Finding Family - aparticularbandit - Marvel Cinematic Universe [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1: Part One: Prologue

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Stephen Strange is never there to notice it, but Wong does.

Training starts early at Kamar-Taj. They wake with the dawn – or before it – and they train, and they train, and they train. Not all of it is training in spells; there are a lot of other things to learn and to meditate over, and he has the good humor to keep the others encouraged. The appearance of America, training with them, after everything they’d sacrificed protecting her had boosted morale, too. That wasn’t why they’d taken her in, and it isn’t why she’s still there.

America chose to stay, thinking that learning sorcery would help with her power. Just because she could control it now doesn’t mean she couldn’t still control it better, and training here might help with that.

Wong is here with her, and so Wong notices when something changes.

Three months into her stay, America starts yawning, and two weeks later, she begins to doze off during some of the meditation classes. Perhaps this is because she is still a child, perhaps the long hours are hard on her, except that if this were so, it wouldn’t have come on so suddenly three months after she began. There would have been indications of her weariness before now, and there haven’t been. Even now, when he talks to her, America is all smiles and excitement. Occasionally, her gaze drifts away, and something shadowy covers her dark eyes, but it never stays. She has lived through a lot, and trauma casts clouds over an otherwise sunshiny personality.

Wong keeps an eye on her the same as he kept an eye on Stephen when he first began training. He doesn’t see any difference between the schedule America keeps and the one most of the other trainees keep; she wakes when they do, she leaves her room when they do, she returns to her room when they do, and that’s that. He asks if she is having nightmares, but she denies it. At first, he is convinced this is a lie. She begins to have dark circles, bags under her eyes. He asks if she is sleeping, and she assures him he is, although, in a smaller voice, she says not as much as maybe she should.

Worried, Wong gives her the day off. When this doesn’t seem to help, he gives her another. This only seems to make things worse. America dozes off on her feet in the middle of her first circles of the day, leaving lines sparking in the air. He sits her down in the room he sometimes commands as his office and asks, gently, what is going on. She tells him it’s nothing, but he stays there, across from her, staring and quiet. Sometimes, with children, with adults, the silence can prompt them to speak more.

This doesn’t work.

Wong tries to tell her that her drowsiness might make her a danger to others during their practice sessions, and she nods, eyes downcast. She assures him she doesn’t need a break. She says that she will be better in the morning. She just needs more sleep, that’s all. He lets her return to her room, where he expects she will rest.

He waits.

Then he goes to her room and knocks on her door, expecting a semi-prompt answer. When there is nothing after a third, fourth attempt, Wong opens the door and looks inside.

A star-shaped universe-hopping portal stands cut in the air across from him, and America Chavez is nowhere to be seen.

Chapter 2: Part One: Chapter One

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America stands in the middle of yet another universe. She pushes a hand through her long dark hair, and she stares around her. At some point, she’d lost count of how many universes she’d traveled across. When she’d first started taking a few jumps while the other trainees were asleep, she’d thought the process would be simple and that she would be done within a few jumps. Maybe her goal would take a week at most.

Well. Goals.

The first goal is the only one she’d been able to muster up when Earth-616’s Stephen Strange had convinced her that, wherever her moms were, they must have survived – find her moms. Now that she could control her powers, of course, she should be able to find them. She just had to find the right universe in a seemingly infinite number of them. Sometimes, if she thinks about it hard enough, she can almost remember images of the universes she’d flickered through that first time before landing in….

Well, she doesn’t remember what world that one was. She hadn’t really kept numerical track of them like the Christina on Earth…whichever number she’d given that one was. Honestly, the only reason America remembers that she’s on Earth-616 is because that number had stuck in her mind. She couldn’t say why. It just did. Maybe because she knew that was the Earth with the Scarlet Witch she needed to keep running from, and as long as she wasn’t there, she would be safe. Not that she needs to worry about that now.

Anyway, America’s goal seemed simple to her when she first started portal hopping in her free time. Whatever new Earth she landed on, she just needed to use her new sorcerer powers to teleport around the planet, and if her moms were there, she’d find them. It couldn’t be too hard.

…and then she’d remembered that she hadn’t been born on Earth, she’d been born somewhere else entirely, and there were – and still are! – multiple planets across the universe that are populated, and there are different populated planets per universe, and she couldn’t always figure out which planets would be populated in this universe versus another universe, and sometimes even Earth wasn’t populated, and—

It all got a little bit overwhelming. Her moms could have landed anywhere, on any planet, across any universe in the multiverse. They might not have even landed on a planet, and whichever planet they landed on, they might not have decided to stay there. The scope of what she wants to do is just too big for her right now, not that she believes it, not that she wants to believe it, not that she’s really let it hamper her at all.

But it’s a little much to do in her free time. Especially when she hasn’t asked anyone else the best way of finding someone across the universe. The Dr. Strange here might have a few ideas, but she isn’t going to bother him with them. She could ask Wong, but she doesn’t want to ask. And while they have connections to other people who might help….

Trust is earned, and America has met too many variations of too many people across too many universes to immediately trust any of the variations she’s met here right off the bat. People often aren’t who they say they are, and just as often aren’t who she thinks they are, and sometimes it’s hard to tell how close one universe variant of them will be to another and—

It’s just too much to think about.

So she doesn’t think about it, and she doesn’t ask, and she still wants to universe-hop so that she can keep practicing and stretching her powers, so she can learn to control them better – maybe not just being able to choose which universe, but also being able to choose which planet or which house or which…wherever, although maybe she needs to know all of the different universes a lot better first, and maybe she won’t ever be able to know them that well, but—

America realizes she doesn’t even know this universe all that well. Maybe if she knows this one better, she’ll know others better, too. Generally speaking. If she knows how to make that fancy circle sparkling ring that allows her to teleport from here to somewhere else better, then she can apply that to her portals. So she can get from this universe’s Kamar-Taj to another’s or from this universe’s to another’s Avengers tower or something like that.

Her free time shifts from universe-hopping to world-hopping – and she considers, briefly, if she can use that sparkling teleporting to get from this planet to another when she comes to a complete stop on the other side of her newest portal.

She blinks twice.

The Scarlet Witch isn’t dead. She knew that.

America just didn’t think she would actually find her.

Chapter 3: Part One: Chapter Two

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The expanse of broken, decaying, burned trees spreads out before America Chavez, and she has to stand still, staring at them, before she determines whether to move or stay put. She’s close enough to tell that the burning is unnatural – a magical burn that leaves them stained and seeped with scarlet, instead of a natural one that would leave them as mere husks, grey and dark and littered with ash. There is no ash here, only those great trunks with what remains of their torn branches reaching to the sky as though they could rip holes through it the way that she does.

America has seen many horrible things, and she has had many horrible things done – and attempted to be done – to her. Still, she sees this, and she shudders. Would her body, left behind by a witch who had absorbed her powers, have looked like this? Raw and torn and full of scarlet remnants? She shudders again.

Better to leave before the witch finds her here, staring. Even though she no longer needs to fear that ending, the hollow ache here is telling and filling. She doesn’t need to go down amongst the trees. She has seen enough.

She goes down anyway.

The ground cracks beneath her feet the closer America gets to the trees. Not thick, earthquake type cracks, just the sound of it, like wood that crackles and pops in a fire as it burns, only there is no fire, and these trees have already been burned, and even if they hadn’t been, the ground isn’t made up of burning wood. It shouldn’t sound like her footsteps are setting it on fire. But it does.

America shoves her hands into her jean jacket’s pockets. It’s not that it’s cold here; it’s just that it’s unsettling. Why is she even still here? She shouldn’t be here. She should just go back.

She keeps walking anyway.

There’s something that looks like a log cabin set in the center of the trees. Somehow, the cabin hasn’t been cursed the same way these trees and the ground beneath them has been. This far away, it seems almost normal, if not, you know, a log cabin. America certainly doesn’t hold anything against log cabins, but it’s hard to believe that there is any indoor plumbing this far out of the way from everything – or maybe they aren’t as far away from everything as she thinks she is. She’d walked through a magic circle here, after all, without being very specific about where here was. Maybe she’s just outside a sprawling suburb. Or maybe she’s in Wyoming. She’s never been to Wyoming. Sometimes she’s convinced it doesn’t really exist. Unless she’s been and hasn’t know, kind of like she’s somewhere now and doesn’t know where it is. She’s still on Earth, even if the scarlet stained cinders and crackling cracked earth seems like maybe it doesn’t quite belong.

That must be where the witch lives. No wonder she’d wanted to go to another universe. Indoor plumbing! But, honestly, she could have just hopped in a car and driven up the road a little ways if she needed that. Or, you know, teleported herself somewhere else.

America knows – she does – that this isn’t why she’d wanted her. It’s a joke. It makes her feel a little bit better about continuing to walk to where she suspects the woman who literally tried to kill her lives. Sometimes she wonders if she’s tempting fate. But the witch had given up the chase. She’d let her go. It’s been months since all of that happened.

And maybe she isn’t even here anymore anyway. Maybe she’s still stuck under the rubble of that tomb or shrine or whatever it was she’d pulled down around her. (America doesn’t think this is likely.) Maybe she’d come back to this log cabin without indoor plumbing surrounded by trees burned and hollowed out by her dark magic and a ground that is its own alarm system. Honestly, if she does still live here, then she has to know that someone’s coming to see her, and America hasn’t seen anyone peeking out through any of the log cabin’s windows, so she’s probably fine. No, not probably. She’s definitely fine! And if the witch is there and tries to fight her, then she can just punch a hole in the universe and hop somewhere else before hopping back in at Kamar-Taj. It isn’t that hard! She can do this!

The porch creaks beneath her weight, and America jumps, and the porch creaks even louder when she lands, and then, then, she hears her—

“Who’s there?”

America feels that familiar shiver of fear that once jump-started her portal hopping, and she suppresses it. Successfully.

Then there’s the creak of wood coming from inside the house, and America stumbles backwards, starts one of those magic circle things, and teleports back to Kamar-Taj, closing it behind her just as she sees the witch herself – hair pulled back into a low, easy braid, cheekbones sharp above hollowed cheeks, and eyes that turn to her, haunting and haunted, just as the golden glow fades.

America climbs into her bed. She pulls her knees against her chest. Her breaths are quick and shallow. She waits. The witch can teleport. The witch saw her. The witch knows exactly where she is, and she—

Does nothing.

America wakes the next morning in the same position, neck aching from it, drool at the corner of her mouth. She startles herself awake, scared of dozing off, cringes at the pain in her neck, and there’s…. There’s nothing.

She wipes the drool from her mouth.

Well.

Well.

Now what?

America considers it. There’s the familiar knock on her door to indicate she should be getting up and getting changed and getting breakfast. Some of the other trainees bathe in the morning, but she always does after everything, because then it gets all of the sweat off of her, keeps it from clinging to her bedsheets. So breakfast first.

She could go back, couldn’t she? Does she really want to go back?

Her lips press together, and she swallows something that seems a bit like fear, knowing that the same thing that made her go through the trees, that made her go all the way to the log cabin itself before leaving, will compel her to go back again. She knows this.

America just wants to fight it off for a bit first. Yeah. That sounds like a good idea.

Chapter 4: Part One: Chapter Three

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Common symptoms of depression, as defined by the Mayo Clinic in the years leading up the Snap:

• “Feelings of sadness, tearfulness, emptiness or hopelessness
• Angry outbursts, irritability or frustration, even over small matters
• Loss of interest or pleasure in most or all normal activities…
• Sleep disturbances, including insomnia or sleeping too much
• Tiredness and lack of energy…
• Reduced appetite and weight loss or increased cravings for food
• Anxiety, agitation or restlessness
• Slowed thinking, speaking or body movements
• Feelings of worthlessness or guilt…
• Trouble thinking, concentrating, making decisions and remembering things
• Frequent or recurrent thoughts of death, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempts or suicide
• Unexplained physical problems, such as back pain or headaches”

Wanda doesn’t need the list to tell her that she’s depressed. After what some might call a trauma conga line of a life, she feels she has more than enough reason to claim the term for herself, not that it makes her feel better. In most cases, a person grieving isn’t allowed to be tested for depression within so many months, so that would probably discount her using the term, and it isn’t like she’s going to be seeing a psychiatrist any time soon.

But she knows the term. She’s looked up the symptoms. It’s almost funny how each of them point for point fits – with the exception of the appetite issues, which had been because she was pregnant (Stephen doesn’t know; he doesn’t know, and even when he tries, he doesn’t understand), and the unexplained physical problems, which are all too easily explained by her not-so-recent….

What to call it? Suicide attempt in part, at the end, although something within the building had refused to kill her – she isn’t invincible, she can be harmed easily enough, if she isn’t trying to protect herself, and the building should have destroyed her and didn’t – but before that, there had been plenty of fighting and being fought, and the news feed doesn’t show the after effects of superhero battles, only shows the parts they most like. They don’t show the back aches and sweats and heaving stomachs that can come afterwards. They don’t show the heroes, such as herself – or maybe she’s a villain now, or maybe she’s just herself, just as she’s always been – stitching their wounds together with needle and thread the way they’d taught themselves before they’d become part of a much better team, and they certainly had never shown their favorite hero locking her away in a room because she was too dangerous—

Wanda laughs sardonically at that. Tony Stark thought she was dangerous then. She wonders what he would think of her now. A part of her regrets that he hadn’t been part of the group in that other universe, so that she could show him just how dangerous she could be, and another part of her regrets it not to prove her danger to him, to prove both how wrong and how right he was, but because she worries about the her in that universe, loving her boys, being thrown into another jail cell for something she hadn’t really done.

Wanda dreams about them sometimes, she thinks. She doesn’t dreamwalk into her other self anymore – or to any of her other other selves – but she still dreams, and she still dreams of her boys, and she still dreams of herself, loving them, and them, loving her. Or not her. She wonders, sometimes, which of those other hers dream of her. If they wonder where their boys are. If they wake in the morning with the same numb ache that she can’t quite move past. If it lingers in the singular core of their chest long after the dream itself fades away.

Most of the time, though, Wanda doesn’t like to think. She curls up in her bed, and she sleeps, because when she sleeps, she can dream. She can’t really eat like that, so sometimes her stomach eats itself enough to cause her enough pain to push her out of bed and give it something else to munch on, but then she’s back in bed, dozing, resting, napping, sleeping – dreaming so that she can be somewhere else that isn’t here.

