For @littlestartopaz : Steve
catches Wanda sulking and invites her to Disney Night with Nat and Clint. Wanda teases him, and Vision ends up there
too. Better yet, not MCU so we can also
have her brother. Or just ignore that
part of the MCU.
GOOD.
Also, Quicksilver is alive and healthy after a while in a healing coma,
as speedsters do. I read a wild AU once
where he was shot and died, and the comments were full of complaints about how
it didn’t make sense. I am RIGHT THIS
MOMENT deciding that this fic and this and this and possibly some others with small tweaks exist in the
same universe as this one
(I do not have a timeline to speak of) and also I’m disregarding that same wild AU’s belief that
Clint lives? On a farm? Rather than a shitty apartment building in
NYC and the Tower/Mansion? And that Nat and
Clint are not soulmates on a level that makes romance look downright petty,
kay-thanks-bye. AND also I’m so glad we
all remember how Wanda and Pietro were kids who were pressganged and conned
into service of HYDRA rather than being voluntary recruits.
It wasn’t like Wanda had expected her relationship with Pietro to be all
roses after he came out of his coma, but her worry had also done a spectacular
job of blurring out some of his less desirable qualities as a brother. Like, just for example, his overwhelming, pointless, overprotective bullshit. She muttered a bitter Sokovian curse under
her breath and stripped off her jacket, dropping it on the bed without a care
for the soot that would certainly stain her sheets. The rest of her uniform was given the same
careless treatment, abandoned on the floor as she yanked on a pair of leggings
and a soft shirt two sizes too big.
She wasn’t even sure who she was more frustrated with—Pietro, for
yanking her out of the way of a spider ‘bot that she could have taken care of,
or herself, for losing focus for long enough to let him take the hit for her. Someday, he was going to suddenly realize
that his fragile twin sister had gone and turned into an adult while he was
busy fending off the world. She hoped it
was sooner rather than later, or she might have to beat it into him. Assuming he even lived that long, which was
beginning to look increasingly unlikely.
“Stupid nervous bastard,” she muttered in English, and flopped down on
her bed, flat on her back with her fingers laced over her face. “Martyr.”
“Hazard of the profession,” Steve’s voice said, amused. Wanda turned her head, untangling her fingers
to look toward the door, where Steve was leaning against her doorjamb. He was dressed in sweats and a t-shirt,
standard fare for any of them after showering upon returning from a
mission. His hair was a rumpled mess and
he had a nasty purple and blue bruise marbling over one cheek, where Bruce had
diagnosed a cracked zygomatic. In
combination with the blood that had been leaking from a split in his lip,
Natasha had cheerfully commented that he was looking very patriotic indeed.
“Put ice on your face,” she said, frowning at him across the landscape
of her comforter. Steve grinned at her,
and winced, raising the cold pack in his hand back to his cheek.
“Like I said,” Steve said. His voice
was muffled, but his eyes were bright and wild with adrenaline, like blue fire. “We’re all fucking martyrs, or so I’m told. Your brother just wants to keep you safe.”
“Well, I just spent months at
his bedside because he took eight bullets to the chest and severed his spine,”
Wanda said, sitting up sharply. “So he
can get over it.”
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