Archive of Our Own ^beta

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You were yelling about something, I don’t really remember. You weren’t mad at me, I knew, you were angry at our situation. So was I but you were always the more vocal one. I had been, and always would be, the stand-to-the-side quiet one.

We had both been walking on a tightrope above all of our problems and it was getting thinner every day. I knew one of us had to fall eventually and that we would take the other with them, but I always thought it would be me to fall first – you were stronger than me after all. Losing your job at the food stand broke the string I guess, and for once, you fell first. The measly income from that wasn’t much but it was half of what we had to live on. At that point, I was so glad to have convinced you to let me get a job too; otherwise we’d have completely starved that month.

At some point, I started shaking. I hadn’t realized until you noticed and had already put your arm around my shoulders and spoke softly in my ear, “Calm down, it’s alright. I didn’t mean to upset you,” You squeezed me close to you and pet my hair as I began to cry.

I was so caught up in that moment. I hadn’t cried like that in a while then, so when I broke, so many years’ worth of suffering poured out. I cried for our past and our parents and the kids we had been when they were taken from us. I cried for the present and what we were going through and the kids we still were. I cried for the future and what I knew would be harder times ahead and for the people we would inevitably become. You let me cry it all away until my head hurt and my throat was raw from pained moans.

After a while, what felt like an eternity – what I’d hoped to have been an eternity, my sobbing quieted and you said, “We’ll get through it,” again in just a whisper. You pressed your lips to the side of my head then added, “You’re so much stronger than this; than me. I know you don’t think so right now, but you are.”

You taught me the courage of stars before you left

“We have to be brave until things get better,” You squeezed my shoulders for emphasis, “They will, I can see it. You’re going to realize one day, just how powerful you are, and you’re going to be able to do anything you want. Leave me in the dust is what you’re going to do,” You laughed, trying to get me to do the same but I wasn’t in the mood.

So you continued, “What I’m saying is, we have to keep living,” You knew what was going through my head, you could always tell. You knew that I sometimes thought that it would all be easier if I didn’t exist – if I didn’t keep living. But you always said something or did something that would pull me away from those thoughts. I told myself that you were the reason I kept going. That if I ever lost you I would die too.

How light carries on endlessly even after death

I don’t feel that way now. I’m still living like you told me to. It still hurts like I lost a piece of my heart. But it isn’t as bad as it used to be. You taught me enough then that I’m still going on. I’m still trying to be brave like you asked. It’s hard; oh, it’s so hard sometimes. And there are days like before where I want to give up; I don’t have you here to comfort me like back then but I’ve grown close to a few other people now and they’re helping me along. But it isn’t the same, it will never be.

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When I finally saw you again, we were both exhausted. I was both physically and mentally drained, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what I had done to that guard. It was horrendous; I was horrendous. I couldn’t believe I had done that to him. I was so scared; scared of hurting someone like that again, scared of my new powers, scared of what I could do, scared of myself.

I saw you at the opposite end of the corridor one moment and you were right next to me in the next. I hadn’t gotten used to that yet, and at the time I didn’t think I ever would. I tried to bury what I had gone through that day, hide it from you. But you saw my hesitation.

“Wanda, are you alright?” your voice drowned in worry even though you seemed just as worn out as I – obvious in the way your breathing was hard and ragged. I wondered just how bad I was at hiding things from you. I supposed it was because I had never had anything I felt I needed to keep from you before.

You were panting, exhausted; I didn’t want to know what they had put you through and a pang of anger rose at the possibilities. The emotion made whatever they had put in me stir so I forced it back down with effort. I didn’t want to make you worry about me so I lied, “I’m fine, Pietro. We need to get you some water,”

I started to turn around but you put your hand on my arm, “After you tell me what’s wrong,”

You were looking at me with pain in your eyes, you knew I had lied to you and it hurt. I’m sorry; I want to say that now, for everything. I decided right then to never lie to you again. It felt wrong, like I was betraying a part of myself. “I- They- They’re so harsh,” I could feel the familiar closing of my throat and the tears behind my eyes as you pulled me into a hug. “I’m- I hurt so much. An-and I’m s-so scare-ared,” I cried into your chest.

I hadn’t so much as sniffled when I was training; I didn’t want them knowing I was weak. But now that it’s just us I let my tears flow freely.

“We’ll get through this,” I heard you say into my hair. You said that to me a lot back then and I’m only now realizing that it was maybe for yourself as much as it was for me. You seemed so much more mature even though I was nine minutes older than you. I looked up to you, I still do. But maybe that’s why I couldn’t see that you were just as scared as me.

Your breathing was still abnormal but you kept talking.

With shortness of breath you explained the infinite

You told me again that we had to keep living because it was a gift. That our lives may be hard now but that if we just keep going, it will get better. That just having the courage to live was a thing of wonders.

How rare and beautiful it is to even exist

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I woke up from a nightmare, sweating and panting. I had another really bad day that afternoon and it was over-lapping into my dreams. I glanced over at the bed next to mine, watching your chest rise and fall. You were sleeping – you were still alive. I released the breath I didn’t know I was holding, relieved, and tried to calm back down.