It’s the only real way she can be with her boys anymore. It isn’t enough, but it’s what she has. The only thing she has that doesn’t require her to hurt anyone, even if it requires her to hurt herself.

So Wanda sleeps. She dreams. And she wakes.

At some point, there is a stench to her from being unbathed for so long, and her hair crusts and tangles in on itself, and the clothes that she hasn’t changed become so stained with what little food she is eating that she knows, she knows, she needs to at least get up and change. Not because she feels any particular desire to do so, but because the stench is getting to her. At least her illusion outside is still being maintained. If it’s foolproof to other sorcerers and witches, then it certainly is to the ants who would otherwise try to charge into her home and pick at all of the wrappers that she has left in her room, the bags of Doritos she’s left lying on the floor, the crumbs of processed chocolate cake stuck in the crevices of her floorboards.

One may wonder how she has gotten all of this food. Surely people out there in the real world are still scared of her, after everything that happened in Westview. Surely she hasn’t been getting out and going anywhere. To an extent, that is quite correct, but she needs to eat so that her body will quiet enough to let her dream. So, when necessary, she teleports to the nearest convenience store, takes what looks good (nothing looks good), and drops a handful of bills and coins that should cover what she takes but sometimes more than covers it because she doesn’t feel like counting everything so exactly. She slips in and out unseen and eats what she has and nothing, nothing, nothing feels anymore.

There are empty gallons of ice cream set in front of the living room couch. Some of those smell, too. She knows all of this. Logically speaking. She just doesn’t care.

She does care when her hair begins to feel like the layer of grease on top of all those pizzas they sell in public schools in this country. A layer of ooze so thick that sometimes she feels it creak and crack. She needs a shower. She wants a bath, but what is the point of drawing a nice, warm, comforting bath if she’s just going to soak in all of the junk and stench she’s accrued over the last….

How long has it been?

Does it matter?

Nothing matters.

Wanda pulls the comforter over her head, closes her eyes, and pushes all of that off. It can wait until tomorrow. She will not lie to herself and say that she’ll feel better about it when she knows that she won’t. Just maybe she will have the willpower to get up and do something. She won’t, but she’s getting very good at lying to herself.

Besides, she’s the Scarlet Witch. If someone decides to visit – which they won’t, considering – she can just use magic to fix everything. Or just enough to make them not see it. She has gotten very, very good at illusions. Sometimes, she can even fool herself.

Wanda is aware the exact moment that someone steps into her illusion.

The ground is a sort of alarm system. It isn’t the loud crackling and cracking and popping that gets to her, because none of that is really there, but the shifting of someone moving through the space itself. The ground doesn’t crack like an earthquake, but it does send its shivers to the cabin at its very center. They don’t quake, but they change, and she feels the change.

It’s a new thing. This didn’t happen in Westview, but, then, Westview hadn’t been intentional. So much of Westview had been a great unknown. But this is an illusion she has intentionally crafted as a warning to everyone else to stay way the f*ck away from her, and she’s set it up so that it alerts her when someone decides not to stay the f*ck away from her because those sorts of people usually want to attack her for something she’s done wrong or use her for some power they would like to have and none of it is ever good because they care about her just as much as she does, and right now….

Whoever it is comes closer, and maybe she should be the slightest bit presentable. Something in her quakes with the long-forgotten ideal of self-preservation, but it’s hard to overcome that longing to be done with all of this…whatever it is. She’s tired. So tired. And the more she rests, the less it helps. Maybe death will just be a very long sleep and a lot of dreaming. Maybe it will only be dreaming of her boys. Maybe—

Wanda takes a deep breath. Vis would not appreciate her thinking like that. He wouldn’t want her to die, not at her own hands and certainly not at the hands of whoever is coming towards her. He would want her to live, even when she didn’t want to live herself.

She isn’t afraid of the creak when it appears on her porch. By this time, she’s moved enough to be waiting on the couch, surrounded by her empty vats of ice cream – chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, triple chocolate chip, but not cookies and cream because that was Billy’s favorite and not pistachio because that was Tommy’s and she couldn’t—

A good hostess answers the door for her visitors. She can do that.

Wanda pushes herself and as the even louder creak comes, she opens the door to—

Nothing. No one. She is alone.

“Who’s there?”

There must be someone. She turns and catches the tail end of a golden glow, and for a moment, a brief moment, she can see through that glow. America Chavez stands just on the other side, face ashen, eyes bright with the glow of her power constrained and unused. Then, there is nothing again.

She has two course of action here. She could go and confront the child, which would not end well, considering everything leading up to this point, or she could stay here and do nothing, which might not end well either, considering how her days have blended into each other.

She’s tired.

She curls back on the couch.

Chapter 5: Part One: Chapter Four

Chapter Text

Wanda wakes on the couch with the weight of the child potentially coming back sat right in the center of her chest like a Maine Coon cat who decides now is the appropriate time to show her its butthole.

Not that Wanda has ever had a cat. Or any pet, really, other than Sparky, and he belonged more to the boys than he had to her, and even then, he hadn’t lived long enough for her to get as attached to him as she had, well. The boys were attached to him. She’d used that to teach them hard truths – such as the impossibility of bringing people back to life, while the irony of Vision was right there.

That’s beside the point. The full weight of a Maine Coon sat on her chest would keep her from moving, if it was really there, if it really didn’t want her to move, but there isn’t a real cat on her chest, just the sensation of one in the center of it, not holding her in place but propelling her to move.

It isn’t as though Wanda needs to make her cabin presentable. The child was scared enough just by the possibility of her coming out that she’d fled. Wanda just needs to make herself presentable, needs to return to the image of something intimidating and terrifying enough that, if America decides to come back (and she will, eventually, if she’d made it to the front porch on her first visit – and there were no other visits, she would have felt it if there were), she will choose never to come back.

She created the illusion to keep people away.

She just wants to be left alone.

America isn’t able to rest. Her breath catches in her throat, the panic too strong for her to be able to fully settle, and when it dissipates, she does feel exhausted, but too wary to be able to truly rest. She stumbles from her room after pushing the drool from her mouth, stumbles to breakfast, stumbles to training where she stands glossy-eyed, trying to craft the same golden circle that she’d used only hours before to go to yet another location on the vast planet they called Earth. She’s not entirely aware as she makes her circles, as she moves through the motions again and again, and they sputter and static and shiver.

Wong looks at her dozing on her feet and sends her to her room. She goes readily and is out like a light as soon as she lands on her mattress.

The stars awaken America hours later, and she sits up, rubbing her eyes with the back of one fist. She’s too tired to try and sleep now, and she’s too hungry, too. It isn’t like she’d intended to skip meals. If she gets up now, she could go to Kamar-Taj’s excuse for a kitchen and snatch some snacks, but there’s always the chance she could run into Wong. He’s nice enough. She likes him well enough. But she doesn’t want to have a discussion about why, exactly, she’s been so exhausted and what, exactly, she might have been doing to make her doze in the middle of making her morning circles. She could make an excuse about being a growing girl and not getting enough sleep, and he might accept that, but there could be a lot of other unfortunate consequences to that, and she doesn’t want to deal with them.

No, better to, you know, punch a hole into a universe that has better, easily accessible, free food than to take a chance on running into Wong.

When America returns to Earth-616, it is with a bowl full of sushi-flavored ice cream covered with flakes of seaweed and a backpack full of other tasty goodies. No pizza balls, though. That universe requires money, and she doesn’t want to take a chance on that sort of thing. One of the ones she’d just landed in had allowed her to bargain, which is how she’d gotten this nifty backpack just by giving them a good magic show – if there is a Stephen Strange in their universe, he isn’t a sorcerer. Most people don’t seem to know about them, and given how flashy Stephen could be, there was a good chance he hadn’t made it that far. Or decided to do something appropriately selfish with his magic. She couldn’t say; she hadn’t tried to run into any of them in that other universe.

Well. No. That’s a lie.

On finding that she could make the nifty golden teleportation spiral in that universe just as easily as the one she’d recently called her own, America had tested her own focus and gone directly to the place she’d been the night before – the log cabin in the middle of the tortured wood. Neither existed in that universe, so she’d decided to find her wherever it was she was.

She had food. She had a bright rainbow unicorn backpack full of more food. She could afford to sit and see what the witch was like in this universe.

It took a little longer than America wanted to find her – two bars of corn flakes covered in frosting with some sort of savory strawberry paste in the middle, which were far better than they sounded – but she had, somewhere in the middle of a suburb claiming to be called Westview. She wondered if that was where the other one had been, the one with the children – in that universe’s version of Westview – but she couldn’t be sure without trying to go back there again, and she felt they’d dealt enough with that universe. (And she didn’t want to know what that version of the witch would do to her if she caught her.)

This one, at least, shouldn’t know her and shouldn’t have been possessed by the dreamwalking witch of Earth-616 and shouldn’t know who America was if she happened to see her in the first place.

So America found her, sat on one of the wooden benches in Westview’s recently remodeled gazebo, and….

She wasn’t a creepy stalker – she isn’t a creepy stalker! – and she wasn’t creepily stalking the witch of this world or her children, but she might have been creepily keeping an eye on them if said woman hadn’t noticed she was sitting there, if said woman’s eyes hadn’t widened the slightest bit when she caught sight of her, and if said woman hadn’t, then, immediately crouched down, said something that America couldn’t hear to her two boys, and sent them away before walking straight toward her. (One of the boys took the other’s hand, and they sped away in a blur. She hadn’t know they could do that. Somehow, she isn’t really surprised.)

America shoved the rest of her salt-covered chocolate charcoal biscuit into her mouth – spluttered, because it was just as good as it sounds – and stood to her feet, ready to punch a hole back into the nearest safe universe she knew of, settling her backpack over one arm by one of its bright pink and yellow straps. She hesitated, however, when the woman spoke:

“Wait.”

Now.

There were a handful of very limited things that America knew about the Scarlet Witch, and most of them were about Earth-616’s witch, who, admittedly, was entirely different from the witch of every other universe in the multiverse (at least, as far as she knew. It was quite possible that there was a Scarlet Witch on another universe who also would love to get her hands on America and steal her multiverse-hopping powers and simply couldn’t figure out how to do so. She couldn’t be sure). The only glimpses she’d gotten of the other one – once she wasn’t being possessed by the one from Earth-616 – had been of someone quite like this, who was happy to just be spending time with her boys and, admittedly, seemed to have not gone to a hospital after everything that had happened…who had enough clout with the other superheroes in her universe that, after everything, she was still allowed to go back to her boys and stay with them.

Or maybe they were just as scared of her as they should have been of the one who had visited them. But then, wouldn’t they have taken her threat seriously? No, that one couldn’t have been nearly as dangerous – or could have, in the right circ*mstances.

So could this one.

But America swallowed down the last of her biscuit, half-choked on its disgusting taste, and turned back to her. The woman had her hands out in front of her in an almost defensive position, the sort adults liked to use when they wanted her to know that they didn’t mean her any harm. She hesitated. There wasn’t a portal open yet. She wasn’t sure if that power was flickering in her eyes like she could feel it did when she punched the holes, but it might be. If it was, then this would be weird.

America shifted the backpack strap over her shoulder and levelled her head, meeting the witch’s bright green eyes, trying not to shiver. It wasn’t like this one had tried to kill her or absorb her power or anything like that. “What do you want?”

“I saw you,” the witch said, not looking away from her, “in my dreams this past week. I saw you, and now you’re here, and that’s not an indicator of something good.”

She didn’t say it, but America could hear it, as though another version of her in some other universe might have said it to her and it was only this version that was choosing not to: And I’m tired of bad things happening to me.

If the Scarlet Witch had gotten her way, then America was certain she would be cutting off the possible bad thing before it had the moment to strike. That must be what this version was doing now, although in a much less aggressive or painful manner.

America pressed her lips together. “I’m not going to hurt anyone. I was just eating my—” She glanced down at the empty wrapper. It was too wrinkled to read the words. “—you know.” She tried to grin. “It’s weird to tell a strange kid they were in your dreams, you know.”

That didn’t seem to reassure the witch. “I think you and I should have a talk.” Her voice sounded tired, but not like the normal sort of weary a mother might feel from her children. Something else.

“About those dreams you’ve been having?”

The witch sighed. She pushed a hand through her hair – it was darker here, not brunette like the other mom and not as red as the Scarlet Witch, but somewhere in-between. “If you would amuse me.”

America didn’t want to amuse her. She wanted to leave. But she was also curious. “I’ll answer your questions, if you’ll answer mine.” She hesitated. “And get me whatever the best drink around here is, because I’ve tried some and they’ve been horrible.”

The witch smiled at that. “If you’re not from around here, Westview has some interesting tastes.” She stepped into the gazebo but didn’t hold her hand out the way people in other universes might when they first meet someone, instead lowering them to her sides, no longer needing the defensive gesture. “Who are you?”

“America Chavez,” America replied, “of Earth-616.” More information than the witch had asked for, and probably more than she needed, but it felt right to say it, felt like wrapping a warm blanket around herself in the middle of a horror movie, one she could use to cover her eyes if things got too intense. Then her expression grew embarrassed. “I’ve never really gotten your name, though.” She’d heard Stephen use it plenty of times, but it had never stuck the way the Scarlet Witch had.

Maybe because once you give something a name, instead of a title, it becomes more relatable, more personable. America had needed to view her as the enemy. Giving her a name – knowing her name – would have made that harder. At least for her.

“So you know me,” the witch said, and there was no question in that requiring America’s affirmative answer. She nodded to herself. That had to keep in line with her dreams, with what she has seen of other universes. When she acknowledged America again, it was with a hint of dissatisfaction and a voice softened with understanding. “But you don’t really know me.”

This time, America nodded, even as she said, “No.” It didn’t feel like a contradiction. It felt like exactly what the witch was saying.

The witch took a deep breath. “I don’t know who I am on Earth-616, but here, I’m Wanda Harkness. I really hope it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

America shuddered to think what might happen if it wasn’t.

