There had always been a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach when it came to Erik’s children. Even Lorna, who he knew well and adored as if she were his own sister, incited a certain level of jealousy within him. And Scott knew what it was. He understood that watching so many of the people he loved look at Erik as a father, even when Magneto was their enemy, reminded him of all the things he didn’t have, all the things he’d lost. He’d tried to find that so many times over the years. He’d tried it with his biological father who was halfway out the door until his plane went down and he was swallowed up by the same sky he’d always loved more than the family he claimed to explore it for. He’d tried it with Sinister, who’d terrified him but whose approval he’d craved all the same. He’d tried it with Winters, who beaten him brutally and hummed about what a colossal disappointment he was no matter what he did. Scott had loved all of those men, in one way or another, and none of them had ever even attempted to understand him.
But Erik had. Erik had understood him without trying, even when they were on opposite sides of the battlefield. The words Erik was saying had always tempted him, always made him sway in his beliefs even if he wouldn’t admit it to anyone but himself. The things Charles said were inspiring. They were motivating, they were energizing. But the things Erik said were true. And Scott had always wanted a part of that, even when he wouldn’t cop to it. He’d always felt as if he had to earn his place in Erik’s eyes, but Wanda… Her spot came automatically. She didn’t have to ask, didn’t need to inquire. It just was. And Scott found it hard not to be just a little jealous of that.
“Emma’s never been one to pull punches,” Scott agreed, “and she takes a while to warm up to people. But she’ll get there eventually, with you. I’m sure of it.” In the end, Emma would likely come to appreciate Wanda for Erik’s sake if nothing else. It was another thing Scott had fought to earn that Wanda might not have to, another bright spot that came with the title of Magneto’s daughter.
He smiled faintly when she spoke, nodding his head. “Family can be complicated,” he agreed quietly. “I know a thing or two about it.” It felt like a lie, if only because Scott had never known much about family in the biological sense at all. The only person left with any blood relation to him was Alex, after all.
There was more to say, but Wanda didn’t seem interested in conversation. Instead, she was looking at him with a familiar expression. She was touching his arm, she was peering into his mind. And Scott had been here before. He’d had people inside his head for as long as he could remember. There had been the unwelcome presence of Sinister, the looming shadow of Winters, the warm comfort of Jean, the complex snooping of Charles. Scott knew how to lock her out, knew how to shut things down so tightly that she’d never be able to catch more than a glimpse of what was inside. But he didn’t. For whatever reason, he let her look around. He didn’t let her see everything, of course — he kept it to the things she would know anyway. Recent events, publicized events. All tinged in red. And then she pushed just a little deeper, just a little farther…
…And the Phoenix pushed back.
He felt it all at once, the way the bird slammed his walls up where he’d let them down. The Phoenix, he realized all at once, didn’t want her to know it was there. And there was a question there, but Scott was afraid to ask it. He was afraid to consider the consequences. “If there’s something you want to know, Wanda,” he said, “you could just ask.”
/ -.-. / …. / .- / — / … /
The first time she read Pietro’s mind was an accident. The latest experiment had left her ragged and wracked with pain, but Hydra didn’t care. They were still kept apart, a wall of glass between her and her twin. They didn’t want to contaminate their specimens. That’s all Wanda and Pietro had been to them. Rats in a maze. If they died, oh well. If they lived... well, then they could start working for their cheese.
They knew, of course. Everyone in the village had told stories about Strucker and his experiments, in hushed, fervent whispers. It wasn’t like the old fairytales about monsters and werewolves and evil queens. It was the reason parents warned their children never to walk home at night. Her own parents would’ve told her to be in bed long before the sun went down, and Pietro probably would’ve laughed at them, but they would’ve listened. If they had still been alive, Wanda and Pietro would never have... But they were gone. And so Wanda and Pietro had marched right into the lion’s den.
It was the fairytale she heard first. In Pietro’s voice, a little too quick for most people to understand. Jumping through the story, skipping to the best parts, the most dangerous battles and the triumphant victories after certain death. He told them one right after the other, like he was just running through them in his mind. Wanda rolled over after the third, to thank him for telling her the stories, for whispering them into her cell as she lay there, risking the anger of the guards. But when she looked at him, his mouth wasn’t moving. And the story was still drifting into her mind, because he was thinking about them. And that’s when she felt the wish in all of them, that yearning that came only with thoughts, that speech could never really achieve, not this raw. He was thinking about fairytales and wishing he could tell them to her, and the wishing gave every story a life and energy that Wanda had never felt before.
She hadn’t noticed. All those weeks with her phantom Pietro, with her fairytale — there was no wishing in it. There was no heartbeat, no pulse, no breath. Just a picture of Pietro, like an illustration. Paint and ink, but no life.
Scott’s mind didn’t feel that way. Scott’s mind felt very alive, it pulsed and breathed and burned. Burned bright, white-hot, until Wanda was squeezing her eyes shut and severing the connection between them. She pulled her hand back, pressed it to her temples, rubbed her eyes, trying to shake away the burning sensation she still felt. Like an afterglow, fading slowly.
“I’m sorry,” she said, when she could finally flutter her eyes open. She focused on him slowly, feeling off-balance by the weight of his presence. It was suddenly so big, so there. But it was hard to look at him straight on, like she expected his skin to glow. “I had to know for sure. I had to know that you were — that you weren’t like Pietro,” she said softly. She paused a moment, sucking in a breath and holding it. Holding it until the swell of pain subsided and the last of the afterglow faded away. “How did she do it, Scott?” she asked, jaw clenched tight. “How did she bring you back right?”
