Flying lessons

Or: How to throw Captain America through a window, in 10 easy lessons

Chapter 5: Teddy gets his (but don't hurt the little captain)

They don't let the captain out of the hospital the next day, or the one after that either. We all take turns sitting on that hard plastic chair, because, as Natasha puts it, with a grim expression on her face, "We don't let Steve wake up in the hospital alone." I'm not sure why, but I do know that every time he wakes up, he looks around frantically until he sees a familiar face, and then he tries to pretend he wasn't worried.

Even Mr. Stark—Tony—swaggers in on day two to take a turn in the chair. "I'm just here to watch the nurses put our dear captain in his place," he cracks. "I hear that one with the orange hair had him blubbering into his Jello this morning." I'm ready to strangle him, but while Natasha pulls me out, his expression softens. As the door closes, I see him sit down in the chair, rest his feet on the edge of the bed against the sleeping captain's good leg, and pull out a paperback book.

When I come back later that evening, Tony is asleep in the chair with the book open on his chest and his glasses falling off his nose. He has changed the captain's name and information on the little whiteboard over his bed. Now it reads "CAPSICLE SPANGLES" in a block-letter scrawl; his weight is listed as "98 LB WEAKLING", birthdate as July 4, 2012 (not that it was accurate before), and Tony has drawn a little caricature of the captain underneath: very skinny with buck teeth and huge ears, struggling to hold a shield that is nearly as big as he is. It doesn't seem fair to kick a man while he's down, so I scowl and erase it.

When the captain finally comes home (home!) on day three, it's with a bulky cast from hip to ankle and instructions to be non-weightbearing for at least another two days, which means a wheelchair. This does not go over well for a hyperactive ex-soldier/superhero type. In fact, I'd say he resents it, judging by how short-tempered he is with all of us. Sam and Natasha's bickering drives him to shouting and (even worse) angry silence. He even snaps at Vision for "being too precise", although Vision doesn't seem to understand what he's doing wrong.

Lesson 4

Vision sets me up with practice sessions in the main gym for 6 am the day after the captain comes home, but I change it to 9 am without consulting him. Much more reasonable, and since I'll be practicing by myself, I figure I can set the time how I want. I take my time putting on my new outfit, marveling at how comfortable it is and how it perfectly stretches with my movements.

I'm expecting pillows again, but when I enter the gym I don't see any pillows scattered around. Instead, there is a large cardboard box in the middle of the room, and sitting on top of it is a small, brown teddy bear. Vision is seated on the floor next to the box with his legs folded criss-cross and his hands resting comfortably on his knees.

"Ah, Wanda," he says, instantly coming to his feet with a cat-like grace that I can appreciate.

"Oh, I didn't know you were going to be here. Have you been waiting long?"

"Three hours, two minutes and forty-eight seconds," he replies with his usual precision. The captain's chewing out doesn't seem to have changed that at all.

"I'm sorry! I changed the time since the captain wasn't going to be here. I forgot you wouldn't know the new time."

"It is not a bother, Wanda. I see I have correctly ascertained your. . . dimensions."

My dimensions? Oh! "Yes, it fits perfectly. Thanks."

He seems content with my response. "Shall we begin? The captain would like you to practice throwing the bear to the walkway."

So the bear was the captain's idea? Interesting. It seems more like something Vision would come up with. He's remarkably sentimental for what is essentially a walking, talking computer.

So I try. I really try, but I'm too anxious, which makes it difficult to the point of impossibility to control the flow and direction of the Chaos. After only about five minutes, the bear is missing an arm, and stuffing is trailing out of a rip in its belly. I'm discouraged, but Vision just pulls another teddy bear out of the box and tells me pleasantly to try again.

I go through three teddy bears in the first session. All are in pieces before I finally insist it's time for a break. If I left it up to Vision, we would probably keep going all day. He never gets tired, or hungry, or needs a bathroom break. Or prefers to watch the next episode of Fear the Walking Dead in peace goddammit (don't judge me—I need to know what happens to Liza).