Chapter 6: Part One: Chapter Five

Chapter Text

Wanda sinks into her clawfoot bathtub. Her fingers clench its exterior, and she closes her eyes so that she doesn’t see that stark contrast of her stained black fingers against the white iron. She’d scrubbed at her fingers the way Lady Macbeth had scrubbed hers, only when the scrubbing pulled blood from their tips, the blood came out thick and black and congealed. Looking at them reminds her of Agatha’s fingers during their final fight. She’d thought it was just ink stains. It wasn’t – isn’t. She never cared before, but she wonders now if Agatha had ever tried to pull the stain away the way she just had. Something in her suggests the answer is no.

She could make an illusion, of course, but that wouldn’t change the reality of the thing.

This is a lot of effort to make to intimidate a girl who could just as easily be intimidated by the illusion of the Scarlet Witch. Wanda hadn’t needed to scrub at her skin until it shone, but there was something comforting in the pain of it. She hadn’t needed to wash all of the grease and oil from her hair, and she hadn’t needed to brush all of the tangles from her hair bit by aching bit until it felt like her skull, too, would bleed. She hadn’t needed to do any of that, but at least, in the end, it let her do this: sit in a bathtub full of scalding hot water, close her eyes, and soak.

Wanda tilts her head back against the edge of the tub, her eyes still closed, and wonders if she would drown if she dozed off like this. That would be a traumatic image if America comes back, walking into the log cabin and finding a bloated sack that was once the most powerful Avenger. Can she even be called an Avenger at this point? Would they even let her return? Does she want to?

No, Wanda thinks as she slips beneath the soothing waters, I don’t.

America loosened her hold on her backpack strap as she followed Wanda from the gazebo in the center of Westview to what looked like an old-time ice cream shoppe (yes, shoppe, just like it said in the curlicue script along the top of the building) pulled straight out of the 1950’s. It even had a candy cane striped barbershop pole right outside. She could stare at that all day and get lost in it. Something about the swirling red and white colors. It was addicting.

But Wanda held the door open for her with an expectant look – not bad, not the impatient sort of toe-tapping, arms crossed, face pursed into a scowl, eyes dark and darker; but not good either, not that sort of excited, Christmas morning look that the other children had worn in multiple other universes she’d visited throughout the years; but something in-between, something that really could only be described as expectant and perhaps a little unnerved – and America felt chagrinned, ashamed, like she’d done something wrong as she pulled away from the addicting allure of the barbershop pole and into the ice cream shoppe.

America shivered. That was the one problem with ice cream shops – or shoppes, as they were here – they were always so cold. She pulled at the edges of her jean jacket as her eyes scanned the room. They might as well be stuck in the 1950’s with the way the cashiers were dressed: stainless white apron with two pockets in front for ice cream scoops, pointed little hat that she’d learned to make origami-style out of paper when she was too young to remember, roller skates that felt out of place indoors but still sparkled a brilliant scarlet color when the overhead lights hit their wheels just right. Something felt off. Not in a bad way, just…off.

Almost like going through the universe of paint. Not wrong, just different enough that it felt weird. She’d shake it off eventually.

“Are we getting ice cream?” America asked, turning back to look at Wanda. “I haven’t tried these yet. Does Westview use a bartering system, or do I need money here?”

“Sounds like you answered your own question.” Wanda’s tone was achingly maternal. She nodded toward the counter. “Avoid the painted cherry delight. It’s not cherry or a delight.”

“Got it.” America stared at the offered flavors. It might look weird, but it was normal for this universe. She was used to trying new, varied foods. “You order first. I want to see what it’s like.”

Wanda’s expression shifted to one of immediate amusem*nt. That couldn’t be good. Why was Wanda amused? What was she going to do? What could she do in an ice cream shoppe? But she moved to the counter with a self-assured air reminiscent of the version America was unfortunately most familiar with, knocked on the counter twice, and when the blonde behind the counter turned to her, gave another little smile, one that just twisted one corner of her lips. “Hey, Dottie. Can I get the usual?”

“Sure, Wanda!” Dottie smiled back. Before she turned to the ice cream, her gaze swept beside Wanda, and her smile faded. “No boys today?”

“Not today.” Wanda turned to America. “This is my niece, America. She’s visiting us for the day, and I thought it’d be nice to show her around Westview. This is our first stop.”

“Oh!” Dottie flashed her smile at America. “Well, it is just such a pleasure to meet you, Ms. America!” She giggled as she said the words aloud. “Maybe I should just call you America.”

“Everyone does.”

Not true. Most people referred to her as hey, kid! or dumb girl or supernatural anomaly, if they referred to her by anything at all. But that was fine. It was fine. She didn’t need people to use her name or anything like that, especially not in a universe where she didn’t plan to stay for very long.

Still, America smiled at Dottie. She saw her moving about the ice cream to make Wanda’s order and then asked, politely as she could, “Do you do samples?”

“Yes, indeed, we do!” Dottie sounded cheery. Too cheery, almost, but that probably had more to do with customer service voice than anything else to do with Westview. In fact, as Dottie gave Wanda her glass bowl of ice cream, something in her sagged. “You’re a good paying customer,” she said, voice a little less cheery, “so I’m giving you this with the understanding that you will be paying for both of you once I get your niece her ice cream. Right?”

“Absotively posilutely!” Wanda wore a smile matching Dottie’s fake one as she took a silver spoon, tapped the edge of her glass bowl with it, and took her first bite of whatever green, orange, and red ice cream she’d gotten. Her smile faded out of that fake one into something much more natural as she closed her eyes and hummed with contentment. “Someday, you will learn to put this into pints, and then you won’t ever have to see me again.”

America blinked twice and jerked her thumb to a refrigerator standing just next to the cash register. “They already have ice cream in pints.”

“It’s not the same.”

Dottie nodded sadly in agreement. “It’s really not. They haven’t been able to figure out how to keep the cheese cracker bits with the right snap.”

“Crunch,” Wanda corrected, one eye opening to level a steady glare at Dottie.

“Right, right. Crunch.” Dottie turned back to America, propping one elbow up on the counter. “Now, dear, what were you wanting to try?”

America tapped the glass just above an ice cream so black that she wasn’t sure it could even be called that. “Blackberry Banana Fudge Ash Crumple.” She looked up as Dottie handed her a little wooden spoon filled to the brim with the stuff. “It doesn’t actually have ash in it, does it?”

“Try it and see.”

The ice cream didn’t smell nearly as good as it looked, and it didn’t look very good to begin with. America shrugged and popped it into her mouth. It took only a second before the sweetness of the berry, banana, and fudge to get corrupted with something dark and bitter – and not the good kind of bitter, like black coffee, but the gag worthy kind of bitter, like baker’s chocolate. She forced the bite down in a swallow, unable to stop herself from making a face.

Dottie smiled. “That must be the ash you’re tasting.”

America recoiled. Well, that settled that. Best to go with something that at least sounded like something she liked. Which this had! Except for the ash part. Who would think to put ash in ice cream? And why? She smacked her lips together. “I think I’ll just take a scoop of the sushi,” she said finally. “In a wafflecone.” She skimmed the toppings really quickly and then grinned. “With seaweed on top?”

“Would you like the gummy fish, too?”

“Sure.”

Somehow, it didn’t sound like gummy fish would go well with sushi and seaweed, but it couldn’t be as bad as the ash was. And it was fun to try a different universe’s variations on flavors. If she didn’t like it, she’d just pick the gummies off. No harm, no foul.

Dottie handed America her wafflecone, and Wanda paid with small wooden chips that looked less like money and more like paint chips left to dry too long in the sun. But Dottie accepted them as payment easily enough. She waggled her fingers at America as they turned away. “Right pleasure, America.”

“Uh-huh.” That pleasure was probably more at seeing her face over the ash ice cream, but America wasn’t going to hold that against her. Westview seemed like a small town. Best to get a bit of fun whenever you can. She got that.

America followed Wanda to a booth near the front of the store, where they could look through the window at the nearby gazebo. She took a bite of her ice cream and smiled. It was good, even if the gummies gave it a texture that felt a little weird. For a moment, they ate in silence, both enjoying their ice cream, neither wanting to start in on what could easily be a very awkward conversation.

“So,” Wanda said finally, once half of her ice cream was gone, “what are you doing in Westview?”

America hesitated. “Do I have to be doing something in Westview? Can’t I just, you know, be in Westview?”

Wanda didn’t answer that. Instead, she said, “You were in my dreams, and now you’re here.” She paused, took another bite of ice cream, and then continued, “Not just one dream.” She held her spoon aloft. “Multiple. Every dream I had for a month. And now you’re here. That has to mean something.” Her spoon returned to her bowl, and she leaned back in her chair. “Even if it’s just that I need to keep an eye on you.”

“I don’t need anyone to keep an eye on me.” America stared down into what’s left of her wafflecone. There was still some seaweed at the bottom. She wasn’t sure she could keep eating and have this conversation. “I can keep an eye on myself.”

“No one wants to be alone, America.”

“I didn’t say that.” America shoved the rest of her wafflecone into her mouth. It took a bit of time before she could swallow, but it was enough time to think of what she wanted to say. She leaned forward. “You still haven’t gotten me the best drink around, so I think that means I don’t have to answer your questions.”

Wanda gave her a look.

It was one of those looks that made America’s heart clench because she could remember it on her moms’ face easily enough. They hadn’t given her those looks often, and it meant something different on each of their faces. On her mom, it meant she was frustrated with America trying to wiggle out of something through what she considered was a loophole, but on her mama, it always meant that she was amused. She’d liked when America figured her way out of things, even if she still made her clean the litterbox later. Using your words to trip someone up, her mama would say, rarely has the effect you want.

Unless you get much, much better at it, her mom would continue, ruffling her hair.

Sometimes they would debate whether it was a good idea to teach her that sort of thing, but it was always a nice sort of conversation. They weren’t arguing. Just thinking things through out loud, where she could hear all of the angles – where they could hear all of the angles – and come to what each of them thought was the best decision, even if that involved compromising to find a solution they both agreed on.

America smiled. “You’ve already figured out I’m not from around here, right?” She waited for Wanda to nod before continuing. “I just wanted to find a universe with free food. Or mostly free food. I missed dinner. And lunch. And I didn’t want to go get something out of the kitchen because—” She hesitated and then pushed on with something that wasn’t quite a lie. “I wanted something else to eat. So I came here instead.”

“From Earth-616.”

America’s eyes shifted around the shoppe. It was just them now, other than Dottie, standing behind the counter, not appearing to be listening to them in the slightest. She sighed and sank down, her voice low. “Yeah. And I thought….” She took a deep breath and glanced up, trying to figure out how to word it. “I wanted to see what you were like here. You’re scary there. Terrifying, actually. You’ve tried to kill me, like, eight times at least. Some of those personally.”

Wanda’s eyes widened, and she took a sharp breath. She didn’t ask why she would want to kill America. Something told her that she already knew. She opened her mouth to ask another question, but as she did so, a bell at the front door tingled just so – adorable in any other circ*mstance, slightly frustrating here.

America turned to look, but Wanda didn’t.

“Oh, Mayor Harkness!” Dottie’s smile seemed to grow even tighter. Still that same customer service smile, but a little more worse for wear. “I didn’t think we would be expecting you today!”

As Dottie spoke, the boys from before – Wanda’s boys – rushed to their mother. One of them, in a green shirt and with long hair, looked up at her with a huge frown on his face. “Mo-om. You’re not supposed to order before we get here! We’re supposed to share!”

Wanda reached over and brushed her son’s hair back from his eyes. “I didn’t know you would be coming, Tommy. I’m sorry.”

The other boy took his brother’s hand and pulled him over to the counter. “C’mon! Let’s go order now! Auntie Agatha will pay for us, won’t she, Mom?” He turned back to Wanda.

The answer came not from Wanda but from the woman who had entered behind them, the woman whose gaze hadn’t left America once since she entered, whose eyes glimmered with soft violet magic. “I’ll take care of everything, Billy.” She smiled, but it looked like she was baring fangs she no longer had. Then her gaze swept to Wanda. “Sorry for the intrusion.”

“No intrusion.” Wanda finally looked up at the woman with something like fondness. “But if you will get America here one of those lime coconut hot chocolates, too, I’m sure she would quite appreciate it.”

As the woman went to the counter, America leaned forward again, suddenly not quite sure how to feel. “Who is that?”

Wanda looked confused for a moment. “You must not have met her on your Earth yet,” she said, glancing back. “That’s Agatha Harkness, Mayor of Westview.”

“You have the same last name,” America said, brows knitting together. “You don’t look related. Are you married?”

“It’s a long story,” Wanda said with a sigh, “and not, I think, the one you came for.”

America shrugged. “I like stories. Some of them are even good sometimes.” She nodded to Wanda’s abandoned bowl of ice cream. “You going to finish that?”

“I don’t think you should have that much ice cream. It’s going to make you sick.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.” America stuck her tongue out and grabbed for the bowl, expecting the witch to do something if she really thought it was a bad idea. But she got the bowl easy enough. It didn’t look as good as her own sushi ice cream had been, but it was something new. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all.” Wanda glanced to Agatha and then back to America. “Don’t lie to her, when she comes to sit with us,” she said and then, in a lower, hushed voice, “and don’t tell her about the other Earth.”

America wanted to ask why not, but her mouth was full of whatever the flavor was that Wanda had been eating. Instead, she just nodded rapidly, trying to swallow around the way her throat was growing a little too tight. “Got it. And your dreams?”

“She doesn’t know about those.”

“Got it.” America looked up as Agatha turned back to them both and gave them a little wink. She didn’t get bad vibes from her, the way she had from so many other people, but she wasn’t getting any good vibes either. Still, Wanda wouldn’t have let her spend time with her boys if she wasn’t trustworthy. She couldn’t believe that this Wanda and her own Scarlet Witch were that far removed.

That just meant things were getting more complicated.

Wanda takes a sharp breath as she sits upright in her bathtub. She rubs her eyes with the back of one hand and stares around her. No America. Not here.

But somewhere else. Prying somewhere else. Somewhere she can’t get to anymore. Not without America herself.

And Agatha with her boys.

Her hands clench tight on the sides of the bathtub.

Maybe she will have to get out of the house. Someone needs to learn not to go poking her nose where it doesn’t belong.

Chapter 7: Part One: Chapter Six

Chapter Text

Wanda paces.

