Was this how Eve felt when the blame of sin was placed on her shoulders? But Wanda was not Eve, and her Eden was never a garden. Her Eden was a silver haired boy who could go from sucking on a sweet to destroying an army in seconds. It had been her, just like Eve, who had set her own world ablaze. And what was worse, Eve knew she was taking one last work. The witch never had that privilege. And each night she was reminded of that hell.
The cell was small and all that it brought was the creeping images of HYDRA. And panic had begun to set in. What if they got to her within in here? What if Steve would be too late to come, if at all? A small voice reminded her not to think so low, to try and stay in a good state of mind. That voice came in the form of her brother. Sweet Pietro who had left her too soon. She would talk of him at times, only to hear the voice at the other end of the conversation remind her that he was gone and she needed to move past it. But how could she? Death for most was hard. But death when you could feel it happen. When your mind was so wrapped inside of the dying’s. It made you want to run from any emotion, break the world out of frustration. Let yourself get lost to hide the pain. But the only thing she would do was revert back to when she was a child: be empty and gone. Who was there to pull her out now? To throw the rope and tug her away from her own chaotic mind.
Apparently the slamming of glass.
Eyebrows furrowed in confusion before slowly turning in fear that her collar would short circuit at any moment. Green rested upon silver and blue. Strong legs stood as trees as she noted his appearance. There was breath in his chest, a heartbeat she could almost fear. His voice tugged her away from the hell she had found herself to of been. Adam would always be the one to drag Eve back to the true Paradise.
Her voice quivered, she spoke as if the movement of her lips would make him break and disappear back to where she couldn’t follow. Oh how she wished to hold him in her arms. To touch his face and feel his warmth on her own skin. What sort of cruel world was this? A world that did care about its lost children.
She allowed herself to break down, falling to her knees and resting her forehead on the door. “ Why didn’t you come sooner. Why were you gone for so long? Why didn’t you argue with me so I wouldn’t of sent you away. I sent you away. You were gone, I felt it. I had caused it I-… ”
She cut herself off with cries and tears. Commotion happened far away but all she could do was mutter the sokovian word for sorry over and over and over. Her lips became so used to the word, and her eyelashes found a home on her cheek as she refused to gaze upon him again. She did not hear Rogers come in upon the scene. She did not hear the opening of the door. But she sat there and allowed her weakness to boil over. She allowed herself to feel his love again.
Would that they were a story of heroes. Would that they had never heard the name Stark, nor suffered beneath his indirect wrath. Perhaps then, in that idyllic world of impossibilities and childhood hope, they would be happy. Django and Marya would still live, life in their breast and smiles in their eyes; Sokovia would flourish, free of the war that had tainted it so long. The twins would live free and unfettered by the chains of fate, bound not to a cruel organisation with veiled intent ( still the rage boiled in Pietro’s chest at the memory of his discovery, horror and disgust at the truth behind the malicious beast dark and broiling like a cauldron pot. He had subjected his sister to the hands of neo-Nazism, had beseeched her to consider the strength gained by their side. HYDRA were the Nazis of the present, and he had done naught but leapt into their path, taken in by Strucker’s promising words and blinded in the way of the ignorant youth. How his heart, his soul, did beat his brain for being blind to the sickening truth! ). They would never had thought foul of the Avengers, nor stood boldly against messianic Ultron.
The children they were would never have died.
The sight of his sister bound and trussed, no more a human in the eyes of Ross than a patch of dirt on his boot, stirred a mighty rage within the Enhanced. If he were Adam, then she was surely Eve: beautiful and holy beyond all compare. Born of the same soul they were, ribs and hands and hearts shared ‘til cruel circumstance forced them apart -- but then, were they truly? A piece of her had lived on in him as a piece of him had lived on in her, memory’s halls a home to the ghost of siblings past while they had languored in their given bones, laid upon a slab of steel and coerced to a chrome-enamel home branded a hero with the approval of Stark. Pietro had thought himself dead in the care of Helen Cho, dragged from the brink of the world to come and thrust into hell -- not to be refined as silver or tried as gold, but burnt and smouldered for some wicked action Pietro knew not -- but the Raft....the Raft was hell. His resurrection and healing had driven no challenger from his doorstep, but incited it closer, taunted it with fire and flame ‘til it turned it’s baleful gaze upon the eldest Maximoff.
Pietro had thought his goodness established, the giving of blood for the life of an innocent child a noble sacrifice. Why then was he tortured so, returned to a world where naught had changed and the Avengers quarrelled like wild dogs over the right to choose, the right to free will.
It was the way of humanity to have free will, and Pietro would see no foe nor greasy suit impede upon his sister’s freedom of choice.
“Wanda, i--” Foolish arrogant child, how had he not foreseen her woe? He had written to her, scribing out his thoughts in quick, slanting words and relaying to her his continued life. Courage had failed him at the crucial moment, however; how could he shatter his twin’s reality so facelessly, through writing easily doctored or fabricated with a clever enough mind? He cared not for the Avengers, wanted no part in their tin-man war. To dash across seas and continents would be to push himself as he never had before, and for what? To turn beggar at their doorstep, begging for an audience and forced to give an explanation to all? Wanda was the only being who deserved to know he still lived, and Pietro would not dance to the Avengers’ tune.
For Wanda alone had he run to Germany, pounding feet to earth in a tempo exceeding all he had known before. For Wanda had he come and for Wanda had he fallen, government shocks and sonic waves holding him still enough to render him unconscious, a victim to Ross’ cocktail of drugs. But for Wanda, Pietro would always fight, and would ever win.
“Wanda, it’s me.” he spoke, lame in his execution. How did one tell their Lazarus tale with half their soul in such anguish, beset by grief unearthed anew? “It is me, I promise, Wanda; Wanda...” Words no more fled to his tongue as Rogers stepped loyally forward, releasing his sister with no word exchanged save a questioning look, a query to the heart, and steps away to free his other comrades. Pietro dashed forward, all silver streaks and blue ghosts, a hand gently at her neck beneath his sister’s hair and the other tearing at her collar, ignoring the sparks from his own. Blunt nails tore and gouged, flying at the lock in a flurry of tiny punches until it sprang free, flung aside with the bind at her arms in the speedster’s preoccupation with his sister. His hands held at her cheeks, carded through her hair, tugged her close and held her tight in a consoling embrace in a moment’s heartbeat, the soul of the invincible brother howling in joint anguish with it’s sobbing twin. “тишина,” he murmured, a breath among kisses pressed to her hair. “Jа сам овде. У реду, ја сам овде. Не пуштам ништа поново раздвојити нас. Обећавам.”
