#Bruce does not know how deadly Blood Blossoms are

[moonlight-stalker]

# 54

Danny is so scared that Bruce is gonna use the blood blossom on him if he thinks he's bad Danny knows that it would be a painful end so Danny tries to be the best child he can

[ficklefics]

Friends Like These: Chapter Twelve - Truth or Dare

The idea of freedom becomes far more difficult for Harleen to resist.

SERIES MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Chapter Warnings: Biting, blood, bruises, injury

My hand automatically releases his, instead reaching to grab his hair. It’s soft, far softer than I expected, and I thread my fingers through it. His mangled lips are rough against mine, stealing the breath from me, and I can’t help but respond. He releases my jaw and grabs the back of my neck, pulling me impossibly closer. I go to grab him with my other hand, making the handcuffs tug at my wrist, and I realise what I am doing. My eyes snap open, and I bite down hard until I can taste his blood in my mouth. He releases my neck and I push him away from me, scrambling as far back up the bed as I can, my chest heaving. 

“Don’t do that. Don’t you fucking dare,” I seethe, my mind spinning. I can’t think straight. He smirks at my response, rubbing the blood from his mouth and examining it before licking it off of his fingers. Grabbing the glass and plate still sitting on the bed he stands up, going over to the door and banging on it once. It swings open and he steps through, taking a second to look back and examine my still shaking figure. “Just… something to think about,” he muses, casting one final glance over me before leaving, the door locking loudly behind him. I press a hand against my swollen lips, reeling. What just happened? He kissed me. An insane murder, the man that is holding me captive, just kissed me. And? And I kissed him back. Fuck, I enjoyed kissing him. How did it feel? It felt… Amazing. No one’s ever kissed me like that before. Like the only thing that mattered was our lips pressed together. The building could have been on fire and I wouldn’t have noticed. What does that say about me? I’m in too deep. I’ve numbed myself to the normal fear and danger of Gotham, and now I’m chasing that high, no matter the cost. I wasn’t content with what I had, and now… Now, I don’t know if I can trust myself to make the right choice. It’s so tempting to just give in, to let go, be the person Jerome thinks I am; but I can’t. I have to be strong, for my family, for Bruce, for myself.

*

It’s been two days since Jerome kissed me, and I haven’t seen him since. I have been left to sit and think, still restrained to the bed. Twice a day someone brings me a sandwich and water, twice a day someone comes in and takes away the empty dishes, and twice a day I am uncuffed and taken to a toilet across the corridor. They never talk to me, they barely make eye contact, and I don’t try to talk to them. There’s no point. I wouldn’t enjoy it and I wouldn’t get any information out of them. All I do is sit, then sleep, then sit, then sleep some more. If this is Jerome’s way of making me go insane, it’s working.

The monotonous routine is broken when a woman comes in. She’s one of Jerome’s, obviously, but there’s nothing in her hands and nothing to collect. She takes a step forward and pulls out a key. “You’re to come with me. If you struggle I will hurt you.” I nod, knowing that even if I could overpower there’s no way I would be able to escape the building. She comes closer, leaning over me to unlock the cuff around the pipe. Once it’s open she takes my right arm and locks the cuff around it instead. I stand up, legs shaky from lack of use, and she puts one hand on my shoulder in a vice grip. No chance of running. She bangs on the door, which opens to reveal a guard holding a rifle. I think I recognise him; he must have been at the school. She pushes me out into the corridor and begins dragging me to the right. We walk in a straight line for a few minutes, each stretch of hallway identical, until we stop outside of a door. She uncuffs me and opens it, gesturing for me to enter. “You have twenty minutes. Everything you need’s in there.” I narrow my eyes at her, confused, but I go in, letting her close the door behind me. It’s a bathroom. Surprisingly clean, all things considered. A stack of towels sits on the counter next to what I’m guessing are fresh clothes. A quick glance in the shower finds hair products and body wash. I can’t help but suspect that there’s some ulterior motive, but the thought of a hot shower overpowers my concerns. I quickly examine the room, looking for cameras or surveillance equipment, but it seems that I have been left unsupervised other than the guard. I lock the door and press a finger against the mirror sitting above the counter, just in case. It’s safe. I catch a glimpse of myself, and my eyes widen in shock. I knew I probably didn’t look great, but my appearance is worse than I could have imagined. The makeup I’d been wearing has mostly rubbed off, but what’s left is smeared around my eyes and down my cheeks, following the tear tracks from when Jerome choked me. I raise a hand to touch the purple bruises blossoming around my throat, a deadly necklace. As my fingers brush it, it aches. There’s another bruise at my hairline, I’m guessing from falling out of the chair, and a couple of fresh ones scattered along my jaw from Jerome’s hand. My chin is flecked with dried blood, mine and Jerome’s, mixed together into a gruesome artwork. I unbutton my shirt slowly, glancing back at the door. Once it’s off, I see even more bruises running over my shoulder, down my arm, and across my ribs. A brutal painting of pain. I turn on the shower and, after taking off the rest of my clothes, step under the stream of water. It burns. I let the pain wash over me, wiping away the dirt, the grime, the sweat, the blood. But it can’t wipe away him. I can’t stop thinking about the feeling of Jerome’s lips against mine, my hand in his hair, him holding onto my neck. His blood in my mouth. There’s a part of me that wishes I had kept going, had just let go of my fear. It would be so easy. But that’s what he wants, and I refuse to let him get it. I’m nothing if not stubborn.