It has been a very, very long time since she’s done any actual footwork version of pacing. Mostly she stays in one place, in one piece, curled up in on herself with a nice, warm blanket and does her thinking that way. (Or speed-reading a book that she should never have read in the first place, except that it was the first time anyone had ever mentioned that there were others like her in the world – witches – and that she had a specific title and that there was a chapter in this book dedicated entirely to her—If no one else was volunteering to teach her, then the book was there. She should have known better. How could she have known?) Sometimes, when she wants to look good for visitors (she doesn’t anymore), she walks outside among her orchard (now covered with an illusion perpetuating what it once was) and prunes her apple trees. But she doesn’t pace.

Wanda paces, and her fingers turn in on themselves, and scarlet magic sparks between them – back and forth and back and forth, weaving an intricate web that isn’t intended to go anywhere but might help the energy she feels building beneath her skin find some sort of release. It helps. It doesn’t help.

Dreams were easier when she didn’t know that they were windows into the lives of other versions of herself in other universes.

Life was easier when she didn’t know that dreams were windows into lives where she had her children, her husband, her brother, her family. Most of her dreams now involve the twins, but some of them involve Vision, and some of them have Pietro – and some of them have that other Pietro, the one that Agatha had conjured up, who hadn’t been her Pietro but certainly was him in another universe – and that is where things get fuzzy because how could Pietro look so different in another universe if he’s still the same person underneath it all?

But that’s the point, isn’t it? Even if they all start in the same roots (and they don’t), they are pruned and crafted and interwoven into different cloths, different trees, bearing different fruit. She isn’t even Wanda in every universe. In one, in a dream from very, very long ago, she had been Nina, and she had been able to communicate with animals just by understanding, and she and her mother had both been shot.

And, of course, there must be some universes without a Wanda at all, some that she can’t peer into even if she wants to, just as there are surely some where she once existed and no longer does (as with Nina). There are countless unknown universes with countless unknown variations, and America Chavez has wandered into one to learn more about her other selves and the one she’s wandered into apparently is a Harkness.

It makes Wanda’s stomach churn. She can only hope the Agatha in that universe is good and that the Wanda in that universe knows what she is doing or that, if she can convince—

No.

Wanda takes a deep breath, twists her fingers and her magic again, and lets it back out.

This isn’t the first time Wanda has dreamed of a universe where she’s with Agatha. Different variations in different dreams. But that was before she had known—

Which is worse, that Agatha Harkness has her hands all over her boys or that America Chavez has decided to be nosy into her other selves’ lives? Checking in on them, as if any of them would be as bad as she was.

(It isn’t impossible. She must not be the only Wanda who has become a villain. There were multiple moments where she could have. There are likely still moments where she can. She likes to pretend she is the only Wanda without her children, without her husband, without her brother, but that likely isn’t true. In the infinite unknown of the multiverse, it’s just as likely that there is a Wanda who is even worse than her.

This should be comforting.

It isn’t.)

This feels like an invasion of her privacy. It isn’t, really, it can’t be because it isn’t her privacy that America Chavez is nosing into, it’s this other Wanda’s, and whatever she learns from this other Wanda isn’t completely applicable here. It’s just the idea of it that leaves a horribly bad taste in her mouth, that this girl would go seeking out information on her from versions of her that aren’t her, that—

Rage is warm, fire hot against the numb nothingness Wanda has felt these past months. Something in her grabs hold of it. It feels better to feel something, even a negative something, than to feel nothing at all.

Wanda’s mind whirls with what she can possibly do in this situation. She can’t dreamwalk anymore, so she can’t invade her other self just to tell America off. A part of her wants to teleport into Kamar-Taj the way that she didn’t when she’d attacked them, but there are certain flaws with that plan. First of all, Kamar-Taj is a place filled with other magic users who will have magical alarm systems similar to, but not so subtle as, her own illusions around her cabin. Second, America isn’t even there right now. She’s in that other universe with no indication of when exactly she will return. Third, even if she does make it into Kamar-Taj, even if she does get to America, there’s nothing to suggest the girl will listen to her in the first place. As terrifying as she might have been (and she hates that she was, hates that she scared her boys, hates that she became that in pursuit of what she…no, she won’t tell herself she will never have it again or that she can never have it again because every time she does, she feels a mixture of that red hot rage and that numbness, like a candy cane’s spiral, twisted together so tight that they cannot come apart)—

America has no reason to listen to her. She has no reason to track down her other selves either, but there she is.

There is nothing she can do. Absolutely nothing. She cannot reach America where she is, and she has no way of knowing if America will ever come back, and she cannot make America listen to her, and she has no way of making her listen without reverting to a self she had never wanted to be in the first place, and she is stuck in the same place where she has always been – all of this power and ability and unable to make any changes to her situation. She can feel it, then, the rage subsiding in the face of the inevitable, the desire to do something, anything, being overtaken by the realization that she can’t do anything, and when that comes, she wants nothing more than to curl up in her bed once more, pull her blankets up over her head, and—

And?

She is out of tears. (She is not out of tears.) She should be out of tears. And yet her heart rends itself in two and they come just as many days as they do not. This is a small thing. (It is not.) She should not cry over lesser things. (She cries over lesser things all of the time. She cried when she reached the bottom of her last tub of ice cream. She cried over stubbing one of her fingers, over causing a hangnail, over seeing that nail disintegrate into the thin air when removed from her. Perhaps that last was not a lesser thing.)

Wanda paces, and Wanda paces, and she can almost feel herself wearing a path into the floorboards just as surely as she is wearing one into herself, this numbness coming back, this desperation, this inability to do anything, and she still hasn’t come to a decision – because what can she do – when she feels something on the edge of her illusion, something cracking and crackling and breaking—

And Wanda moves towards it with the full fury of the Scarlet Witch encompassing and defining her, pressing back the numbness with the ability to do something—

The boys – Wanda’s boys – Billy and Tommy, names that sank into America’s heart like something she should hold onto, although she couldn’t just say why – swarmed into the seats on either side of her. They squabbled over who got to sit next to the new girl until realizing they both could and then didn’t notice the way their mother’s brow furrowed, the way her expression contorted into one of displeasure, when Agatha scooted a chair over next to her, separating her from Billy. It was a small thing they missed, but America did not – and she didn’t think this new Agatha woman did either.

Agatha gave Wanda a gentle and familiar nudge, knocking their shoulders together, and Wanda’s head popped up, tilting to one side as she turned to the other woman. “What?”

“You’re moping.”

“I’m not moping.” Wanda’s gaze returned to America. “I never mope.”

Agatha leaned forward across the table with one hand next to her mouth and whispered just loud enough for both of them to hear, “She is very good at moping.” Then she settled into her chair with a big grin. “She could move a whole town with it!” A laugh, then, as though it was some sort of joke.

America didn’t get it. But she did see the way Wanda’s expression shifted – annoyed and hurt, all at the same time. She decided to change the subject. “You’re the mayor? What’s that like?”

“Well, for a little town of retired superheroes,” Agatha started, crossing one leg over the other and meeting America’s eyes, “it’s surprisingly easy.”

Something glimmered violet within Agatha’s irises, the same as the scarlet glow that America had seen in her Scarlet Witch’s, and America became unsettled. Not all magic was unsettling, and not all magic needed to be unsettling. And yet, she was still unsettled.

“Retired superheroes?” America echoed instead, eyes leaving Agatha and returning to Wanda. “You’re retired?”

“Mom’s got us to take care of,” Tommy interrupted, sticking his tongue out at America.

Billy nodded, a little more solemn. “Yeah, she can’t go help anyone else when she has to spend time with us.”

Agatha nudged Wanda again. “He’s about as good at moping as you are.”

“Stop it.” Wanda pinched the bridge of her nose with her left hand. Two thin rings glimmered under the bright overhead lights, one with a small red jewel in its very center, rings that the witch of 616 did not have. She sighed. Her hand returned to the table, and she began to fiddle with the rings, twisting them with her thumb. “When the boys are grown, maybe. They’re my priority right now. They have to be.”

“And she does such a good job here,” Agatha continued for her. She didn’t have any ice cream. Why didn’t she have any ice cream? Had she ever had any? She reached over and patted Wanda’s knee fondly. “I wouldn’t be able to maintain the shield anymore without her. I’m just so old and tired.”

Agatha didn’t look old or tired. There were no wrinkles around her eyes to indicate any such thing. But there were streaks of grey through her dark hair, and spirals of white curled just in front of her left ear. Her tone didn’t suggest a lie. That didn’t mean anything, though. People didn’t have to sound like they were lying. Sometimes they just were.

And some people were so fully liars that it only felt like a lie when they spoke the truth. She could be one of those.

America couldn’t tell.

“Shield?”

“Oh, to let everyone enjoy their retirement, of course. If we didn’t have a shield, such a high mass of supers would draw all those baddies like a beacon.” Agatha gave the twins a smile. “Why don’t the two of you sit here?” She gestured to the table just behind Wanda. “We’re about to discuss some very, very boring technical stuff. You won’t like it.”

Tommy scowled. “Do we have to?”

“Yeah, we wanted to ask some questions, too!” Billy turned to America, his eyes shining with interest. “Where are you from? Mom doesn’t like to talk to strangers, but she’s talking to you. Do you know each other from outside the shield? She never talks about what it was like out there.”

“Except for Dad,” Tommy interrupted with a snicker. He looked up at America. “We can’t get her to shut up about him.”

Wanda’s cheeks blushed a bright scarlet. “Boys—”

“It’s okay, Ms. Harkness. I can answer some of their questions. It’s no big.” America wasn’t sure which way to turn, since the boys were sitting on both sides of her. She still didn’t have a drink. This would be so much easier with a drink. “I’m from outside the shield,” she said carefully, since that was the frame of reference the boys had and since Wanda didn’t want her to be more specific around Agatha anyway. “Ms. Harkness—”

“Wanda, please,” Wanda interrupted. “She’s Ms. Harkness. I’m just Wanda.”

America nodded her compliance. “I know your mom, but we’re not, like, besties. She just recognized me. Like a welcoming committee.”

Agatha shifted in her seat, and America thought she must have been caught in her lie. Not lie. It was half a lie. She did know Wanda, just not this Wanda, and she had recognized her and immediately come to see her. So it wasn’t even half a lie. It was mostly true! But Agatha sat and stared at her, examining her, scrutinizing her, and it made her uncomfortable.

“Were you on a team together?” Billy asked then.

America hesitated.

“No, dear,” Wanda answered for her, “and I think that is quite enough questioning for Ms. Chavez here.” She patted the table behind her. “Please.”

Tommy scrunched up his face, but Billy grabbed America’s hand as he stood. “We can talk more later, can’t we? I want to hear stories about my mom.”

“Other than ones with Dad.”

“Boys.”

Billy moved to the other table with his ice cream, a huge sigh, and a hopeful look back at America, while Tommy stuck his tongue out at his mom and then sped over to the other table so fast that the chairs around them swiveled and knocked into each other. He looked back over his shoulder at them with a huge grin.

“They’re just going to listen in anyway,” Wanda said, turning to Agatha.

“Yes, but this way, if they’re bored, they don’t have to.” Agatha turned back to America. “You must know what it’s like, stuck at a table with a lot of technical military strategy and all of it just goes over your head and all you want to do is get outside and be in the sun or you start doodling on papers and you aren’t paying attention at all.” Her eyes take in America’s jacket, covered as it is with so much writing. There was no negative judgement there, only a sweeping sort of acknowledgment. She leaned back in her chair, situating herself better, and raised a cup of what looked to be tea. She didn’t have that before. Where had that come from? “I certainly do.” She swirled her fingers over her cup, and a soft purple mist fell from their tips into the cup. When she took her next sip, she relaxed. “Much better.”

America caught her winking at her. She tapped her fingers on the table. Still thirsty. Still no drink. Still moderately uncomfortable. Her gaze moved over to the counter, where Dottie stood, unmoving. She caught the other woman’s eye, and Dottie smiled at her. Slasher smile, like one of those horror movies. She shivered.

“Are all of the superheroes, um, heroes?” America asked, glancing back to Wanda, who she felt quite sure would be more likely to give her a straight answer.

“They all ended that way.”

Agatha tilted her head to the counter. “Dottie was the original Black Widow.” She glanced over her shoulder to the other woman. “But you aren’t retired, are you? You’re just keeping tabs on us.”

On me, America heard Agatha’s echo in her mind loud and clear, and there was that wink again. Nope, nope, definitely uncomfortable.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Dottie twisted a golden curl around her fingers. “I’m just here to hang with Peggy.”

“Of course, you are.”

America didn’t know who Peggy was. She hadn’t met the Illuminati on Earth-838, and she hadn’t run into whoever this Peggy was in the other universes she’d encountered. Even if she had, she couldn’t be sure that she would remember her. And the mention of this Black Widow – she didn’t know who they were either. Maybe another retired superhero. Maybe someone else who had taken up Dottie’s mantle when she retired, although that seemed unlikely since she wasn’t really retired.

This was a lot of conversation about a lot of things that she didn’t understand. Meanwhile Agatha was making her more and more uncomfortable. America finished the last of Wanda’s ice cream; it had melted enough that it was almost like having a drink, other than the cheese cracker bits. Then she sighed. “Someone said something about lime coconut hot chocolate?”

“Oh, right, I forgot!” Dottie laughed, more to herself than at any particular joke. “I’m just the silliest goose. I’ll have that right up!”

Yeah, America wasn’t sure that she wanted it now. Not that Dottie had done anything to her wafflecone. Other than the gummies. Her jaw worked against itself. What would be the best way to get out of this conversation so that she could just go back to her own universe? Probably keep listening to Agatha talk. She shot a glance over to Wanda, who she wasn’t sure would help. If she was anything like the witch she knew—

“We’ll take it to go,” Wanda said. She stood and dusted off her jeans, even though there was nothing there. “And another order of the lime raspberry jam swirl, with the cheese crackers on the side.”

“And another of the sushi and seaweed!” America chimed in. She was glad Wanda had taken her hint, and if Wanda was going to get more ice cream, she wanted more, too. As long as she got her drink.

Agatha remained sitting, one leg crossed over the other, stirring her tea with little flourishes of violet magic. “Leaving so soon?” She stared up at Wanda. “I thought we were having a nice little get-together.”

“I just wanted to show America around Westview.” Wanda offered Agatha a smile. “If she decides she’s ready to retire, I’ll make sure to let you know.”

“Make sure you do,” Agatha echoed.