I lay awake, focusing on your breathing but it was cold and I couldn’t go back to sleep. I didn’t want to wake you but I got up anyway, my terror over-powering my politeness. And anyway, I had been crawling into bed next to you a lot ever since the- the experi- …since getting our powers. You didn’t seem to mind, but still, I hesitated. You were after all, going through the same things I was and I didn’t want to add “needy sister” to the list of things you were dealing with.

As soon as I put weight on your bed, you woke up. “…Sis?” you asked, your voice wasn’t groggy and sleep ridden. You sounded alert and possibly shocked and I worried for you so much in that moment; it was a physical pain I could feel in my chest.

“Yeah,” I answered and your body visually relaxed. You used to be a heavy sleeper; I could poke and prod you for five minutes before you woke up. But now it’s different; now you’re always on edge. It makes me nervous and a little frightened. You used to be carefree too. I used to be more carefree.

Once I was situated in your arms, I immediately felt safer. Sleep didn’t seem impossible anymore, but I was still shaken from my nightmare. “Tell me again. I don’t feel brave,” I prompted in a small voice.

I couldn’t help but ask for you to say it all again

I stared at my empty cot, the room illuminated by the almost-full moon shining in through the single window; always trying to commit these moments to memory but I could never remember your exact words. I could never get the feeling out of my chest though – the blooming flower of hope and courage, the light that always got brighter when you were around.

I tried to write it down but I could never find a pen

Chapter Text

Right now, lying in a soft, warm bed without you, I feel a little empty. A little bit like I might not want to exist if I don’t hear your voice soon. I’ve been courageous; I’ve been living, for two years now – without you. Nights like these, when I think about how good my life is now, are the hardest. Mainly because I want you here, experiencing the easy days with me.

Steve says he’s “always here if you need to talk,” and I know he went through similar things to us. That he struggles some nights, he misses someone like a piece of his heart like I do. But he’s not you and he’ll never be able to replace my twin. I know that’s not what he’s trying to do because he understands that it doesn’t work, but I can’t help but feel like if I move on and let go, I’ll forget about you.

Anyway, Steve is going through a lot right now – looking for his friend and all. And I don’t want to bother him; or any of them for that matter. Steve’s friend, Sam, is a counselor of sorts and deals with lots of people with PTSD but even though I should probably be more open with him, I still feel like an annoyance. Even Natasha once said that she’ll listen if I ever want to talk but she’s so strong and I don’t like feeling compared to that. They’re all so nice, but not enough, not like you.

I just wish you were here with me, to remind me how to be brave.

I’d give anything to hear you say it one more time

I wish you were here to remind me how to see the world as a beautiful thing instead of all the pain and suffering I see now. I wish you would tell me…

That the universe was made just to be seen by my eyes

Chapter Text

I’ve been thinking about you a lot recently. So much has happened and I feel like I’ve started back at square one. I’ve killed and hurt so many people recently; I don’t like to think about it. Steve tells me constantly that it wasn’t all on me – that he had a part in it, and I want to believe him so much. But he doesn’t know the speech you would give me when I was feeling down; how could he? I don’t even know it word for word and I’ve listened to it so many times.

Steve found his friend – the one with the metal arm who killed as many people as I have. But he didn’t have control over himself, they were brainwashing him. I did; I knew what I was doing. His name is Bucky, Steve tells me, and he’s in cryofreeze now because he doesn’t want to hurt anyone else. Sometimes I wish to ask T’Challa if he would put me in a cryochamber – so I could sleep for months, years. But he’s already keeping us hidden from the rest of the world and I could never ask, for fear of it adding another burden on his weighed down shoulders.

I want to do something nice for Steve, to repay some of the kindness he’s shown me and help remove some of the worry from his mind. I’ve been thinking about how he’s been searching for a cure to his friend’s years of brainwashing and I think it’s me. I’ve found that I can reach into people’s minds and change things. I don’t like to practice but I can do it. I wish I could reach into my own mind and pull up the memories of you – burn them into my brain so I never forget any of the words you ever said to me, but I can’t, I’ve tried; it only works on other people.

If you were here, you would try to stop me from even offering and I’m sure Steve or someone else has thought about it but doesn’t want to ask because they’re too nice, or too scared. But now I’m walking to Steve’s room, where he spends most of his time when he’s here and not out hunting down some remote island to get some strange wisdom that will probably end up being another wild goose-chase, and it’s too late to back down.

I knock on his door, and then wait. I can’t hear anything through the door; all the walls and doors in this place are so thick. But then the door opens to reveal a particularly haggard looking Steve Rogers. Even though it’s five in the morning, he doesn’t look like he’s just woken up; he appears to have more recently crawled out of a hole than out of bed.

“Hi,” I say, trying to sound brave and casual.

“Hey,” he says in return, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He doesn’t smile a lot anymore and the halls are quiet when he walks them. T’Challa tries to engage him in conversation but the only time Steve will talk to him is when it’s about Bucky. Sam has only a little more luck but it’s still mostly clipped sentences and small talk.

“Can we talk?” I ask, my heavy accent reminds me of you.

