Flying lessons
Or: How to throw Captain America through a window, in 10 easy lessons
Lesson 9: Steve Rogers gets broken (this one may not have been an accident, sorry)
I don't see the captain at all the rest of the day. When I ask Natasha about him, she says he's been in the gym all day, which is exactly the place I don't want to be.
"Do you think he's ready to go back to training?" I ask her.
Natasha shrugs. "I've told him he should take it easy, but he thinks he's ready."
"He wants to pick up where we left off."
She takes a deep breath and lets it out through her nose in a huff. "I know you don't know Steve very well yet, Wanda, but you'll learn that once he sets his mind on something, it's impossible to talk him out of it."
"So you think I should go along with it?"
"I didn't say that. You do what works for you. I'm just saying you're fighting a losing battle if you think you can get him to give up." And then she sashays out without a backward glance, leaving me glaring at her back.
I sneak my dinner in a comfy little nook on a sunny corner of the roof, where I have an unobstructed view of the surrounding countryside. This would be a good place to watch the sunrise, I realize. The only building I can see is a dilapidated barn far off in the distance. It's peaceful. Hard to believe anything bad can happen in the world in a place like this. I sit and soak it in until long after the sun has set behind me and I'm half-frozen. It's then that I discover a neatly folded blue woolen blanket tucked back into a corner, so I wrap it around myself and sit there for at least another hour in the gathering dark, until the mosquitoes finally drive me inside.
When I get back to my room, the shattered bits of my old TV have disappeared and a new TV hangs on the wall in its place. On the small shelf next to the TV sits the little Captain America doll, carefully propped up on its bottom. I turn it around to face the wall before I get into bed. It's on time out, just like our mother used to do to Pietro when he wouldn't obey.
I wander into the main gym after 6:15 the next morning, dressed in my usual street clothes instead of the comfortable workout clothes Vision gave me. I was ready to go at 5:35, but it took me over a half hour of arguing with myself to convince myself that I was really going to do this. I finally got up and moving after realizing that without this team, without Captain Rogers, I would be back out on the streets, only this time without Pietro at my side.
He's already standing in the middle of the gym when I enter, shield at the ready. No cowl this time, not that it did a very good job of protecting him anyway. "You're late," he says briskly. His face is set and his tone is even. All that little-boy excitement is gone; it's all business and grim determination now.
I just shrug. I'm not going to apologize when I don't even want to be here. After a moment of stare-down (which I think I win because he looks away first), he says "Fine. Let's get started."
"Fine," I reply tightly. My fingers are buzzing already, but I am determined as well, determined to keep control no matter what. I will do whatever it takes to prevent him from flying through a window again. He might not be so lucky next time as to walk away with a few scrapes and bruises.
I open the door only a tiny sliver and allow through enough Chaos to lift him up into the air and gently set him down again. He is never out of my grasp the entire time.
Once he is back on his feet again, he scowls at me fiercely. "Again!" he barks. "Harder!"
So I do it again, exactly the same. He can make me practice, but he can't make me put him in danger. I won't do it. I won't.
This time he stomps across the floor toward me. "Come on, Wanda!" he orders. "Stop holding back!"
I can feel the control slipping, but I won't let it go. I WON'T. "I can't!" I shout back.
He is in my face now. His brow is furrowed and the partially healed scrape on his chin has turned bright red. "Yes, you can! You have to do this! I can't have you on my team if I'm not sure—" he suddenly breaks off and takes a stumbling step back, eyes flicking to the side as if he's said too much. And he has. My resolve starts to crumble in the light of the truth, that he doesn't want me, he never wanted me.
"Not sure which side I'm on?" I snarl. "Isn't that what you meant?" I can feel the rage coursing through my muscles, down my arms to the tips of my trembling fingers. Behind the door, the Chaos waits like a coiled snake, ready to strike. He says nothing, but he is breathing hard and fast.
"It is, isn't it?" I demand.
"I—I didn't—" But he's lying, I know he's lying, just like he lied when he said he was training with Sam. Just like every time he said he was fine when really his ribs were BROKEN and he was covered in goddamn bruises. Just like when he said I was part of his team no matter what.
"YES YOU DID!" I scream. My determination to maintain control is gone, and in its place is red hot fury, which is all the invitation the Chaos needs. The door flies open, and the bolt speeds down my fingers and flings him backward, like a puppet on a string, until he slams into the wall.
CRASH!
As I aim the next strike, he goes into a crouch with the shield up to protect his body. But it can't protect him from ME. The Chaos will work on the shield just as easily as on him.
"Wanda, control it!" he shouts in a strained voice. The top of his blond head peeks up above the shield, presenting a nice target for the rage that courses through me.
"You wanted to see what I can do!" I roar. "I'm showing you!" The bolt of Chaos grabs the shield and drives it forward, into his face. The sharp edge slices into his cheek, just below his eye.
CRASH!
I see a bright spurt of blood before he ducks down again, still trusting the shield to protect him, but it can't. NOTHING can protect him from me.
"Control it!" he cries. But I don't stop. Won't stop. Can't stop. The Chaos shoots out and slams him into the wall again.
CRASH!
"Wanda! Stop!" There's panic in his voice now. Fear. I know what he fears. Captain America fears not belonging, being left out, left behind. When I did the hex on him before, that fear paralyzed him, left him writhing on the floor, hurt him much more than any physical wound would.