Lesson 5

The next morning the captain is inordinately pleased to be allowed to trade the wheelchair in for crutches, although he is still under orders to keep his weight off his leg. The doctors seem surprised that the break is healing so quickly, but it can't be fast enough for him.

When I get to the gym after breakfast, ten new teddy bears have appeared all lined up in a row on the box. I make short work of them while Vision watches and gives "helpful" pointers. Every time he tries to speak, I throw an exploding teddy bear at him, and after the fourth one he gets the hint and lapses into silence.

Soon the floor is covered with stuffing and bits of teddy bear fur, like a scene from the world's most adorable massacre. Just after the ninth bear explodes, the door opens and the captain hobbles in on crutches.

"How's it going?" he asks blithely.

"What do you think?" I snap back.

He looks around and I see him wilt a little. "Oh," he says finally. "Um. . . never mind. Keep practicing!" He turns around and limps out again with a wave over his shoulder.

In frustration, I snap the lines of Chaos out and fling the last bear toward his retreating back. By the time it gets there, the door has already closed behind him, but the bear embeds itself into the concrete wall next to the doorframe. I did not even know that was possible, but there it is.

And then I stomp out the other direction. I hear Vision calling after me, "Wanda, what's wrong?" but I don't answer him because I might accidentally break another one of the windowpanes (which, according to Stark, cost all of the dollars and next time he's going to take it out of my "pay", whatever that means).

I am determined to avoid the captain the rest of the day, which isn't hard because I can hear him coming CLUMP CLOMP CLUMP CLOMP so I just manage to be elsewhere by the time he enters the room.

Lesson 6

The next morning I head down to the gym about 9:10, after a breakfast of coffee because the thought of food makes me faintly nauseous. When I enter I find that Vision isn't there, and the cardboard box full of teddy bears is gone too. In its place sits a tiny stuffed Captain America doll, complete with painted-on cowl and floppy fabric shield.

Biting my lip, I pick up the little doll and stare at it. Whose idea was this? And where did they even get the thing? Someone had to make a trip to a toy store, which I can't imagine Vision doing, and the captain doesn't really seem up to it right now either.

I turn the doll over in my hands and find a little note stuck to its back. "MAYBE THIS WILL HELP" it says in a block-letter scrawl. Where have I seen that writing before? It's not the captain's, or Vision's either.

I carefully sit the doll down on the floor on its bottom. It immediately falls over, so I try again and this time it stays sitting, listing a bit to the right. Once I am sure it is going to stay, I step back into position. It won't take much to throw this lightweight little doll up to the walkway, but I still hesitate. It looks so fragile, and I don't want it to get torn apart like the teddy bears.

Finally I summon the courage to open the door and let a few strands of Chaos through. While I roll them around in my hands, I watch the little doll sitting there still and helpless. Quite unlike the real captain, I realize, who even when he is still, exudes a quiet power that is never helpless.

When I release the red bolt, the doll shoots up into the air, too high—when I wave my hand to the side, it goes flying directly into the upper part of a windowpane, ricochets off, and falls to the floor where it bounces and lands facedown.

"Oh, Captain!" I shout, even though it's only a doll. I run across the room, pick it up and inspect it carefully. At first I think all of its parts are intact, but then I spot a rip in the seam of the right leg, with white stuffing poking through just like bone.

Unexpectedly I burst into tears. Pulling the doll in, I wrap my arms around him and just hold him with my face against the helmet until it is soaked.

I take the little captain doll back to my room and carefully stitch the seam on his leg back together, then sit him on the shelf next to my television. I don't want to practice with the doll anymore. It looks too much like the real thing but not at the same time. Lifeless. Helpless. Things I don't want the real captain to be.

Lesson 7, repeat

After that, the bears return without any comment from either Vision or the captain. I practice with the seemingly endless supply for three more days while I wait for the captain to heal up enough to get the cast taken off (against the doctor's advice), then another three days while he does physical therapy with Natasha in the next gym, getting "back up to fighting speed" as he puts it. Judging by the amount of shouting and cursing he is doing during his therapy sessions, it seems like he should slow down a bit, but does he listen to me? No, he does not.

A/N: coming soon, Lesson 8: There aren't any spells