Steve nods and motions me in. His room is scarily clean except for the desk, which has stacks of books and scattered pieces of paper everywhere. The only light on is the desk lamp and I wonder how long he’s been up; perhaps all night going on the military-made bed. And perhaps more than one night given the slow movement his making.

I sit on the bed as he turns on the main light. His room is big, larger than mine even and I’m still not used to having all that space to call my own. I can’t imagine how he must feel about it, having grown up in the twenties and thirties.

He joins me on the bed, not sitting as close as you would have. “What’d you want to talk about?” he prompts gently, like I might change my mind if he speaks any louder.

But this is something I feel too strongly toward to back out now. So I tell him my idea, all of it. I explain how I think I can help Bucky, but leave out how scared I am. I’ve gotten better at hiding my emotions since you left; I don’t think it’s a good thing.

Steve tells me all the things that could go wrong; I insist. He tells me he can’t ask me to do such a thing; I press on. He says I could get hurt; I tell him he’s hurting more. I don’t get back to my room until hours later and he still hasn’t told me that it’s okay yet.

I am adamant every day, not backing down until he finally agrees. Then we have to tell T’Challa and although he is slightly easier to persuade, I still have to insist that it is what I want. We don’t tell Sam.

Then the day is here and I wake up in a cold sweat, nervous from head to toe. Steve has insisted that I practice memory altering on him and so far nothing has gone wrong but that doesn’t mean that I might not mess up today.

I go to Steve’s room; I think it’s the only place Bucky feels comfortable in this situation, by Steve’s side. Sort of like us, I think. They woke Bucky up yesterday and explained to him what we were doing. He didn’t want to at first; he wanted to go back in the cryochamber, not risk it. But I think he changed his mind when Steve’s eyes got red. Even then, Bucky would only do it if no one but he and I were in the room and he was strapped down. Steve insisted that he wouldn’t hurt anyone but Bucky wasn’t having any of it.

I knock on the door and Bucky opens it immediately. He’s dressed in one of Steve’s shirts, a blue-gray one, and the white pants the med bay gave him. The left sleeve is empty, hanging down and hiding the small black cover where his metal arm was attached. I heard T’Challa talking with Steve last week about replacing it; if Bucky want’s another arm.

Bucky’s eyes gaze down at me, “Ready?” he asks, pushing some hair out of his face. I have to assume Steve is still asleep since he isn’t in Bucky’s shadow. The man in front of me looks menacing but I think he’s just as scared.

“Do you want me to put it up?” I offer, holding out my wrist full of hairbands, not answering his question. I somehow feel almost comfortable with him, despite not really knowing him.

He gives me a strange look, hesitation; I’m a new person in his life, he’s seen what I have done, I could easily be a threat. Maybe it’s because Steve has told him about me, or maybe it’s because he feels the same weird comfort I feel with him, but he turns around with a nod.

I’m gentle, scooping all his hair up and wrapping a yellow band around it; he needs more color. He’s tense the whole time but I finish quickly and he turns back around as soon as I let go. I would be scared of me too. I used to be; I still am a little. But I’m getting better.

His eyes meet mine and I think we come to a silent agreement; what we’re agreeing on is a little fuzzy but I’m certain we both feel it. Then he turns away, “Let’s go,” he says gruffly.

We make it to the med bay and T’Challa is there waiting for us. “Are you certain about this?” he asks me one more time.

“I’m sure,” I maintain, more confident than I feel.

He lets us into the room, its empty and sterile white save for two chairs, one is plain and the other has straps all over. Bucky blanches next to me when he sees it but immediately clears his face of emotion and walks in. The nurse following close behind asks what straps he wants put on when he sits down.

Bucky doesn’t answer until I’m sat across from him. I hope he doesn’t realize that I’m already pushing my magic on him, trying to get him to relax. His chair has a head-rest and there’s a strap on that too; it’s the only one he doesn’t was put on.

The nurse and T’Challa leave the room, I watch as he glances up at the corner over my left shoulder. There’s a camera there, I can tell by the expression on his face, or sudden lack-there-of. He looks back at me and nods, so I begin.

I hold my hands toward him, a safe distance away, and just let my visible magic reach him. He tenses even more the closer the red tendrils get. Then they touch his temples and he sucks in a breath. Steve said it doesn’t hurt, it just feels strange, but I still wait for him to nod again before going deeper.

I start pulling down wall after metaphorical wall, it’s hard, and they’re so thick. Bucky has started sweating and is clenching his teeth and I don’t want to look so I close my eyes. It feels like hours of me trudging through his mind, checking memories, looking for the words, erasing the stimuli behind them, before I feel him relax.

I’m there; I’m at the center of his mind. It’s surprisingly quite peaceful. At least, it is now, it wasn’t before. I can feel my physical body panting with the strain of my mental effort but I stay. I can speak to Bucky this way, silently. Only we can hear. And for the first time since I’ve heard the speech I remember every word that you said to me. So I tell him.

With shortness of breath, I’ll explain the infinite

I tell him what you always told me so long ago.

How rare and beautiful it truly is that we exist