Before I examine the clothes I grab my bra of the floor and turn it so I can see the back. It only takes a couple of seconds of fiddling for me to pull out one of the wire hooks and straighten it into something resembling a lockpick. Putting it on I slip the piece of wire inside it, making sure it’s completely hidden. Satisfied, I pick up the first item in the pile. Clearly they have their own stock of clothing. A black leather miniskirt that will definitely be indecent when I put it on, and a red mesh top that is completely see through. At least my bra’s black. I hold up a pair of bright blue panties on one finger and grimace at the thought of Jerome’s followers picking them out for me. I put the clothes on, making sure to pull my fishnets back over my legs to at least pretend I’m less exposed. I glance at myself one more time in the mirror, rolling my eyes at how stupid I look. I unlock the door, opening it to find the same woman standing waiting for me. She looks me up and down, seemingly in approval, and she cuffs me again. “Thank you, so much,” I smile at her, oozing sarcasm, and she narrows her eyes. She doesn’t seem to get it. I follow her back to my room (when did I start referring to it as mine?) and let her cuff me to the pipe. She leaves, and as the door swings shut behind her I call “Great conversation! You’ve got some amazing people skills!” Expectedly, I’m ignored.

*

Another day goes by until Jerome returns. When he sees me he lets out a low whistle, clearly admiring my new outfit, and I roll my eyes. “I gotta say, it’s a good look on you,” He spins the chair around and sits, resting his arms on the back of it. “Gross. What do you want?” I don’t bother with niceties, knowing that it’ll only piss him off. “What? I can’t just visit my favourite girl?” He wiggles his eyebrows at me and I clench my jaw, struggling not to laugh at the sheer absurdity of the situation. “No, you can’t.” I watch him carefully, keeping my face as neutral as possible. I can tell he’s waiting for me to slip up, for a crack in my armour, anything he can use against me. He’s not going to get it. “Ah, you got me.” He slams his hands against the back of the chair and stands up, moving to sit on the foot of the bed with his back against the wall and his legs out in front of him. I shift slightly, pretending I’m sitting up straighter when, in reality, I am trying to move further away. There’s not much I can do though. “I was thinking –“ “That’s new.” He looks at me, clearly irritated at my interruption, and I smirk at him. “I was thinking,” He growls, daring me to interrupt again, “You must be getting bored, stuck in this room all day, every day.” “Yeah, it’s almost like someone’s holding me prisoner or something.” I glare at him pointedly. “Okay, point taken. But!” He holds a finger in the air, punctuating his sentence. He’s so overdramatic it’s sickening. “I thought we could play a little game.” “I’m guessing that game isn’t “Let Harleen go”, is it?” “Absolutely not. It’s quite a well-known game actually, you’ve probably heard of it.” I raise my eyebrows at him, prompting him to continue. “Truth or dare.” A sinister smile spreads across his face as he finishes his sentence, and my eyes widen. I know enough about Jerome to know this isn’t going to be as simple as it sounds; he has a plan, something that he wants out of this, but I’m not in a position to refuse. “Fine. Who goes first?” I settle back against the wall so that my legs are pointed towards him. My left arm sits behind me, twisted and uncomfortable. “Me, duh. So,” He leans towards me, edging into my personal space, “Truth or dare?” “Truth.” Logically it’s the safest option, but I know Jerome will twist it to suit him. “Chicken. So…” He lets the word hang in the air, “Have you ever wanted to kill someone?” He looks at me expectantly, trying to gauge my reaction. I keep my eyes on the wall beyond him and will my voice not to shake. “No.” He raises his hand and runs a gloved finger down the side of my face. I resist the urge to cringe away. “I thought we agreed to be honest with each other, Harleen, and I can tell you’re not being honest with me.” I bite my lip, wanting to remain silent, but I know he won’t let me. “It’s the truth. I’ve never wanted to kill anyone.” “But…?” “But I have wanted people to die. Or… or to disappear.” “Like who?” I turn my head slightly to look at his annoying, smug face. “I answered the question. Your turn: truth or dare?” He hums, pretending to contemplate the question, before looking back at me. “Dare.” I only need to think for a moment. I know exactly what I’m going to dare him to do. “I dare you to uncuff me.” “Nice try, babes.” I roll my eyes at the nickname, trying to ignore the slight blush that rises to my cheeks. “is this really your great escape plan?” “Not at all.” No, but it is a step. “I’m not an idiot. I’ve learned my lesson.” I gesture carelessly, bringing his attention to the bruises circling my neck. I don’t miss the way that his eyes linger on my chest. “I’m not getting out of here unless you want me to. But my arm is killing me. What harm does it do to you if I’m uncuffed?” He examines me, trying to figure out what my plan is, and I examine him right back. Despite being alone with Jerome, I’m not afraid. I’m not sure what the feeling is, but it's not fear. For some reason, I don’t think he’s going to hurt me. I’m not safe, I’m not stupid enough to think that, but that part of my brain that makes me go out on the streets, that is fuelled by danger, wants me to be here. “Oh, alright.” He heaves himself up, pulling out a key while approaching me. I furrow my brow in confusion; I hadn’t expected that to work. He leans over me, radiating heat. A rough hand grabs my wrist, his grip bruising, as he unlocks the handcuff. His face is right next to mine. If I were to move a few inches we would be touching. My eyes run over the scars outlining his face, and I resist the urge to reach out and feel them. Once I am released he looks at me, green eyes locking with mine, before retreating to sit back down on the bed. I stand up, rubbing my sore wrist, and stretch the stiff limb, smiling at the satisfying pop of fluid releasing. I look at him over my shoulder to find him reclined on the bed, arms under his head, and watching me. “My turn, I guess?” I know I’m pushing my luck, but the boredom I’ve been stuck with for the past few days is finally dissipating, and I want to stretch this out for as long as possible. “Okay, then. Truth or dare?” I know I should say truth, but once again my words ignore my brain. “Dare.” I bite my lip, but the word has already escaped, and now I must face the consequences. “Oh really?” Shit. Not good. Jerome sits up from his position on the bed, a grin quickly growing on his face. I can’t imagine what he has in mind – I don’t want to. But his expression makes my heart race. His voice is an excited rasp when he finally speaks. “Can you do a handstand?”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