Then, I didn't even know him. He was just my nameless, faceless enemy. I didn't care what I did to him. Now. . . he is my friend, or was. But I am past caring. I do the unthinkable. The unforgivable. I violate him in the only way that will truly hurt him. I drive into his mind to find that fear and use it against him. He fears not belonging? I will show him not belonging!
But I find something different, something I didn't expect. . .
The captain is kneeling on a grimy sidewalk, but not as I know him. He is very small, tiny, with a floppy lock of dirty blond hair hanging down over his forehead. His upturned face is filthy and bruised, eye swollen nearly shut. Images flash past, so quickly that I can barely process them before they are gone:
Sam spiraling down out of the sky, with flames and a plume of black smoke spouting from one wing. . .
Tony hit with some sort of weapon that shoots a cloud of dust, which envelops him and melts the very skin from his face, leaving him a grinning red skull. . .
Colonel Rhodes lying sightless on the ground, his War Machine suit scorched and broken. A large chunk of concrete falls from a damaged building and crushes him.
CRASH!
The chaotic scene wavers, disappears, and is replaced by a kitchen with a chipped white enameled stove and worn tile floor. His skinny body is huddled under a wooden table, with an overturned chair pulled in front of him like a shield. Tears track down his thin face and drip off his chin. His breathing is loud and fast; his shoulders rise and his belly sucks in with every inhalation. Over the breathing comes the sound of a man's raised voice, and through the legs of the table, I can make out the blurry shapes of two people—a man in scuffed brown workboots and frayed gray striped trousers, and a woman in a blue skirt and low heel. The man holds the woman's arm in a tight grip and shakes her violently.
"You stupid cow!" the man shouts. "This is the third dinner in a row ruined. I think you're doing it on purpose." The woman murmurs something in response, her voice pleading, but I can't make out the words. "Bitch!" he yells. Far above me I see his arm pull back as if for a blow.
Suddenly the tiny boy is a blur of movement, bursting out from under the table and leaping up to grab the man's upraised arm. "It was my fault!" he cries. The man's face, purple with rage, turns toward the boy, whose eyes widen in fear but he does not let go of the man's arm.
The man screams "Horrid little bastard!" with a line of spittle flying from his angry slash of a mouth. Releasing the woman, he grabs the boy and slams him back onto the table, which sends dishes and scraps of food flying.
"George, please! Leave him alone!" the woman pleads, but he shakes off her placating grasp. While the boy gasps and chokes, the man raises his fist to strike.
CRASH!
In a flash, we are back at the chaotic street scene. Natasha is running toward him, when suddenly shots ring out and bright blooms of blood spout from her stomach and neck. She falls forward, hand reaching out. The boy runs toward her, but he can't reach her before she lands like a broken doll, hair splayed out around her head, covering her face.
CRASH!
The scene changes. Now the boy is older, still too thin and slight, pants several centimeters too short, blond hair hanging in his face, which sports several yellow-green bruises. He races up a set of rickety stairs in a blind panic, lungs burning, late late late too late getting home from Bucky's house, George will be home already and he's too late. He can hear them arguing from the top step, flings open the scuffed door to find that the man has the woman pushed up against the wall with his hand around her throat.
The boy grabs the man's arm and tries in vain to pull him off. "Let her go!" he shouts hoarsely.
The man turns bloodshot eyes on the boy without releasing the woman. "Where've you been?" he slurs drunkenly.
"I was skipping school!" The boy cries in desperation. It is a lie. He will say anything to deflect the man's attention from the woman, who is digging at the fingers wrapped around her throat. What else can he try? "I'm failing math!"
This has the desired effect. The man releases his grip on the woman, who doubles over gasping and choking, and grabs the boy instead by both shoulders. The boy's head snaps back as the man slams him against the wall.
CRASH!
Back to the street. Now I see myself, with bright lines of Chaos shooting from my hands, attempting to hold off an attacker who is several times my size. The boy cries out "WANDA!" Suddenly I am hit from behind by a bolt of energy that knocks me flat and leaves me twitching on the broken concrete.
CRASH!
Another change, now a dirty alleyway behind a rundown brick building. The boy, slightly taller but still slim and sickly-looking, with a reddish-purple scrape on one cheekbone, creeps along the pitted pavement, one hand trailing against the rough wall, toward a car: cherry red with wagon-spoke wheels, long nose, and a squared-off black top. The car is held up precariously on a jack, with a pair of legs sticking out from under the side—frayed gray striped trousers, scuffed brown workboots. The sounds of cursing and a metallic clanging float out.
The boy creeps closer. His jaw is set and his lips are pressed together into a determined line, but his eyes—his eyes are desperate, terrified. His pale, trembling hand reaches out toward the car.
CRASH!
The sound of the captain screaming breaks the hex and brings me out of the trance. I stand wavering on my feet and stare at the crumpled figure in front of me. The shield has slipped down, his hands are clamped over his ears, eyes scrunched closed and mouth open.
The scream fades, and the captain's head snaps toward me. His eyes open wide with terror, his irises still stained red from the hex. For a moment the only sound is his stuttering breathing, loud and fast. His shoulders rise and his belly sucks in with each noisy inhalation. Then suddenly he scrambles to his feet, slipping and stumbling on the hard gym floor, drops the shield which lands with a solid thunk, and bolts.
He is out the door and around the corner before I even am able to gather myself enough to react. What the HELL did I just see?