America could feel the older woman’s eyes on her as she took her ice cream in a plastic to-go bowl and grabbed her Styrofoam cup of lime coconut hot chocolate. She shivered again. The door closed behind them with the little tingle of the bells overhead, and she turned to Wanda. “Are you avoiding her?”

“No,” Wanda replied, turning immediately down the next path with her own plastic to-go bowl in her hands. Then, “Yes,” she said, and then “It’s complicated.” She gave America a pointed look. “Try your hot chocolate.”

One sip was all it took to make America immediately relax. And then there was that brief moment of panic – what if this had something in it like the tea on Earth-838? But nothing happened, and she relaxed again. “Not the best thing I’ve ever had, but still pretty good,” she said as she continued to follow Wanda down one path and then another. “Is there a reason we’re giving her the shake off? Was she a villain?”

“Agatha’s….” Wanda hesitated. “Complicated.” She sighed. “But she was never a villain here.” She came to a complete stop at what looked to be a dead end and handed her ice cream to America.

America looked at the ice cream and blinked. “What’s this for?”

“The version of me back on your world. I have a feeling she needs it more than I do.” Wanda glanced over her shoulder and, seemingly satisfied that they weren’t followed, turned back to America. “I think it’s time you get back there.”

“Yeah.” America nodded, taking the offered ice cream and shoving it into her backpack with the other food she had stashed away. She pressed her lips together. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to get it to you – to the other you. She isn’t very fond of me.” She glanced away, focusing on the bricks making the dead end. “I don’t think she’s fond of anybody.”

“All the more reason.” Wanda sighed. “I know my dreams – the ones that had you in them and the ones that came before that. They weren’t particularly present. If not for my boys, I think I might have woken up screaming. I know they would have ruined my entire day, like Agatha’s ruin hers.” Her head tilted to one side. “It won’t fix anything, and it might not help. But it’s something.”

America glanced at her ice cream. “Something is always better than nothing.”

“Not always,” Wanda corrected, “but in this case, I think it might be.” She reached over as though to pat America on the back and then hesitated. She lowered her hand. “And I think it would be best if you don’t come back here. It won’t do you any good.”

Why not? America wanted to ask, but she didn’t. There were a lot of universes that weren’t open to her, some that were actually hostile, and while it didn’t seem like this was one of them, maybe it would be better to listen to the woman who was trying to give her advice – even if one of her other selves had tried to kill her and absorb her powers multiple times. “Your boys will be okay, though, right?”

“Oh, there’s no trouble for them here. Just for you.”

America nodded. Of course. She shoved her ice cream into one hand and then punched the brick wall with her other, opening a bright star-shaped portal into the brick façade. “It doesn’t hurt the wall,” she explained before turning back to the portal. She didn’t see Westview on the other side, which was fine. Sometimes her portals didn’t always open to the parallel spot in the other universe. This one seemed to be opening back up at Kamar-Taj. “It was nice meeting you.”

“Always is,” Wanda said as America walked through the portal. Then it shut, cutting off whatever she might have said next.

For a moment, America did nothing, only stared at her bare bed with her new rainbow backpack full of goodies strapped to her back and a bowl of sushi-flavored ice cream covered with seaweed in her hands. Then she sighed, pushed a hand through her hair, and turned back to where the portal just closed. “I said I would try.” She gritted her teeth and began to craft a golden circle in the air.

—and comes to a halt in front of America Chavez, holding a plastic bowl of grey-green ice cream in her hands.

Wanda blinks twice more from surprise than from anything. One of her hands remains outstretched, black stained fingers in the form of a claw, inches away from the child’s throat. She takes a deep breath and lowers her hand. “What do you want?” The words come out choked and rasping, not nearly as strong and intimidating as she would like.

America shrugs off her backpack. It’s covered in rainbows so bright that it hurts Wanda’s eyes. She unzips the main pocket and pulls out another plastic bowl of what looks to be lime green ice cream, filled with scarlet swirls, and a to-go cup filled with what look to be another universe’s form of Cheeze-Its. “Ice cream?”

Chapter 8: Part One: Epilogue

Chapter Text

Wanda does not invite America into her cabin.

There are a lot of reasons for this, the main one being that even if she had, she doesn’t think the girl will take her up on that offer. A secondary one is that her cabin is not suited for visitors right now. For the most part, Wanda doesn’t particularly care about this, but something deeper, something that probably comes from the sit-coms she first saw and then lived through, that says a good hostess does not invite someone into a house that looks like hers does right now. Then again, a good – whatever America is to her – doesn’t come to her house uninvited and expect an invite either.

Unless they’re still enemies, in which case there are significantly few social rules, and it’s all about social standing in those sorts of sit-coms – social standing and humiliation – in which case America would be fully within her role to walk over to Wanda’s house unannounced and…whatever it is she wants to do. At that point, it would really depend on who the sit-com has determined is the heroine to see how that plays out.

In Westview, Wanda had always been the heroine, so the shows always played in her favor. Mostly.

Here?

Wanda’s less certain that they will. She doesn’t control the whole world, after all.

But she takes the offered ice cream, which looks just like the kind she’d eaten in her dream, and uses just enough of her power to shove America off of her property, which she does as gently as possible while still being as forceful as possible. Like a parent tossing their child into the air, knowing that they will catch them. The earth will catch America at some point just as gently as a mother would catch her daughter. It isn’t mean. It only is.

Something in her, unknown and unbidden, makes sure to hold onto the child’s hot chocolate. Wanda knows just how much pestering she’d needed to do to get it, and yet she takes it anyway. Call it a natural consequence of stepping into an illusion intentionally crafted to make her stay away. Not harm, but a sort of loss.

Not that she would ever truly call it a loss.

(She won’t say it, but she enjoys the image of America, clenching her hand into a fist where there used to be a Styrofoam cup of hot chocolate, gritting her teeth together, and then turning on one heel, fuming in Spanish as she returns to Kamar-Taj. It is nice to imagine the child acting just like a child should. It’s normal. They need more normal in their lives.)

Once America is gone, Wanda drops the Scarlet Witch façade. She doesn’t need to look intimidating, and while the clothes are not constricting and quite attractive, if she does say so herself, she wants something much more comfortable. She wants her grey sweatpants. She wants her hooded sweatshirt. She wants her braid and to not have to worry about the wind whipping her hair into her face.

She doesn’t go back inside her cabin. Instead, she sits on the porch the way she might have in Westview, as though about to gossip with her neighbors, should they have anything truly interesting to say, propping her feet up on one of the stairs leading up to her front door. The illusion of the broken and dying trees disappears for the briefest of moments, and the sky peeks through, dark and studded with stars. The light can reach from millions of miles away, even now, cold and effortless. Her mother used to point out the constellations to her, and she wonders if they are the same in other universes, or if they have different names for them if they are. Maybe, in those universes, there is a Sparky chasing his tail across the starlit sky.

That sounds too much like Lion King and the great kings of the past.

But Wanda lets the world stay as it is while she takes the first bite of her ice cream from another universe, sprinkled with crushed up bits of cheese crackers.

Her face scrunches up.

That other Wanda doesn’t have any taste.

She takes a sip of the hot chocolate and finds it much more to her preferences. The lime is sharp against the white chocolate base, and the coconut is smooth and alluring. When she takes a second bite of ice cream, this time without the cheese crackers, she finds that it, too, is good. The lime is sharp and sour, and the raspberry is sweet with its own, special form of punch. She loves them both, and she loves it all together. It is only after everything else is gone, after she is overwhelmed with sweet and sweet and sweet that she eats the cheese crackers, the salt she needed to break everything up.

Perhaps the other Wanda isn’t too far off in her preferences. Perhaps she, too, would prefer it this way, if she’d grown up with it. Isn’t that the point of the other universe? That, growing up with it, she does like it? And her boys….

Wanda stays on the porch until the light of the sun just starts to crest the horizon beyond the mountains. With their jagged peaks in the way, the light comes much sooner than any image of the sun – shoots of pink and purple and the softest of blues interspersed with even softer, frailer, thin white clouds. Vapors, more than cotton balls, and nothing grey or dark looming in the distance. For a moment, she allows herself to sit in its beauty, in the image of what this hidden valley once was and might still have been before she took up residence within it.

Then she stands, stretches, and with a wave of her hand reinstates the other reality, the illusion of the broken trees reaching out for a sky they can no longer touch and scarlet everywhere, from the ash swirling between them to the gloom of the clouds cloaking the sky. Perhaps she is lying when she tells herself that this is meant to keep everyone out. Perhaps it is just as much to remind her of her own sins.

Inside, Wanda stares at her house, full of empty ice cream bins much bigger than the one she just finished, plastic bags of half-eaten chips, coffee mugs left out so long that they might as well be growing something for all that they stink. She wrinkles her nose. Bad, bad, bad.

Maybe, today, she’ll finally do something about it.

Chapter 9: Part Two: Prologue

Chapter Text

When Wong sees America Chavez the next morning at breakfast, he doesn’t say anything to her about the portal he’d seen in her room the following evening. He’d been alerted to her return – or the return of someone to her room that he hoped was her – through the sound of her boots clumping on the floor. It would have been untoward to stay outside her room until he knew she’d returned, so he hadn’t done that. Instead, he had taken over the guard shift from one of the patrols. Easily enough done, although he still could have missed her return.

It isn’t that Wong doesn’t trust America. He does. And he understands what she’s doing more than he will ever actually tell her.

Wong had done something similar when he had been a trainee under the Ancient One. They had been less than judgmental towards anyone who came to train under them for whatever reason they wanted to train. Some, as Stephen had originally been, came just so they could learn how to fix their disabilities and then left, using their magic to return to their previous life uninhibited. There was no judgment there, no commentary on how that might have been selfish, how they should be using their new skills to protect the world. It was their magic and their choice. Who knows but they might help the world just as much – perhaps more – through their normal life? Besides, forcing someone to do what they or someone else might consider the right thing didn’t make it the right thing. The world – and morals – could be far more complicated than that.

The Ancient One understood that, and under their tutelage, Wong understood that, too. During his early training, he would use his sling ring to create gateways all over the world, seeing places he had always wanted to see: the Eiffel Tower in Paris, Lady Liberty’s torch in New York City, the Taj Mahal in Agra, the Leaning Tower of Pisa in, well, Pisa. Sometimes he would land on the very top, in areas tourists were never meant to go, just to prove to himself that he could. It was invigorating, knowing that he could go wherever he wanted whenever he wanted and never once get caught.

He even – once, just once – created a gateway into one of the greatest banks in all the world. If asked, he would say that it was to steal money from the richest, who didn’t need it and would barely miss it, because that sounded noble. In truth, it was only partly that. It was just as much to provide money for himself. He’d never been rich before. He wanted to see what it was like.

Of course, Wong hadn’t taken any of the money. He’d stood there and stared at all of it and decided, well, that was enough fun. It was time to go back to his training. There were more important things in the universe than money and worse things than one planet’s selfish rich people.

But if he’d had the ability to create portals between different universes? If he could have gone across the multiverse?

Wong would do the same thing that America is doing now, staying up late and exploring wherever he could. Just as long as she knows she has a safe place to land, he doesn’t mind. He will mind if she brings strays with her, and he will mind even more if she brings an enemy back with her. But exploring? He doesn’t mind that.

The Ancient One taught him well. He’s certain that Stephen wouldn’t remain so open-minded about this, though.

He determines not to say anything to him.

Chapter 10: Part Two: Chapter One

Chapter Text

America spends the entire morning pouting over her lost hot chocolate. She’d even gone to the kitchen, risking running into Wong, to make more for herself – and had, in fact, bumped into him on her way there, although he hadn’t said anything to her. But no matter what she did to her own hot chocolate, she couldn’t give it that same sort of creamy, light texture that the lime coconut hot chocolate had, and there certainly weren’t any lime or coconut flavorings to add here. She’d had to make do by adding in hazelnut coffee creamer, and that was okay, but it wasn’t the same.

And the other Wanda told her not to go back, so she couldn’t just pop back in and get some.

America clenches her fist atop the table but doesn’t pound it. Why had she even taken the hot chocolate in the first place? She’d given her ice cream! She didn’t need the drink to go with it! And it was strange, too, how she had warped to her so immediately, as soon as she’d gotten there. That hadn’t happened last time. Last time, she’d made it all the way to the front porch before the witch had even peeked her head out. This time, she took one step onto the ground, and poof! There she was!

…which leads inevitably to the unfortunate conclusion that the witch will know whenever she’s there. That she’d known the first time, and had simply chosen not to go after her, not to do anything, that she had waited until she was that close before—

Before what?

America closes her eyes.

The witch had seemed like her full self this time. Scarlet dress. Tiara that cupped her cheekbones (yes, she had noticed that, and when she isn’t scared, she can’t help but appreciate the look; it would be impossible not to notice it). Hair in waves down her back. Ash stained fingers reaching out for her throat.

But she hadn’t hurt her.

Of course, the witch had thrown her – literally thrown her! – off of her property with a wave of one hand, but it had been…gentle? Is that even the right word? All America knows is that she didn’t wake up this morning with bruises and that the landing had felt a bit like jumping into autumn leaves just after raking them into one huge pile. Only less bugs. No worms. And no twigs either.

She hadn’t hurt her the first time, either, although—

No, the witch definitely had the time to do something and had just ignored her. Which, you know, America can deal with being ignored. It’s a lot better than being attacked. And she’d seemed a little less herself then, too. Hair in a braid. Lounge pants – like yoga pants, but with a lot more movement. Scarlet hoodie. Like….

Like a mom.

America doesn’t want to think about that. She takes a gulp of her coffee, scarfs down her toast and eggs, and scowls at her empty mug. The hot chocolate was better. Nothing else even tastes good anymore.

Wanda hasn’t slept, but she feels as though she has. For the first time in a long time, she feels like she has energy. Not much – and she won’t be pushing it – but it’s…it’s something. She won’t lie to herself; she won’t say that she’s going to get the entirety of her cabin clean within the next twenty-four hours. Even on her best days, she wouldn’t get that much done. She just…. She can’t. Her mind doesn’t quite work that way. Give her an interesting book to read, and she could read it in twenty-four hours, but the active cleaning of an entire house – especially her house, covered as it is in trash and having not been cleaned in…months – will take longer than that.

