully.
I crouch down next to him, afraid to touch. What if I've broken something? What if he decides I'm too dangerous and sends me away to a place with a lock on the outside of the door? What if. . .?!
"I'm fine," he reassures me with a shadow of a grin. "I've got a hard head."
"Let me see," I demand. He obligingly pulls away his hand and lets me look at his face. His cheek is turning purple, but there's little swelling and nothing looks broken. I let out a sigh of relief.
"See, I'm fine. Nothing to worry about." He climbs to his feet and rolls his neck and shoulders. "I'm fine," he repeats at the look on my face.
"You should wear your helmet," I say with a frown. "This is too dangerous."
"No thanks," he responds dismissively.
"Why not?" I pressure him. Him wearing a helmet would make me a lot more comfortable with this scenario. Knee and elbow pads too. Hell, maybe I can just swaddle him head to toe in bubble wrap. . .
He gives me a sideways look. "You want the truth?"
I scowl at him. "Of course. Why would I want you to lie to me?"
"Ok, fine. It gives me a headache," he admits, hand over his face. The cheek that is unbruised turns a delicate shade of pink. He's obviously embarrassed by this, although I don't understand why.
"It does?" I am perplexed. He has worn that helmet into combat many times and has never mentioned headaches. "Why didn't you say something? Mr. Stark could make you a new one."
"You're joking, right?" he says, shaking his head. "I'd never admit to Tony that I can't handle the helmet."
"Why not?" I ask with deepening confusion. I may still not entirely trust Mr. Stark, but I have witnessed him designing many kinds of new equipment for the team: tweaking Sam's wings, repairing Mr. Barton's bow, and even reconfiguring Colonel Rhodes' boot because it was hurting his ankle. I am sure he would be willing to design a more comfortable helmet for the captain.
"Can you imagine the teasing? He'd never let me live it down."
"You put up with a constant headache because you are afraid of a little teasing?" I ask incredulously.
"It's not a little—" he breaks off. "Never mind. I'm not afraid of it. I just don't like it." He backs up into position and gestures for me to do the same. "And don't let him hear you call him Mr. Stark."
"Why not?" This is the third time I've had to ask that question in this conversation, and I'm getting tired of it, but I am gaining valuable information, information that is important if I want to fit in here. I haven't had a family since I was a child, just Pietro, but already this team feels like family, and I'd like to keep it that way.
"That's his father. If you want to be on his good side, call him Tony."
I'm not sure I want to be on a first name basis with Mr. Stark, but I nod thoughtfully. "Ah, that's helpful. Thank you."
The captain shoots me a sardonic grin. "Why do I think you've probably got a journal where you write down notes about all of us?"
That's actually true, but I'm not inclined to admit it. "What makes you think that?" I say defensively.
He chuckles. "Oh, nothing." He backs up into position, still grinning. "Let's keep going."
We try it several more times. Up, flick to the side, catch, repeat. I'm more cautious now; my anger has mostly dissipated and has been replaced with an uneasy anxiety. Still gets the job done, but it doesn't have quite the same zip. His excitement is undimmed, however.
"Come on, Wanda! Harder!" he shouts at me when I arrest his motion after only a couple of meters. "You can do it."
I curl my lip, because yes, I know I can do it. The hardest part is not doing it so hard I tear him to pieces. But he doesn't seem to get that. He makes me try again and again, until I can get him up, over, and back down on his feet without any significant injuries. Not exactly anything to brag about ("I didn't kill Captain America today!"), but it is progress. He seems satisfied with it, so I try to ignore the fact that my arms are shaking and my eyesight has blurred from exhaustion.
However, when he pops back up onto his feet from my latest attempt and suggests we hit the kitchen for breakfast, I am quick to agree. I might even actually eat something this time, if I think I can keep it down. This workout was a bit more physical than the last, and I feel the need for some calories. Maybe yogurt. Or a nice burek. Wouldn't that be lovely?
He makes himself the same breakfast as yesterday, and even remembers to snag an extra banana for me. I don't get my burek, of course, but I do find a cheese stick hiding in the back of the meat drawer. Protein! I ignore the messy counters and just sit and watch in awe while he makes the mountain of food disappear. Another way he is like Pietro. With his fast metabolism, he was always hungry.
My attention is drawn to the discoloration covering the side of his face. I had thought it was just the cheek, but the purple-black now extends from his hairline to his jaw. That, combined with his mussed-up hair and half-zipped hoodie, makes him look like a naughty schoolboy.
He finally looks up under my scrutiny, and says "What?" while brushing the crumbs away from his mouth. "Do I have something on my face?"
"Yes, an enormous bruise."
That gets me a dismissive shrug. "I've had worse. Don't worry, I heal quick." He takes the last bite of the third piece of toast and starts on the fourth, while I watch the bruise bob up and down as he chews. A bruise that I put there. My fault. Guilt gnaws at me. If I had learned to control my powers properly, Captain Rogers would be fine, my city might not have been destroyed, maybe even Pietro would still be alive. . .
To distract myself from these thoughts, I blurt out, "Have you ever had burek?"
"What's berrick?" he mangles the pronunciation through a mouthful of greasy cheese toast.
"Burek," I correct him, but he doesn't seem to catch on. "It's like a cheese sandwich, but made with phyllo dough."
"What's phyllo dough?"