SERIES MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST

[runningonmarvel]

and she didn’t see him

Post IW. Wanda’s perspective. 4k. Scarlet Witch x Vision.

“You could never.”

When Wanda pulls apart, each leathery piece and burnt red hair follicle splitting into a tangled web of ash, she feels it.

She feels what it’s like to be broken down to her most elemental parts, to be spun like silk into her basest form. She feels every single bit of dust peel off her skin and catch the wind. She feels herself getting torn apart. And she tries to scream, but she can’t. Her cry, like the curve of her neck and her pale green eyes, rips apart and dissolves.

She remembers two things as her body betrays itself:

1. We’ve lost.

2. I’m not the only one.

And then her eyelids and her nerves and hemispheres and ventricles all splay apart and she can’t think anymore.

I’m not the only one.

I’m not the only one.

I’m not—

It’s black for so long. Or maybe white, and endless. Her body is gone; her mind is gone too. She is phasing and slipping and becoming herself and becoming nothing. And she shouldn’t be alone but she is.

She used to pretend she knew what death was, with Pietro. They would tell each other: death is the Sokovian prison camps. Death is a metal bullet lodged in your spine, and Tony Stark is the angel that leads you there. Death, he would whisper to her, when Strucker’s eyes were elsewhere, is HYDRA’s blue serum in the bloodstream of an evil man. Death is reliving the same moment, over and over again, until it consumes every last atom in your body.

The same moment.

The same— what moment?

She sees so many faces: first Clint, in Sokovia, with his uniform tight against his skin and his bow strung high. He tells her, like he tells her in every dream, to step out the door. To become an Avenger. And she tries to, but her body is gone, and Clint stares, apologetic, until he himself begins to unravel. Next is Tony Stark, and his eyes are soft with pain. Sorry, he whispers. I’m so sorry, Wanda, I didn’t know. I didn’t know. And she sees herself in Sokovia again, knees collapsing together, weight buckling and energy exploding.

Natasha blinks in on the right side of her gaze, sorrowful. Her hair is red again, and her lips are pursed together as she reaches out one hand to try and take Wanda’s in her own. But she reaches for only air and warmth, no solidity. (Not alone), she mouths. Or maybe her face doesn’t move at all. Maybe she just watches, like she always does. But Wanda hears her.

And then Steve stands in front of her, with his hands gripping his shield. And he tells her, once, twice, twenty times, that this isn’t her fault. His face keeps shifting, from the deep beard across his chin to the clean-shaven Steve she first met. From a pale skinny 1940s boy to a strong, broken man.

The moment—

She sees her parents, then. She sees them getting torn to pieces as she was, shrapnel digging under their skin and escaping by exploding out. Her mother’s blue eyes snap back as her spine jerks apart. And her father’s glasses fall down off his nose and break into ash. A thin blue line traces the inside of their skin, up and down wrists and the inside of their thighs and twirling around their ribs. On that line, they break. They split. It’s like watching fine China crack beneath strong fingertips. They are porcelain. They are broken.

She’s waiting, because she knows who’s next. 

He whispers, across the void, across the world. And her nonexistence tightens around her, like a magnet, because she would know that voice in any galaxy, in any state of death or undying, in any world and any time. 

Some things you never can forget.

“Sister,” he says. And she wants so badly in that moment to be real. To be pushed back together, just so she can touch his arm and make sure he’s there. Her essence is shaking, and she doesn’t have a voice. Pietro, she wants to say. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. And he says back, “It’s not your fault. I wasn’t fast enough.”