A week of good days, maybe, and she hasn’t had a good day since Westview. Only days where’s she pretended that they might be, where she’s given herself the false hope that she’ll have a good day in the future if she just tries hard enough, if she just reaches far enough, if she just absorbs that young girl’s powers—

Tony hadn’t thought of her as a young girl either, only as a threat who couldn’t control her powers, but at least he’d locked her up instead of trying to kill her. (If Tony had known how to absorb her power, Wanda isn’t sure he wouldn’t have tried. But he hadn’t known Stephen Strange then. He hadn’t known magic.)

No, Wanda can’t count on a week of good days, and for once, she isn’t going to lie to herself and say that there will be any in the future. She has what she has now, and she’ll take advantage of that while she has it. By which she means that she’s taking out the trash, and she’s taking it out right now.

Right now and moderately not bad day wear out far quicker than Wanda wants, but about as quickly as she would have expected, given that she hadn’t expected having either in the first place. She makes enough of a final push to take the overly full, overly large black plastic trash bags to one of the compactors at the S.W.O.R.D. facilities. They’ll know she was there – the government security systems may be trash compared to Tony’s, even without Vis, but they’ll notice a little scarlet blip flickering in and out on their screens – but she wants to drop the trash off with the trash. It means something to her. It won’t mean anything to them.

Someone leaves the facility while Wanda is there. They call her name. She holds a hand up, cutting them off before they can say anything else. (They’ll get their mouth back once she’s gone; she isn’t that malicious. Not anymore.) There’s the ghostly glimmer of something ghastly and ghoulish overhead.

No.

No.

Wanda teleports away before he – it – he can land. She knows he exists just as much as S.W.O.R.D. knows she’s still out there. That doesn’t mean they have to deal with each other.

Perhaps, without that encounter, without that choice, she might have mustered up enough energy after a break to do something else, to take better advantage of her not bad day. But the reminder lets the anger and frustration sink their fangs back into her, and sometimes the only way to combat those is with the ever-present numbness. Sometimes it feels like each day is only a decision between those.

Wanda sinks onto her couch as the numbness returns and flicks on one of the newfangled sit-coms she has never before been interested in and isn’t particularly interested in now. She just wants something to play in the background, something with a laugh track (whether it’s from a live audience or from a can matters little to her- it’s someone – happy, laughing, reminding her that those are still options – or might be, in the future), something to lull her to rest. At least the numbness only hurts her.

The Friends theme plays in the background as she closes her eyes. She hates the show, but it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as the sit-coms she used to love now do. Out of all the horrible things that happened in Westview, that’s the consequence that seems the smallest but still somehow manages to make an impact on her life. Loss of coping mechanism on top of everything else doesn’t sound so bad until she needs to cope and has nothing left to use.

For all that she hates the show, it would have been nice to recreate it in Westview. It would have been nice to pretend that she still had friends.

Wanda knows as soon as someone enters her space. Again.

For a day that started off so well, it is quickly growing increasingly worse.

She doesn’t want to get up. She doesn’t want to move. She doesn’t want the rage to overcome the numbness again, but it feels like that’s all she has left to deal with this anymore. One eye cracks open, sees Ross giving Rachel a hard time over something…again, and her teeth grit together.

This time, when she teleports to the intruder, Wanda makes the shift into her Scarlet Witch ensemble mid-teleport. Save time. Save effort. Don’t have a hand out in claw form. Just…appear. Cross your arms. Intimidate simply by being.

Glare at the child who has now, a third time in a row, decided not to leave you alone, despite your multiple previous attempts to kill her and everything you have set up here that clearly says, “Stay out.”

Maybe it’s time to be a little more explicit.

“What do you want?” Wanda leaves her arms crossed, keeps glaring at the child, refuses to let her teeth continue to grit together, refuses to let the child think that she has gotten under her skin, even if she has.

America crosses her arms just the same as Wanda has and glares at her, too, although there is nothing intimidating in her stare or her stance. She’s just a kid – but the words echoing in Wanda’s mind aren’t in Stephen’s voice. She wonders, briefly, if he has ever been called Steve. Her heart aches. It isn’t supposed to do that anymore. She is supposed to be numb.

She can’t be numb while she’s mad. It leaves her vulnerable.

She’s always vulnerable.

“I want my hot chocolate back.” America doesn’t even have her backpack this time, and she certainly does not come with any offering of ice cream. She sounds just like what she is – a child, frustrated with an adult for doing something and not explaining it, mad at a bully for being, well, a bully.

“It’s gone.” Wanda whirls away, one hand raised and prepared to throw the child somewhere else again. “You can go to other universes. Go get more.”

“I can’t. You don’t want—”

The anger bubbles up within her, so loud that it shrieks in her ears. “I don’t?” Wanda speaks soft, an Alice saying that things are curiouser and curiouser, as she turns back to the girl, examining her – or, at least, pretending to do so. Then she lets her gaze move away, lingering on the world around her. “I think it doesn’t much matter to you what I want.” Her fingers itch to twist, and she allows it easily enough, letting her magic arc between their stained tips. “What do you want, America Chavez?”

“I told you,” America starts with a huff, arms still crossed, “I want my hot chocolate—”

It’s simple to let the magic out, to let it constrain America’s arms and legs in this moment, because the child doesn’t think they’re fighting, the child thinks all of that is over and done with, the child thinks that she has won – but it isn’t that she’s won, only that Wanda has lost again and that the only way to winning is to lose. She has heard of win/win situations, but she has always only ever been in a lose/lose one, and it doesn’t matter how much she tries or how much power she has or how much she is supposed to be, as the Scarlet Witch, she doesn’t get to win. All is loss.

America struggles against her bonds and opens her mouth to speak.

“No.”

And her mouth is gone.

America’s dark eyes widen, glistening with her own power, and she struggles harder.

“That won’t do you any good. No one knows you’re here. Just me. And I’m dangerous.” The words drip from her lips easily enough. Wanda hates this. She hates all of this. “Don’t worry. You’ll get your mouth back. I don’t feel like starting another war over a child.” The words don’t even sound right.

And then Wanda can’t help it. It isn’t humor that makes her laugh, it’s something like breaking, and the laughter breaks out of her lips as she breaks herself, and she bends forward, halves herself, and covers her face with one hand, stained fingers covering and hiding her, and she sounds like the witch that she is, all laughter and maniacal cackling, and when she turns back to America with wild and wide eyes and sees the fear in the child’s face the way she saw it in her boys’, the laughter wracks through her again, and she shudders to contain it.

“I could take your power now, and no one would ever know. Not in time to save you. Not in time to stop me leaving.” Wanda continues, haphazard, leaping from this thought to the next with no connection between them. “You could be anywhere in the world, anywhere in the multiverse, you could find somewhere else with your hot chocolate, you could live there, you can find another me to spy on, but you. are. here. With me. The witch who tried to kill you and would have succeeded if not for—”

She won’t say it.

Wanda steps close to America Chavez where she has her hanging in the air, high enough that she can meet her eyes, not so high that she can’t still look down on her. “Why. are. you. here? And don’t make something up about your hot chocolate.”

With a wave of her hand, America’s mouth is returned, and the child coughs and splutters like she couldn’t breathe. She could. The constraints disappear, too, and America falls to her knees on the ground. “I don’t know,” she says finally, spitting it out. She glares up at Wanda. “I don’t know. I thought….” She shakes her head and looks away. “I don’t know.”

Wanda gives it a moment. Longer than either of them deserve, longer than she wants. Then she raises her hand again. “Don’t come back until you do.” She turns and flicks America away as she did before, with no intent to harm, only intent to remove.

She barely makes it down into the thick of the scarred trees before she feels that familiar trespass on her world, and she turns back, sees the equally familiar spiral of golden magic, and grits her teeth together. She could try to stop it, but she doesn’t. She could go back, but she doesn’t. What would be the point?

America Chavez steps through the portal. She scans the area around her with familiar fear in her eyes, but the fear dissipates when her gaze lands on Wanda. Something steels her, and she barks out, words carrying soft to where Wanda stands, “No one should be alone.”

That pang again, right in the center of her heart.

Wanda hesitates. She hates that she hesitates. Everything is at once familiar and not at all. Her eyes meet America’s. There isn’t anything malevolent in them. She’s not sure there can be.

“A month, then,” she turns away and says, her voice a choked rasping husk of itself, and she can’t believe she’s saying it. “Come back in a month, and I might be ready for you.”

She will never be ready for a child that isn’t hers, who has the power to return her to hers and yet chooses not to do so, coming into her home. She will never be ready for the reminder of what she could – and did – do coming into her home for, for what? Hot chocolate? Ice cream? She will never be ready for whatever America’s attempts at friendship are – if they can even be called that.

It is so easy to lie to a child.

This time, Wanda doesn’t teleport away. That feels too much like running. Instead, she uses her magic to lift herself into the sky and fly. It’s still running away. She doesn’t have it in her to stay.

“And some hot chocolate!”

The shout echoes across the trees, and Wanda almost finds it in her to smile.

Chapter 11: Part Two: Chapter Two

Chapter Text

America quickly learns that her golden gateway circle will not take her any nearer to the witch’s house than the edge of her burnt, ashy forest. As soon as she tries to get any closer to the log cabin under the scarlet sky, the sling ring refuses. Just absolutely refuses. She doesn’t ask Wong about this because that would mean revealing that she’s been trying to visit the witch, and she doesn’t think he would exactly approve. So when she goes back a month later, she finds herself right outside the – well, maybe forest isn’t even the right word anymore. There’s nothing growing here. She doesn’t even know how the sky stays that color, but no matter what time she goes there, it’s still that same, deep shade of red. She shivers. It isn’t cold. It isn’t warm. It’s just....

Nothing. The weather feels like a big mass of nothing. She doesn’t think the weather is supposed to feel that way. Before this, she wouldn’t have thought the weather could feel this way. But it does. And it is.

The past month, America has spent way too much time fidgeting around Kamar-Taj. She’s certain that Wong can feel her impatience, even though it isn’t with him or with anything she’s been learning there – magic is cool in some cases! Especially when people aren’t wielding it to attack her or kill her or try to take her powers! It’s just....

She’s quickly growing tired of staying in the same place. She wants to travel – to wander. Even if she knows she can return to Kamar-Taj as a base of sorts, she’s so used to exploring and roaming and going wherever she wants, that being here, in one place, is starting to feel constricting.

Besides, she wants to find her moms. She can’t do that if she stays here. She isn’t sure she can do it if she doesn’t. In a place like this, there are probably all sorts of locator spells. If she gets good enough, maybe she’ll be able to scrap something together that can work across universes, not just across this universe and its multiple dimensions. But in the time it takes to do that, she could’ve already found them, just by universe-hopping.

So this time when America left Kamar-Taj to visit the witch, she leaves with everything her little rainbow unicorn backpack will carry (mostly food and a spare change of clothes, because outside of that, she’s pretty crafty at taking care of herself. There are always places with food, and there are always places with clothes. Except for that one nudist universe. She hopes her moms aren’t there, because she hadn’t stayed very long). She doesn’t intend to stay in the other universes. This one has treated her nicely (mostly), so it can continue to be her base. It’s just time to be somewhere that isn’t Kamar-Taj.

America leaves a note for Wong on her bed. She hadn’t wanted to have the discussion with him directly. He would have wanted her to stay; he would have said she was a kid and needed protecting. (Or maybe she was thinking of Strange and Wong would have done something entirely different. Maybe Wong would have sent her to someone else who knew more about this, who could help. But hadn’t that been what Strange was doing when he visited the witch that first time? Looking for extra help, only to find that she was the problem? She couldn’t take that chance with Wong.)

She might be a kid, but she’s good at protecting herself.

…she’s good at running.

America runs to the edge of the witch’s territory, backpack slung over one shoulder, golden circle sparkling and crackling with a pleasant sound behind her as it spins into nothingness. Her footsteps make a different sort of crackling on the burnt, ashen ground. It’s been a month, and the landscape hasn’t changed at all. The sky overhead is still that deep scarlet. The trees are still broken and burnt and ripping into a sky that doesn’t want them. The ground is cracked and sounds like it’s on fire, even though there is no fire to be seen. Ash might as well be falling from the sky, but somehow she thinks that would be a little too on point. Unbelievable.

The witch doesn’t come to meet her as soon as she arrives. That’s new. America isn’t sure if that’s a good new or not, but it’s certainly new. She even makes it to the porch completely unscathed – not thrown away like a video game character stepping into water that’s far too hot and propelled out of it. Her heart still pounds hard in her chest as she steps on the porch, as she hears the sharp creak of her stepping.

Still no witch.

America swallows once, staring at the door, and then turns her back to it and sits on the steps instead. The witch must know she’s here. She’ll just, uh, wait out here.

Yeah. Something like that.

She isn’t ready.

Wanda doesn’t keep track of days anymore. They’ve been blending one into the other for far too long for her to try and unravel them now, so she doesn’t even try. Once America was gone and she knew she wouldn’t be interrupted for however long a month might be, she’d looked over the interior of her house, over everything she still had to do, and decided no. Not now. Maybe not ever. Certainly not just to make everything look nice for a child that she wasn’t sure she wanted here in the first place.

Instead, she’d curled up in her bed, pulled the blankets over her head, and dreamed.

And dreamed.

And dreamed.

Just as before, the days faded one into the other. No one needed her. No one wanted her. No one – outside of America Chavez – knew where she was or even seemed to particularly care that she was alive. Even that ghostly visage hadn’t trespassed. No one had. It wasn’t the first time in her life that Wanda Maximoff had been alone, but somehow it felt final this time. She’d outlasted her usefulness. They would only try to find her if something dramatic happened, and even then, it was just as likely that they’d blame her as ask for her help.

She slept. She woke. She ate. She dreamed.

It was so easy to fall back into those patterns. She was so tired of fighting them.

Now, Wanda was aware that sometime in the future – nearer, not far distant, but close enough as though to touch – America would return. She knew that. But there was no pressure to it. She knew she wouldn’t be ready, and so she didn’t try to be ready.

She did, however, make herself shower and untangle her hair more often than she had before, just because the tangles had been more painful than the extra effort to keep her waves clean was. Some mornings, she would wake up and feel like she had some energy. Not very much, not enough to call the day anything resembling good, but enough to do…something. Those were the days that the sheets got changed or the dishes got washed or the laundry got folded. It wasn’t ever very much. But little by little, her cabin became cleaner and cleaner.