I raise my eyebrows. How could he not have heard of phyllo dough?! Oh, right, seventy years encased in ice. "Oh, you are missing out," I assure him. "It's sort of like. . . puff pastry."
He swallows and grins. "Sounds good. Do you know how to make it?"
"Sadly, no. But there is a Bulgarian restaurant in town that sells them. I'll get you some the next time I can talk Natasha into taking me there."
"Tell you what, you try cheese toast, and I'll try your berrick."
"Burek."
"Berrick," he dutifully repeats. Still wrong, but I'm not going to correct him again. "I'll take you down there tomorrow morning after practice. Have you ever ridden on a motorcycle?"
I successfully fight the urge to roll my eyes, as I have been riding motorcycles since I was in diapers. Driving them too, probably for more years than he has, but I don't tell him that. I just let my eyes go wide and shake my head.
"It'll be fun. Just gotta lean into the curves. Here." He breaks off a piece of toast and holds it out to me. The cheese is day-glo orange and almost looks like plastic. There's no way that can be right. Maybe he forgot to take the wrapping off?
"What sort of cheese is that?"
"American. It's good."
American cheese. I suppose that's fitting for Captain America. I accept the toast and take a hesitant bite. The cheese sticks to the roof of my mouth, but it doesn't taste as bad as I had feared. But it's no burek. I hold the rest out toward him, but he waves me off.
"Eat it. Good balance of protein and carbs."
I'm not sure he's got that correct, but I don't get a chance to argue, because at that moment Sam comes in, still in his pajamas, and heads straight for the coffee pot. As he passes the captain, he does a double-take.
"What the hell happened to you?"
"Wanda," the captain says. I'm embarrassed, but there is a note of pride in his voice.
Sam locates a clean cup and fills it with coffee. "Oh, yeah? She finally get fed up with getting ordered around all the time?"
"It was an accident!" I protest, but the captain is chuckling.
"Whatever you say," Sam responds, shaking his head as he digs around for a packet of sugar. He is holding up his cup in one hand to avoid setting it down on the crumb-covered counter.
"We're practicing something new," the captain says enthusiastically. "Wanda, tell him!"
Sam quirks an eyebrow at me, so I roll my eyes. "The captain—" I begin, but break off when Sam starts snickering under his breath. "What?"
"Nuclear wessels," he says in an undertone. I have no idea what that means, but the captain starts snickering too.
"I get that! I got that one!" He sounds incredibly pleased with himself.
"Good for you, Cap."
I wait, but neither of them seems in a mood to explain it to me, so I sit and stew. While I wait, I wonder what Sam would think if I suddenly tossed his cup of coffee on his head. I won't do it, but it would feel so good.
"I'm sorry, Wanda," Sam says, still grinning. "Go on, please."
"The captain thinks I can learn to control my powers."
"What powers are you trying to control? That mind reading trick? Because that is some wild sh—stuff."
"We haven't started on that one yet. We're working on moving the captain with my mind."
"She can throw me over fifty feet in the air!" the captain interrupts eagerly.
"Not quite that far," I clarify. At least I don't think so. I grew up with metric, not standard, so I'm not sure exactly how far fifty feet is, but it sounds like a large distance.
"Not yet, but we're getting there. You were definitely doing better today than yesterday."
Sam looks impressed. "That's some Harry Potter shit there," he says.
The captain and I both look at him blankly. After a few awkward seconds, the captain says, "Language."
Sam's eyebrows go up in surprise. "Harry Potter? Scar on forehead? Does magic?" He looks back and forth between the two of us. "Nothing?"
"Was he experimented on by Hydra?" I ask.
Sam chokes on a sip of coffee. "No!"
"Then I don't know him," I say flatly.
"He's a fictional character! Come on, neither of you have heard of Harry Potter?"
"No, but I'll put it on the list," the captain promises.
"Ok, but after Die Hard, right? You said you'd watch Die Hard with me and Rhodey."
"I will, I promise." The captain pushes his chair back and stands, leaving his plate, glass, banana peel and apple core behind.
"You might have to plug your ears in a few places," Sam says, slapping the captain on the back. The captain winces, which makes me wonder how hard he actually landed on a few of those falls. "I'll tell you when."
As they start to walk out together, the captain says over his shoulder, "See you tomorrow morning, Wanda. In the main gym this time."
"I'm not cleaning up after you," I call after him.
His voice floats down the stairs, "I didn't ask you to."
With a sigh, I clear up my own small mess, toss the banana peel and cheese wrapper into the trash compactor. I'm washing out my cup when Natasha enters. No heels this time, so I didn't have any warning she was coming. My first indication she is in the kitchen comes when she says "So it is you!" from right behind my ear.
I whirl in shock, hands flying up on their own, strings of Chaos already sliding down to my fingertips. Natasha takes a hasty step back, hands up placatingly.
"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."
"I didn't make the mess," I say defensively. "Just like I didn't make yesterday's, or the day before. . ."
Natasha folds her arms and fixes me with the eye of death. "But you know who did." The expression on her face almost makes me crack, but I just raise my chin and say nothing, until she finally sighs and rolls her eyes. "Whatever." She opens the fridge, takes out the nearly empty milk carton, and sets it down on the counter with a thump. And that's my cue to exit stage left, before she decides that a bit of torture would get the information out of me.
A/N: Coming soon, Lesson 3: Captain America gets broken