I should’ve saved you I should’ve saved you I should’ve—

And now she’s seventeen again and grief is the only emotion that touches her torn edges. She is ripped and bloody like a limb separated from a body. She bleeds, and she bleeds, and she bleeds. Exposed, like Bruce Banner, like a cut nerve.

He’s not fast anymore, just drifting. And his eyes are glazed, slightly.

He doesn’t know, she realizes. And now she starts to scream, knocking on the inside of herself, demanding that her thoughts become tangible. But he just floats in front of her. Her words try to spill out: they’re all gone and I couldn’t save him and I killed him but it wasn’t enough and it’s my fault my fault my fault.

But he doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move at all, and Wanda sees it now. His neck snaps back and his blue eyes go blank and his skin starts to rust and then red blossoms at his collarbone, on his chest and stomach and around his ribs. Rusted red, so much of it that the tiny spots grow into and over each other until he’s all red, until his uniform is gone, until he’s a child huddled underneath a table in Sokovia, until he’s so covered in the color that there’s nothing left of him at all.

And all of that moment three years ago falls onto her shoulders. All of her empty and used up grief wells within her. She misses him. She misses him until the hole in her heart becomes physical: an aching cave, just like Tony Stark’s arc reactor, just like the Tin Man, just like Ultron’s tangle of wires and metal. 

God, she misses his smile and his confidence and the way he used to pick food out of his teeth after meals. She misses arguing with him; she misses saying his name without pain laced inside of it. She misses his body moving like a bullet and his childlike amazement and his protectiveness and his carefree steps. She misses whispering at night and she misses missing her parents with someone else other than just the torrent of mourning inside of her.

And then more faces come, in unidentifiable masses. But she knows who they are. She sees herself in a sweeping green coat, with red power between her fingertips. She sees Lagos. And then she sees those faces detonate, one by one, in front of her. It’s not enough to say she’s sorry. It’s not enough to know, deep within her enhanced bone marrow and blood, that she is guilty. Because the people die anyway: the Wakandans and the Nigerians and all of them. This is the scene she relives every night, in every way. Every single thing she could’ve done differently; every life she could’ve saved.

Wanda never sees Proxima Midnight, or Ultron. 

And she doesn’t see him.

So many souls. But not his.

And she still doesn’t know what moment she is stuck inside; so far, she has seen all of them, each and every shaping person and voice.

Except—

And then the darkness is collapsing around her, shoving her back together, for just a second.

And she’s in Wakanda again. But this time, she’s alone; or, rather, she is apart. She spins around twice, but her bones are thick and heavy like lead. She’s the opposite of what she was moments ago. Instead of nothing, she is everything crushing together all at once. She is all the matter in the universe. She sees everything.

But she doesn’t see him.

Wanda spends eternities like this, shifting but never staying. She sees Tony Stark hundreds of times. She sees Steve Rogers and Captain America and Steve Rogers again. She feels Natasha’s scalp under her hands in the Sokovian base and then she feels herself become the Black Widow, young and afraid and deadly. She watches every single vision in the Avengers’ minds: Tony’s massacre, Steve’s bloody dance, Thor’s screaming nightmare.

And again and again and again, she sees her own worst fear, because it is the only one that has become true. 

The third time she is jerked into Tony’s mind, it occurs to her that his is true now, too.

She’s not living but she’s not dead, because she’s living every moment. And every inch of her wants to wake up, so badly, she wants to vomit and cry and let her power explode out of her. But she felt herself dissolve. She felt her power leave her, just as her body did. She is everything, and she is nothing. Without her powers, without her brother, she feels nothing.

A boy steps into her peripherals, then, and smiles gently down at her. He’s dressed in red, and he looks younger than her. She’s never seen him— no, she has. It almost feels like her irises are shaping and reshaping, in and out of focus. But he looks real: so, so real. Like she could reach out her nonexistent hand and lay it on his arm. And then he speaks.

“If you’re nothing without it, you shouldn’t have it.”

“What?” she says. And it comes out. A word. She gasps— was that air? And then her senses begin to feel it: the raveling back together. The reverse. The beginning, instead of the end. Her bones snap and knead to each other. Her eyes roll around in their sockets. Her senses tune together like an instrument. Her skin is back, soft and muscled and pale. 

The boy steps away, grinning. And she tries to reach for him, but she feels like a supernova. Like she has placed one hand against her chest and pulsed all of her red energy inside of her body. “What?” she says again, her mouth full of cotton.

And when she falls, her body hits solid ground.

“Up, warrior.” It’s a familiar voice, foreign but warm at the same time. Wanda’s eyelids flicker but she can’t draw herself away from the vision. It’s safety, in a way: a world without consequences. A world where, even if it’s only for a tiny moment, she can see Pietro again.

“Wanda,” says another voice, quietly. She knows that voice too, from her time on the run with Cap.

Wanda opens her eyes.

And around her, she sees only orange.