Not for anyone else. Just for herself.

Still, Wanda isn’t ready when she feels the first step that America makes at the edge of her home. She doesn’t snap awake – for once, she already is, with a cup of steaming chamomile tea in one hand. She could have been fooled into thinking that the high-pitched whistling of her copper tea kettle was a new alert of some sort, but the child had to come a little later. Unfortunate. She lifts the tea bag out of her cup, stares at it, and then lets it sink back in. A few more seconds.

And the steps keep coming, rippling the illusion where she holds onto it. She doesn’t need to do that. But if she must be painted as a villain, it is best to be aware when some hero decides it is time to end her. Hansel and Gretel’s witch lived far, far away in the wood, and yet somehow, they still found her, ate her house, and then killed her for trying to punish them.

A part of her, unspoken, believed that all of this would cause someone to look for her. One of the Avengers still living, perhaps. Someone.

But no. There is no such hope. There is only Wanda, alone.

And the child coming near enough to trip the creaking on the illusion of her porch. There isn’t really a creak there. It just fits with the atmosphere she wanted to convey. Not that anyone else ever came close enough to notice.

Wanda waits for the knock on her door. There isn’t one. She takes the tea bag from her cup and lets it rest on her saucer, takes a sip of her tea. Again, she waits, and again, there is no knock. Nothing. She doesn’t dare to hope that the child has decided to go somewhere else, that she has come all the way here only to give up before attempting to come inside. Maybe this is better, though. It isn’t as though she intends to let America inside. Curious, she moves to one of the front windows, pulls the white curtain aside, and glances to her front porch.

America sits on her front steps with that rainbow-colored backpack in her lap, arms wrapped around it and holding it against her chest. She looks for all the world exactly like what she is – a child. But more like one that got lost in a shopping mall or separated from her mother at Disney World and has found the safe meet-up spot they’d designated beforehand so that she can be found, eventually. She seems so small.

Something within Wanda aches again. She covers the ache with a sip of her tea and steps outside, shutting the door quietly behind her. Not that she needs to be quiet. This is her house after all. She knows how to keep from making a sound.

There’s a shimmer as Wanda steps through the door, and her clothes – her appearance – change. Her lounge pants and hooded sweater shift into the dress and tiara of the Scarlet Witch, and her hair, pulled back into a soft, easy braid, releases itself into waves. Look close enough, though, and you can just make out where the braid used to be; it leaves its pattern in the waves left behind. She doesn’t feel like herself in this outfit anymore, but it doesn’t feel right for America to see her in anything else.

“You’re early.”

The girl jumps. She’s on her feet in seconds, her backpack zipped back up again, slung across one shoulder. There’s a horn on it. Is it a unicorn? It doesn’t look like a unicorn.

“I’m not,” America sputters, words stumbling over themselves. “It’s been a month. You said come back in a month. I waited. Do you have hot chocolate?” Her gaze lands on the mug in Wanda’s hands. “Is that hot chocolate?”

It’s a moment. Wanda could say yes. She could hand the mug over just to see how America responds when she takes a sip and finds that it’s not hot chocolate. (Would she think that it’s just this universe’s form of hot chocolate? Could she pull that off?)

“No.” Wanda’s brows raise, lips curling. She covers the trace of a smile with her mug.

America scowls. “You were supposed to have hot chocolate.”

“No,” Wanda repeats with a darker, more hesitant tone, lowering her mug and tapping it with the rings on her left hand, ones that hadn’t disappeared in the shift, “I was supposed to be with my boys, and you were supposed to be dead. Funny how that worked out.”

“You’re mean.” America’s eyes narrow, and her arms cross. “Why are you so mean?”

“I’m a witch, I tried to kill you, and you expect me to be nice?” Wanda can feel it again, that unfunny hysterical laughter creeping up within her, but she holds it back. Instead, she lifts her mug. “It’s tea.”

She doesn’t ask if America wants any.

“Oh, cool.” America nods a little bit. She stands on her tiptoes, as if that will let her see what’s in the mug. “What kind?”

“Chamomile.”

“Cool.”

Wanda waits. There’s nothing, just America shrinking back down. Her lips press together, and she nods to herself, eyes narrowing. “Good talk.” She turns to go back inside.

“Wait!”

The porch creaks again, a small hand lands on her right shoulder blade, and something ripples off of Wanda. When she turns back, her eyes blaze scarlet. “Don’t touch me.”

America steps back. “I’m sorry.”

Wanda steps forward. “You don’t even know me.”

“I said I’m sorry.” America steps back again, almost stumbles on the steps, and wheels to keep herself from falling backward.

“You should be.” Wanda’s voice cracks with the weight of…something. She doesn’t know what. There’s a lot pressing in on her, and it could be any one of those things that makes her voice crack or a combination of all of them. When she leans forward, America tries to lean back, but she can’t. She starts to stumble backward again, and Wanda grabs the edge of her jacket, pulling her forward so that she doesn’t fall.

It’s immediate. An instinct. It’s nothing to do with America and everything to do with a child in front of her starting to fall. Wanda will not pretend to anybody that she’s good anymore, certainly not to herself, but she’s not going to let a child fall.

But she’s still scowling, she’s still angry, and she’s still holding a mug of tea that she has not so conveniently forgotten that she’s holding. The mug tilts a little too far. Hot tea splashes all over the porch, staining America’s sneakers, and pooling around Wanda’s feet.

The illusion of boots holds. Her bare feet sting.

Wanda hisses with frustration and pain and jumps back. She should say something, but she doesn’t.

“I guess that really was tea,” America sputters. “I thought you might have been lying.”

“Go away, America Chavez,” Wanda growls. She lifts her hand as though to throw the girl elsewhere again, but America is already gone, quickly creating a hole in the universe and slipping through it.

That shouldn’t be a problem. America should always have gone to another universe. And yet, something in Wanda doesn’t like it. She clutches her mug so tight her knuckles turn a bright white.

Then she goes back inside for another cup of tea.

Chapter 12: Part Two: Chapter Three

Chapter Text

Wanda is unsettled.

Her façade fades as she re-enters her house, leaving her in her grey lounge pants and scarlet hooded sweater, in her bare feet now splattered with hot tea. She leaves footprints on the floor as she walks. Those will need to be cleaned later, otherwise the floor will be sticky. She hates sticky.

That’s a strong word – hate. Maybe she doesn’t hate sticky. There are so many other things she has much more passionate and negative emotions towards than sticky floors, which don’t really do anything to anyone and certainly won’t leave her alone. In point of fact, they’re really only an issue if she’s wearing socks and they leave fuzzies all over the floor. Annoying is a better word. She is annoyed by sticky. She doesn’t hate it.

Hate should be reserved for things that are far more challenging to change or things that cannot be changed.

Like her aversion to peppermint. (Not like her aversion to peppermint.)

For the past several months – for far longer, if she’s honest – Wanda has been buying a multipack of tea. Most of the flavors are ones she likes and will readily drink, but the peppermint she avoids like the plague. Probably because, in her opinion, it is a plague. Peppermint and all forms of mint leave her mouth all tingly and uncomfortable. It isn’t an allergy; Vis had checked. It’s just a sensitivity. She doesn’t even use peppermint bath soaps or lotions, as they cause the same tingly uncomfortable sensation on her skin. Toothpaste was complicated until she found the cinnamon flavor (before that, she’d used one of the kids’ fruit punch flavors – both of which come in a bright, shining red. She’s always been drawn to the color. Is that her, or is that the Scarlet Witch of her? She doesn’t think about that).

When she lived in the Avengers compound, Wanda had been able to shrug off the peppermint tea onto the others. Natasha would drink tea with her on the colder nights, staring up at the stars from the flat roof and picking out constellations, telling folklore from Russia and Sokovia, smiling at their similarities and their differences. Sometimes Clint would join them to listen, but Wanda always felt like he was there for Nat more than her. Like he was waiting for his moment to pull her away for a private conversation, but he didn’t want to interrupt.

Tony was purely a coffee man. He would joke that she should try it sometime, and she would point out the various health benefits of the varying teas as well as her refusal to be stuck in the same caffeine addiction he so clearly had all while waiting for her own tea to steep. Banner sided with her in what was less of a debate and more of an open conversation, and by the time Vis chimed in, Tony felt obligated to try a cup of tea. He hadn’t liked it because he either didn’t wait long enough for the leaves to steep properly or forgot that he was leaving them to steep and ended up with overly bitter tea.

Of course, this led to others in the compound intentionally bringing Tony tea just to mess with him, which meant that Wanda’s own stores were depleted more often than not, but considering, she counted it more than worth it. Up until Tony realized he actually liked rosehip tea and that sleepytime tea helped him sleep without his debilitating nightmares, at which point her favorite tea kettle – a porcelain one etched with indigo and ruby flowers over a soft silver background – completely disappeared. She found it a month later full of moldy tea leaves in the garage, cleaned it as thoroughly as she could, and then hid it in her room until she needed it. Like most things it had, of course, been destroyed when the compound was.

A lot was lost in the war with Thanos. The porcelain kettle is little and less in comparison with everything else.

Wanda pulls out her cardboard box full of peppermint teabags. There are so many. She hasn’t thrown them away, but she doesn’t have any use for them. Her thumb runs along the box’s perforated edge. She pulls out one of the bags, stares at it, and then sighs.

Why not.

America punches a hole through the universe and lands in another one entirely. She’ll go back to the other one eventually; she’s just tired of the witch literally throwing her out whenever she’s decided she’s tired of her. Like she can’t walk out or make a magic circle to leave – funny, how she can make those to leave the front porch, but she can’t make one to get to the front porch. Like she’s just a bag of trash that the witch puts up with on occasion but can dispose of whenever she wants.

…actually.

This version of Earth is burnt to a crisp. Where at least the witch’s devastation arena has a scarlet sky and semi-scarlet earth (a mixture of that and the same black of the dead trees’ bark), there is no color here. Everything is in grayscale. America lifts her hand and stares at it. Yep. Also grayscale. Which means—

America pulls her backpack off. It’s still rainbow shades, but all in gray and white and off-white and black. It’s like she’s stuck in an old-timey TV show. Like The Twilight Zone. She’s not impressed. One of those episodes ended with someone dying but thinking they’ve actually just taken a different train stop, and in another one, once the people got out of the bucket, it was revealed they were just a toy all along. And the one with the mannequins who took turns being real people! She doesn’t know what the trick twist will be on this universe, but she doesn’t want any part of it, thank you very much.

She punches another hole through the universe and books it out of there as quickly as she can.

…only to find herself in another burnt Earth landscape, filled with ash and burned trees and stormy grey skies.

America squints. She looks at her hand. Nope, nope, that’s got color now. Her backpack strap is its bright pink and yellow stripes, with a smaller turquoise color near the bottom. So – not grayscale here. Just dead. Dying? She glances up at the sky. There are only clouds. Dead.

There is an all too familiar log cabin in the center of all the dead things, but America strongly suspects there isn’t a witch living there. If there was, then the world would have flashes of scarlet running through it, illuminating everything with a sickeningly sweet red light. Maybe….

Nope.

America punches a third hole through the universe. She stares back into Earth-616. For a moment, the world flickers.

Cool.

She grins and steps through her portal back onto the witch’s porch. Good to know that her universe-hopping portals can do precisely what the sorcerer’s golden glam circles cannot. That will make all of this hopping a lot more easier. She can just come here at the end of her hopping instead of at the beginning…if she goes back to Kamar-Taj, that is, and she still really, really doesn’t want to go back there. It’s just so boring.

This time, America doesn’t wait for the witch to find her. She pushes herself forward and without a second thought knocks on the door, grin dropping from her face only to be replaced by determination. Her eyes meet the witch’s when the door opens. “Can’t get rid of me that easy.”

“Didn’t think so.” The witch answers her like she hasn’t expected anything else. This time, there are two mugs in her hands. She holds one out to America. “Tea?”

Chapter 13: Part Two: Chapter Four

Chapter Text

The sun sets scarlet over a shining scarlet landscape.

Or maybe that’s the moon setting. Maybe the sun is rising over the mountains in the horizon. It’s really hard to tell when the sky remains mostly the same color regardless of what time it is. America knows that she left Kamar-Taj after lights out, which means it must have been dark out when she got here. Which means that must be the moon after all. Which means the sun must be rising. Which means that they’ve been here for….

Oh, America doesn’t know at this point. It’s hard to tell time here. She sits with her rainbow-colored mug of tea between both hands, stares out over the scarlet landscape, and then lets out a sigh. Steam rises from the mug. Her hands are warm. Her nose twitches. She tries not to look at her chair, and she tries not to fidget. The chair had looked positively rotten and bug-eaten before, but the witch just gestured to it and all of a sudden, it looked almost…normal. Like one of the chairs she might have seen on a porch in Westview, only not as blindingly white. Maybe because the white would have looked wrong here. Instead, it became a deep, burnt black color, which was on brand, of course.

But the witch hadn’t done anything to her chair before sitting down, and when America asked her if it was an illusion, she’d just shrugged and nodded to America’s mug, asked her if she liked her tea. America hadn’t even had a sip!

It’s been….

Well, again, America is having a hard time telling the time here. Her gaze flicks to her backpack full of food and a change of clothes. She should be leaving. Wong is going to find her note at any moment now, and when he does, he’ll….

What, exactly?

There’s no reason for Wong to believe that she’s visiting the Scarlet Witch. He won’t come here to look for her. He might go to the Sanctum in New York to tell Strange, but what would Strange do, really? Do they know some sort of locator spell? Would they find out she was here and then storm the cabin? Would they assume the worst?

Hah. That’s not even a question. They will definitely assume the worst.

America takes a sip of her second cup of tea. She’d finished her first in the quiet between them. It’s not…entirely awkward. It certainly isn’t tense, which is better than nothing. But she isn’t sure exactly how to break the silence, and she doesn’t think the witch wants her to do that anyway. She hadn’t even had to say something when her tea was gone; the witch had just taken her mug back inside and made her another cup.

Actually, that had been the only time the witch had said anything else to her at all, and it was all of “Stay here.” Like America really cared what the inside of her house looked like! It’s not like she was judgy or anything. Given that the Wanda she’d met lived in a nice little protected suburb in the middle of nowhere, she was probably the judgy one.