It’s just like the dream-state, in endless color, but this time in a persistent, eye-aching orange. At the top of her sight, the color is pale and faded, but across the horizon it’s a deep scarlet orange.

She wonders, vaguely, how her powers would look against this landscape: bright red clashing with its neighboring hue. 

Above her stand two figures, both dressed in white: T’Challa and Bucky.

“Awake?” Bucky asks. T’Challa just watches.

She’s on her back, and she shifts so she’s sitting up. Like the two of them, she is wearing pure white. Her outfit is reminiscent of the fitted red coat Pietro first gave her, but the lining is stitched to shirt beneath it. The white hem flares out over 

pale white pants; it’s like someone touched her old clothing and drew out all of the color until only blankness remained.

“Guys!” calls a sudden voice. “Scarlet Witch is awake!” 

Scarlet Witch. The media calls her that, when they’re not blaming her for all of her terrible mistakes. When they’re doing that, she’s the “Sokovian immigrant Wanda Maximoff.” The voice now sounds familiar, but she can’t place it.

“Hey, Peter, knock it off!” So many voices. Her legs seem to be in one place now, instead of bouncing around in a million pieces. So she stumbles to her feet and nearly falls before T’Challa gives her an arm of support.

And then she sees everyone.

Everyone.

Circled around her are T’Challa, Bucky, Sam, an assortment of strange looking people all dressed in white costumes like hers, and—

—the boy from her dream.

He’s skinny and baby-faced, wearing a pale white skin-tight suit. And he doesn’t have a mask on, but Wanda remembers him now. From Germany. He’s Stark’s child, the spiderling. And his curious eyes are blinking directly at her.

“What the fuck?” she says. It’s the first thing that makes sense to say.

“Hey, language, Maximoff,” Sam says, moving to cover the boy’s ears. “I know Cap isn’t here, but this kid’s only fifteen.”

“Sixteen,” he corrects. “And about to be seventeen.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t count on that,” someone else says. He’s a brunette with a thin mustache and sideburns. 

“Okay, Mr. Lord—“

“Not my name—“

“People!” T’Challa’s voice rises above their squabble as he gazes around the circle. “We’re all awake.”

“How do you know no one else is coming?” This question comes from another person Wanda doesn’t know— though ‘person’ may be stretching it. She’s tall, with a flared white uniform not unlike Wanda’s own. But her eyes are huge and round in her face, and tapering above her head are two thin limbs she could only describe as antennae. 

“Well, we’re not going to wait for half the universe,” Bucky supplies. “And who are you guys, again?”

“Mantis,” the woman says immediately.

“I am Groot,” comes another voice, this one from— a tree? No, wait. She’s seen him before, in Wakanda. 

“Drax,” says the man next to Mantis. His skin is blue with strange red cracks inked across it.

“Peter Quill,” the mustached man says. 

“Wait, your name’s Peter too?” This comes from the boy, who is staring over at the man in astonishment. “My name’s Peter!”

“You would all do well to stop talking.”

Wanda jerks her head to the right, where a tall figure stands. His pale white cloak hangs behind him, lifeless. Drax jumps to the side, staring at the man in wonder. 

“Okay, so now we have a wizard,” Sam intones. The man doesn’t flinch.

“My name is Doctor Stephen Strange,” he says. “And our task is not complete.

“You,” he says, and spins to Wanda. “You are mystic?” he asks, tilting his head to the side.

“Do you speak of my powers? They are gone.”

“So are mine!” the younger Peter cries. “Not that I have my webslingers, either, but I think my strength is gone too, and—“ “Kid,” Stephen says, spinning around. “Pretend Tony is here, and pretend he told you the adults are talking.”

Peter’s face goes red. Meanwhile, the older Peter surveys the situation with a frown on his face.

“Alright, Strange. I don’t know if she’s mystic, or whatever jargon you’re spewing, but can you tell us exactly what the hell is going on?”

“We’re in the soul stone,” he says, as if that’s an explanation.

“Those dreams!” Mantis says suddenly. Her hands hang awkwardly in front of her. “They were from the stone?”

“Think of it as an “unravelling” of sorts.” Wanda watches Stephen intently. “As Thanos destroyed our physical bodies, the soul stone unwound our souls until we were within it.”

“Wait, hold on. Where’s the rest of half the universe?” Bucky asks. He’s made it here with his Wakandan arm still attached, but even the vibranium is shaded white: proof, Wanda thinks, of the power inside this realm. That it could break down the strongest metal in the universe.

Stephen shakes his head, then points off in the distance to the right. “Miles and miles away, that way.”

“And why are we here, exactly?” the older Peter asks. “Why not with them?”

“Your friend,” Stephen says quietly. 

“What?”

“She has brought us together, here. There are trillions of people over there. We would never have found each other without her.”

“Gamora?” Peter whispers. 

“She who was sacrificed for it holds special power within the stone,” Stephen says.

“So we’re inside of a tiny rock that can fit on Vision’s forehead?” Sam asks, incredulous. But as soon as he says it, Wanda stumbles backward. 

She hadn’t seen him.

“Where is he?” she cries. Her accent is encroaching on her words, but she keeps speaking, panicked. “Vision is not here.” 

There is silence, and then she knows.

She knows like she knew how her life would fall apart when she saw her parents break under that bomb. She knows the same way she knew the world was changing after the first successful injection, when streams of red energy began to crackle around her hands. She knows like Clint knew her, inside and out, in Sokovia, that she would step out that door. She knows like her powers and her soul knew her twin was gone.

“No,” she says, quietly. “The bastard killed him.”

And she is stepping backwards, on the orange ground surrounded by endless orange light and there’s nothing, nowhere that can hide her from this insurmountable truth. Sam and Bucky, T’Challa and Peter, they all watch her with sad eyes, but she can’t see them at all anymore. 

She hadn’t seen hIm. In all her dreams, in all her visions, she had never seen him.

Clint had loved her as she was a daughter. Pietro had loved as she was a sister. And Vision?

I just feel you.

Vision had seen her. Her youth and her powers and her strength and her weakness all at once. Vision had taken her hand in his own, though it was pulsing with energy. Vision held her and spoke to her and protected her and she protected him. They were equals. Not one and the same, as Pietro and Wanda had been. Level and balanced, reciprocated and free. She had chosen Vision. And Vision had chosen her.

In another world, Wanda stumbles into Stephen Strange’s arms and sobs. In another world, she survived the snap and can mourn his body, concrete and real. She still has her power blinking inside of her. She has the ability to feel rage at the world, at Thanos. 

But this is neither of those worlds.

Her hands are in fists against the white cloak, squeezing tighter and tighter, as if the pressure could draw out her power. But the roaring in her veins remains quiet, and locked down.

She had killed him. She had destroyed him with her gift. Her curse. And in the end? In the end it was for nothing. All of her suffering, all of his pain: it earned them nothing but death. In that last moment, the minuscule second before the gem split to pieces and Vision collapsed, Wanda had felt, after all of this, relief. Because she had saved the universe. Because Vision guided her hand to the stone that was his essence and helped her do it. Because Pietro would have been so proud.

And after that, all she felt was bone-crushing, infinite guilt. 

To love someone that can die is to open oneself to pain. And there is no greater pain than this: to be the cause of your own sorrow, to be the catalyst to your love’s suffering. To be judge, jury, and executioner. In Sokovia, the streets were brutal. You didn’t leave the house after 7 if you wanted to come back alive. It was easy to hold a life in your hands; it was easy to be the life being so carelessly handled. After her parents, after Pietro, she should be used to this.

To the air, she whispers, “Everything I love dies.” It has no answer, and she knows this is confirmation.

After the crime, after the killing, Wanda had collapsed to the ground. It seems as all she does is collapse: emotionally, physically, mentally. Even her powers had fallen apart around her. But in Wakanda, she had fallen to her knees. To her forearms. And Thanos still came.

There is a long string of accusations playing through her mind.

Guilty guilty guilty guilt guilty.

In the end, she couldn’t stop him. But she should have. Like with her parents, like with her brother. She wasn’t fast enough. She wasn’t strong enough. If she had given in to Vision only hours earlier, it would have been enough. If she had held off Thanos a moment longer, for Thor to arrive first. If she had been stronger. But she wasn’t.

She never saw him, and there is only a small piece of her that is willing to acknowledge what this means, what it must mean. Not that he’s dead, or dissolved. But that he wasn’t human enough to earn a place among the dead. Among her loved ones. It’s horrific, and raw. But she can’t stop herself from thinking it. So she rolls up the thought like a cigarette stub and throws it away into the void of the soul stone. 

A hand touches her arm, then. Wanda tenses, but the hand is soft against her skin. She turns her head to see Mantis kneeling beside her, with her eyes closed.

“Mantis,” Peter says, “your powers won’t work here.” Still Mantis holds her arm, silent.

“I feel— I feel sadness. Torment. Guilt.” Mantis opens her eyes, and when she does, they are filled with sympathy.

“How?” the spiderling asks. “How are her powers working?”

Mantis’s hand presses deeper into her arm, and Wanda can sense the woman’s swirling power. It’s rich, and warm. Pulsing, almost like Wanda’s own energy signature. Like it’s reaching inside of her, for that dead piece of her that used to be there. Like Mantis could pull the angry red from inside of her. Wanda reaches, and reaches, and gasps from the effort. Her veins, her heart, her compromised and enhanced bloodstream: they all reach back. And she’s so close to contact, so close to the spark, so close to exploding with power. She can see it now— the red would burst, and all of her emotions with it. All of the pain that Mantis feels would splatter against the landscape. She’s so close—

“Stop, sorcerer!”

A rough hand knocks Mantis’ touch from her shoulder. Wanda screams, and the tendrils of power retreat, and she is alone again. Completely and utterly alone.

“Wanda,” says a soft voice. She lifts her head to see Stephen staring down at her. And for once, he doesn’t look assured or certain or confident. He looks— scared.

“I was so close,” she whispers.

“To destroying us all,” he finishes. “Your energy, it’s broken an infinity stone before. And it could do it again. Especially using Mantis, as sort of a shock, like a jump. Your power would split the soul stone from the inside out, killing us all.”

“I was so close,” she sobs. “I just want to see him again.” And Stephen is silent.

Except this is why it hurts: because even if she had done it, even if she had connected, if she had blown herself apart just like her parents, she wouldn’t have seen him. She would have wandered the afterlife endlessly, empty and alone, knowing she killed half the universe. Twice. Pietro would abandon her. Her parents would too, in disappointment. And Vision wouldn’t be there.

Because in her dream she hadn’t seen him. Because his soul never found the soul stone, and it would never find death. Just limbo. 

And she had killed him. 

It’s an endless mantra, proclaiming her guilt. 

She’s so tired of being strong. She should have known it was only a matter of time before her weakness crawled its way to her skin.  

Wanda knows, now, what moment she will be forced to relive. Again and again, until the end of time.

Like Pietro said: it really is death. Because he dies. And she dies. Every time, in every world, she kills him. And she kills him. And she kills him.

And she hadn’t seen him. And she never does.

[avenging-fics]

Blossom ~ An Avenger’s Story (10/15)

AU Summary: Pietro and Jack encounters a deadly situation in the Avengers Tower.

Notes: oh boy! a chapter update! after many aeons of waiting! FINALLY! lmaoo  also i’m not putting in any gifs for the time being. internet is slow i cry yes

Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 (coming soon)

MASTERLIST

Pietro agreed to babysit Jack.

And he was more than happy to do it.

It wasn't exactly an official Avengers mission but Fury had informed them all that Y/N and everyone else would have to attend the meeting at SHIELD compound. Everyone except those who just got back from a mission. Like Clint and Steve. And of course, Pietro, who was on babysitting duty.

Before they left, Y/N and Bucky had told them both that they have to stay in the tower at all times. No walks outside the building. No visitors. No nothing. Pietro would roll his eyes but he understand that when it comes to Jack, everyone in the Avengers is very protective of him. Especially the Sanguine. And the Winter Soldier. Pietro's gonna have to answer to them if anything ever does happen to Jack. That's his parents. And Pietro does not want to cross either of them. No one does.

So the two just stayed at the tower, watching movies, eating junk food, playing video games and in the words of Pietro, they were just "being bros", in which Wanda and Tony laughed at.

They made sure to stay out of Steve's way though. He just got back and it seemed like something was bothering him. He rarely speaks and always has a frown on his face whenever Jack is in the room. So Pietro thought it would be best if he would just place the kid away from Steve for the whole day. It wouldn't hurt anyone.

For the remainder of the day, Pietro and Jack had fun. They were, indeed, bros. Pietro never had a little brother before and it was a great thing for him to spend the time with Jack. He played with him and had Jack on his shoulders whenever they need to walk to another part of the tower. And Jack would love it. Pietro was his big brother.

"I'm gonna get more juice." Jack said, standing up from the couch and walking over to the kitchen just behind them.

"Need help, tiny soldat?" Pietro asked, his eyes still glued to the screen in front of them.

Jack shook his head. "Nope. I can do it," he said. But when he opened the fridge the pitcher of orange juice wasn't there. He looked around and finally located it on top of the counter. Now, Jack didn't want to bother Pietro. And he was a gentleman. When he said he can do it, Jack is going to do it. That's what he was taught.

So, grabbing the nearest stool, Jack climbed up the counter and reached out for the pitcher. Then he poured himself a fresh glass of orange juice.

That's when he noticed it. There was a little bit of a red spot in the glass where he drank. Right on the rim. He wiped his mouth and saw the same tint of red smeared in his arm. It was blood.

Pietro ran towards the kitchen when he heard a loud crash and saw a broken glass on a puddle of juice. Next to it was Jack, standing and looking up at him with such wide and confused mismatched eyes. With bloodstains on his nose and his arm.

"Oh no." he mumbled, running to get the phone to call Y/N and carrying Jack towards the Dr. Banner's laboratory. He wasn't crying which bothered Pietro greatly. Jack was staying still and unmoving with his eyes not bothering to blink. Not even once. He was in a trance and Pietro was unsure on what was wrong as his pulse quickened almost as fast as his speed.

"Pietro? We're almost done with the meeting. Tell Jack we'll be home soon." Y/N's voice answered from the phone.

"No, no. You have to come back now. Something's wrong with Jack. He was bleeding and he stopped moving and I don't know what happened and I----"

That was all Pietro had to say for the call was dropped immediately. There was something jamming the signal and all he could hear was static. Cursing out loud, Pietro threw the phone across the laboratory and yelled out for Steve. He was the only other person in the building.

With Jack laying down on the table, still unwavering from his trance, Pietro tried using FRIDAY to contact anyone and everyone. But the signal was still blocked. Soon, Captain America arrived at the laboratory with eyes quickly landing on Jack.

"What the hell happened?!" Steve yelled out.

"I don't know! He just left to get juice but I found him like that in the kitchen!" Pietro explained, "I tried calling Y/N or Tony or anyone but I can't hear anything!"

"What?" Steve looked at Pietro.

"We can't contact anyone."

"That's impossible."

Pietro shook his head, "All I'm getting is static."

"No. The Avengers Tower is impregnable. That can't happen." Steve told him, looking at the computer screens in front of them. Then just as he said that, the power went out. They were surrounded by darkness. Pietro ran quickly to Jack's side, prepared for whatever might come. After a few seconds, the computers and the emergency lights turned on.

"I apologize, Captain Rogers. My systems has been compromised so I had to reboot." FRIDAY's voice finally spoke to them.

"Compromised? How?" Steve asked.

"It seems that a virus has entered my data and caused complications on my communications and program. I have alerted Mr. Stark and I've received a message from Miss Y/L/N."

FRIDAY played a voice recording from Y/N that said, "Pietro? Pietro?! What is happening? No Bucky the call was dropped. We have to go. Now. Jack's in trouble."

Steve knew that Y/N must be worried sick right now. It was apparent in her tone. They're on their way. He looked over at the child and saw no movement except the rise and fall of his chest. He was alive but what is going on? How did a virus get inside FRIDAY's systems?

"Keep an eye on Jack." Steve ordered Pietro.

"I'm not leaving here. Don't worry." he replied, watching Steve walk out the lab, checking to see if anyone was here. No one else should be. Reaching the main foyer, Steve held a gun that was hidden in one of the cabinets and positioned himself in front of the elevator. Someone was on their way up.

Steve watched as the numbers go from 0 to the floor level that he was in. And when the elevator dinged, He pulled up his weapon, ready for whoever was on the other side.

"Jesus! Steve?"

"Y/N?" he looked around the elevator and saw his teammates. Quickly lowering down his gun, he went with everyone else as they ran to the laboratory with Y/N and Bucky in the lead. Banner, Natasha and Wanda followed behind.

"What happened? What's with the gun?" Bucky asked his bestfriend as they ran.

"Signal was jammed, FRIDAY malfunctioned so I figured someone must've been behind it." he explained. "Where's Tony?"

"On his way."

Steve noticed how Bucky's hand was holding Y/N’s the whole time. They never let go, not even once. And right when they reached the lab, Steve slowed down to a stop just in front of the door while everybody else rushed in.

Bruce was quick to his feet and examined the boy immediately. before grabbing his equipment and went right to work. Y/N followed every ordered thrown at her by Banner and so did Bucky. Wanda stayed close to her brother assuring him that nothing was his fault. Pietro took care of the child and this was out of his control.

Soon enough, Tony landed in the balcony and got out of his Iron Man suit, rushing in to put Bucky and Y/N aside and helping Bruce with Jack. And once again, Y/N's hands found Bucky's.

And Steve can no longer ignore the pain in his chest when they do that.

He ran out.

******

Y/N had to force Pietro to go to bed that night. He sat next To Jack's bed the whole time as he kept apologizing to her.

"It was not your fault." she kept saying, smiling softly at how sincere he was being. After all, Jack was almost like his younger brother now.

When Tony and Bruce had worked on Jack, they found his heart rate so high even in his statue-like state and they had to do something to slow it down. They injected the boy with sedatives and Y/N hated the sight of it all. That was his baby. And something was wrong with him. She had to fight back tears but when she couldn't handle anymore, Bucky was there. And thank God Bucky was there. He loves Jack just as much as she does and he will always protect them both from any harm.

Imagine their relief when Jack's eyes closed slowly as he slept peacefully and was visibly moving again. He was fine.

The team had to transfer the child to his room and Fury even sent a trusted physician to check up on him. They weren't going to put him into any hospital. Jack was special in many ways. He has to be protected. Especially now.

Something has happened.

Something new.

Something in him has triggered a reaction. What was it? No one, not even Tony or Bruce knows.

******

"Captain Rogers."

Steve looked behind him. There shouldn't be anyone in this place. He was in an old abandoned bar next to an older building in a secluded part of the city.  "Who are you?"

"An informant." said the woman in a black coat.

"What do you want from me?"

"I think the better question is what do you want that I can offer you?"

"Trust me, you can't give me what I want." he turned around and took a gulp in his drink.

"I know how you can get Sanguine." she said, making Steve pause. How does she know about that?

Steve lied. "I don't want her."

"You love her."

Suddenly, he stood up and faced the woman. "Who are you really?"

"You know us quite well. Don't worry." she smiled. "We only want what's ours."

HYDRA, Steve thought, instantly on high alert. There could be more of them here. If he can figure out where some of the snipers are located, maybe he can use this woman to shield him or at least bring out the attack team waiting somewhere, maybe in  the far side of the wall or out in the back. Maybe he can u-----

"There's no need for strategies, Captain. We don't want any trouble. It's just me for tonight."

"I'll ask this again." Steve yelled out louder, not trusting this woman's words about being by herself. "What do you want from me?"

"The Master Icarus." she answered. "A weapon helped created by HYDRA, a weapon that is rightfully ours."

She stepped forward.

"I want that child."

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