“So, um,” America starts, tentatively placing her mug on the table in front of them. It looks just as beat-up and rotten as her chair had, so she’s afraid it won’t hold. Still, somehow, it does. “It’s really, uh, red out there?”

The witch raises an eyebrow. “You know the saying, don’t you?”

“Which one?” America asks. “I know a lot of sayings for a lot of different universes about a lot of different things. I don’t know how many of them transfer over here.”

“Red sky at morning, sailor take warning.”

America blinks. “Oh. No. I haven’t heard that one yet.” Mostly because she’s never been around sailors. Besides, there aren’t really a lot of sailors around here, either, so what’s the point? Is it just an everyone’s a sailor assumption? Because everyone should take warning? She doesn’t think the witch would particularly….

Her brow furrows. “We were never properly introduced.” She doesn’t hold her hand out, not because she’s not formal, but because that wasn’t part of her world, because in the universes she’s been in since then, she hasn’t been particularly close enough with anyone to teach her such strict formalities. Even if she had, after everything, she probably wouldn’t be so formal here. “I’m America Chavez,” she says, “from Utopia.”

“Utopia,” the witch echoes with a tone of disbelief. “You left Utopia.”

“Not by choice.” America averts her gaze. She doesn’t want to get into it. She doesn’t want the witch to ask. She doesn’t think she’ll answer the question even if she does ask. She’ll just change the subject.

The unasked question hangs heavy in the air between them. It’s implied, and it sits there, waiting on a comment, a cough, something.

But no.

“Wanda Maximoff,” the witch says finally, voice low. She glances out over the scarlet expanse. “Of Earth. Of what’s left of it.”

Not Harkness, America clocks. She wonders, briefly, what happened to the Agatha of this universe, if she and this Wanda had ever met. If they really were related, just much more removed now than where she’d last met them. Her gaze follows Wanda’s. “What do you mean what’s left of it?”

“They really aren’t teaching you anything at Kamar-Taj, are they?” The words are a question, but the witch’s tone isn’t.

“They teach me plenty,” America says, immediately defensive. “They taught me how to make the magic circle teleporting gateway…thing….”

“And taught you the proper name for it, too.”

When Wanda smiles, she hides it behind her mug. It’s not a real smile, America’s certain, but she can see the way her lips just curve upward at her own joke, the slight – brief – raise of her eyebrows, the glance away almost like she’s lying. She doesn’t take a sip this time, just holds her mug up between both hands so that she can stare just over the lip of it, and nods towards America’s mug. “Did they teach you what that’s called?”

America follows her gaze to the ring cresting the two forefingers of her right hand. “No,” she lies. They told her what it was called at some point, but they’d only used the term once. She thinks it’s called a sling ring; if it isn’t, that’s what she’s been calling it because that’s what it sounded like. She hadn’t asked them to give her a proper name after that first time. She’d thought they would mention it again. It isn’t her fault that they didn’t.

And she doesn’t want the witch to ask her to prove it by telling her what it’s called. She doesn’t want Wanda to laugh at her if she calls it something stupid.

Wanda just nods knowingly. “Did they teach you about the Snap?”

Something in her tone suggests that Snap should be capitalized. Even if it didn’t, America had heard about the Snap in some of the other universes she’s gone through. It’s possible she’d lived through it. She remembers not feeling very good, she remembers feeling very afraid, and she remembers opening a portal and going from the universe she was in through multiple others before finding one where she didn’t feel not very good. But sometimes she would end up in a universe that seemed ravaged by a way she hadn’t lived through, with significantly fewer people than should have been there. She’d wound up on one Earth where there weren’t any people at all, just a handful of very violent robots, but he didn’t think that had anything to do with the Snap, especially since she’d seen much less violent versions of those robots on Earth-838.

America shakes her head. “No,” she answers. “Should I know what that is?”

Wanda’s eyes blaze hot, but not with the scarlet that signifies her power. Her lips purse together, and she sets her mug down on the table. “Did they teach you about the Avengers?”

“I’ve heard of the Illuminati,” America answers. “Back on Earth-838. I think you killed all of them.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

America thinks it probably is the same thing, not that she’s ever met either. “The Avengers must be the superhero team here, right? Not every universe has one, but a lot of them do. Most of them have different names. Some of them have more than one group.” She takes a sip of her tea. It’s nice, but it isn’t hot chocolate. This peppermint would taste so much better in hot chocolate. “I met the X-Men once. Led by a guy named Magneto. He could do some really cool things with metal.” She stares into her tea. “I don’t know why they were called X-Men, though. Maybe they just all liked women. Maybe it was Ex-Men.” She shrugs. “Is that who the Avengers are?” It takes a moment, and she hesitates before asking, “Were?”

“Something like that.” Wanda takes another sip of her tea, but she isn’t there. She’s rarely there, if you ask America. The witch is so caught up in her own thoughts that she might as well not be there at all. She doesn’t think she’s helping. She isn’t sure she was really coming to help. “You should ask….” She hesitates, and her eyes come back into focus. Her eyes meet America’s. “Who’s teaching you at Kamar-Taj?”

“Wong.” America rolls her eyes. “Really, I’m just stuck in different magic classes, and they teach me the same things every day, and they just want me to practice over and over. It’s boring.” She sighs. “That’s why I’m leaving. Not forever, because it’s nice to have a place to go back to, you know, but I just.”

America’s eyes widen, and she stops herself. “I didn’t say that. You didn’t hear any of that. I didn’t—” Her eyes flick up to the witch as she rambles, but Wanda isn’t even looking at her. She might not have heard it at all. Her voice fades off.

“You should go back to Kamar-Taj,” Wanda says, and she pushes her chair back before standing. “Remind them that you are a child and that there is a lot about our universe you don’t know or understand.” Her tone takes on a darker, almost angry tone, but it doesn’t feel pointed at her at all. That isn’t necessarily comforting. “They’ll make sure you aren’t bored.”

Okay, now, that one feels pointed.

America doesn’t move. “I already made up my mind. I’ll go back when I want to go back.”

There’s a moment of silence where America expects Wanda to say something – anything – as a response. But there’s nothing. She looks up just in time to see Wanda’s eyes blaze scarlet.

Wong has only just clocked that America is missing and gone to check her room when there is a loud screaming noise outside. He ignores it at first – one scream usually isn’t a problem – but then there’s a lot of yelling after that and someone – multiple someones – call his name. Loudly. Panicked.

Somehow he thinks that whatever’s going with America can likely wait until after he takes care of whatever this is.

Wong sprints back to Kamar-Taj’s main area, only to see as many trainees as can holding up their arms in golden shields. Some of them are panicked. Some of them have raced past him. A few on one end are hastily using their sling rings to make gateways to get away. He looks up.

The Scarlet Witch hovers just outside of the walls. Her arms are crossed, and her eyes scan Kamar-Taj, looking for something – or someone – until they finally land on him. She doesn’t move any closer, and he can’t see her lips move, but he can hear her speaking into his ear all the same. “We need to talk.”

Wong’s eyes narrow…until America peeks over her shoulder. Then he sighs.

He did not ask for this. Not today.

But it looks like he’s going to have to deal with it.

Chapter 14: Part Two: Chapter Five

Chapter Text

They don’t talk in Kamar-Taj.

There are a lot of reasons for this, but the main one is, well, Wanda herself. The last time she was at Kamar-Taj, she had destroyed a good chunk of it, broken out of the mirror realm, killed many trainees (who had chosen to stay simply to fight her – supposedly to protect America, but some of them had just wanted to fight the witch herself), and then taken the new Sorcerer Supreme to somewhere he didn’t want to go for the sheer purpose of dreamwalking, and then almost killed him, too – and only didn’t because Wong was fairly good about keeping himself alive. In fact, despite her destruction of what they had previously assumed was a tomb, they still weren’t quite sure whether Wanda could be considered…well, good, and it hadn’t helped matters much that they hadn’t really known that she was alive.

Until now, that is.

So the idea of bringing Wanda – who still might be an enemy and certainly was not anyone at Kamar-Taj’s favorite person (especially since some of them had barely survived her last appearance) – into Kamar-Taj is off the table. Not even considered.

It is somehow worse that Wanda has America with her. There will be a lot of questions later. Wong does not look forward to later.

There is some quick discussion on where, exactly, they will go to talk, since there aren’t really many neutral zones anymore. The Sanctum isn’t neutral, as it is Stephen’s space. Wherever Wanda is staying – well, she doesn’t invite him, so the potential problems with that aren’t even discussed. The Avengers Compound is destroyed. Even if it wasn’t, that doesn’t seem like it would be neutral either, since some of the Avengers likely might have been Wanda’s friends (debatable if they still are, debatable if the ones who were are still alive) and even if they aren’t, since Wanda’s most recent actions would have been considered threats, they might have been forced to fight her, too….

Maybe it is better that the Avengers seemed to be, ah, under construction.

Then America brings up how hungry she is – because Wanda hasn’t fed her (and there’s a pointed look followed by a raised eyebrow) – followed by a yawn that she barely covers with one hand (during which there’s another pointed look, this time from Wanda at him as though he’s done something wrong (he’s still not sure what’s going on, but he’s starting to think he is the only one who has done nothing wrong in this situation)) – and Wong suggests, you know, maybe a Waffle House? Or a Denny’s? Or an IHOP?

The look Wanda shoots him is downright terrifying. Or it would be if he hadn’t seen worse from her during the whole, you know, trying to absorb America’s powers and kill her situation. And it grows darker with each restaurant he mentions.

But America perks up. She’s never been to any of those restaurants. Somehow, they don’t exist in any of the many other universes she’s been in. Wong doesn’t quite believe this. How can there be so many universes without at least one of those? Sounds fake.

Wanda sighs.

Wanda pinches her nose.

Wanda gives Wong a look that should feel like absolute hatred but really feels more like she’s just tired. Frustrated with the whole situation, perhaps, but primarily just tired.

Then she says, “Fine,” as though it is anything but fine, and agrees to Denny’s. It seems much more thematic.

Wong gives her a look – not dismissive, not annoyed, just the sort of look that a mother gives their daughter when they try to go to school in their pajamas the first time. “You’re going to Denny’s dressed like that? Everyone’s going to panic.”

Wanda returns the look cool as ice (not a cucumber because, for the most part, cucumbers aren’t that cool). “Why not? They’ll just think I’m one of those cosplayers.”

“No cosplayer dresses like you, Wanda.” Wong’s look grows stern. “They think you’re evil.”

“Beg to differ,” America interrupts. “The Scarlet Witch is hot. Unless they’ve personally been victims of her, uh, um.” She flushes a bright scarlet as the other two turn to look at her. Then she crosses her arms and seems to steel herself against whatever judgment she thinks they’re passing. “What? It’s a fact. You’re hot, and the being evil bit just makes you more hot. And you’re, like, a mom. You’re a hot mom. Do they have that song in this universe? About Stacy’s Mom? Because that’s basically you right now. Only evil and with magic powers. A lot of people are probably crazy about you.”

Wong doesn’t know what to say to this. He’s not sure there is anything to say to this. In fact, he’s just happy he hasn’t gone slack-jawed. (And he gives the Ancient One credit for that. Stephen had tried to shock him a while back, and if that hadn’t done it, this wouldn’t either.)

When neither of them say anything, America turns to Wong. “You see it, right? It’s not just me?”

“Don’t answer that.” Wanda looks like she’s in pain. Actual, physical pain. She winces and shakes her head. “Please don’t ever call me a hot mom again.”

America pouts. Actually pouts. “I was just backing you up!”

Wanda just keeps her eyes closed and shakes her head again. Then she peeks one eye open and turns to Wong. “Are you making a gateway to Denny’s, or do you need me to teleport us there?”

“I’ll take care of it,” Wong says, feigning gratefulness for the change in subject. He coughs a couple of times and uses his sling ring to make a gateway in front of them. “If you’re trying to pass as a cosplayer, teleportation will give you away.” Then he meets America’s eyes. “And I think the phrase you’re looking for is MILF.”

America grins and steps forward with one hand up. “High five!” She stops herself short. “Or, uh, when we get through. Don’t want to interfere with your magic circle thing.”

Wanda refuses to meet either of their eyes as she steps through the portal, but when Wong makes it through, he notices that she’s changed her outfit into something a little less eye-catching. Or no less eye-catching, but certainly less likely to out her as the Scarlet Witch herself.

That’s a start.

Then America snickers, covering her mouth with one hand and staring at him. Wong raises an eyebrow, and she just says between giggles with a big grin on her face, “Look at your clothes.”

Oh, no.

Wong glances at himself, only to see that, like Wanda, his entire outfit has changed. Where she has at least tried to make herself look put-together in a long, scarlet, lace-embroidered leather jacket, black camisole with lace on both its top and bottom, black skinny jeans, and what look to be bright scarlet combat boots, he’s in nothing more than sweatpants and an oversized hoodie. He can’t look up, but now that America has mentioned his clothes, he feels a baseball hat resting atop his head. And he’s in bright blue flip-flops. He wiggles his toes and frowns.

Wanda shrugs. “Your outfit draws just as much attention as mine does. I couldn’t have you waltzing into Denny’s in your robes.”

“They’re not robes,” Wong mutters under his breath. His flip-flops slap against the sidewalk. He hates this. He hates this. He takes a deep breath. At least the sweatpants seem to be linen. He looks at the hoodie again. There’s some sort of emblem on it that he doesn’t recognize. Truth be told, there are a lot of emblems in the world that he doesn’t recognize anymore, since he spends so much time outside of it.

“Keep pouting. It makes you look menacing.”

Wong mutters incoherently under his breath and shoves his hands into his hoodie pocket. He still has his sling ring. Good. He wonders if the witch had tried to change that, too, and was unable to or if she’d just let him keep it. In the end, it doesn’t matter. Just so long as he still has it.

The witch holds the door open for them and gestures inside with her left hand. Her wedding ring sparkles in the morning sun, the ruby of her engagement ring seeming darker for it. “After you.”

Chapter 15: Part Two: Chapter Six

Chapter Text

Denny’s menu is impressively not what Wanda wants. Nothing looks good. Their bacon is beef, which would be nice if she wanted bacon, but she’s never been particularly interested in it. She doesn’t eat ham and doesn’t trust their sausage. Everything else is high on sugar.

And the worst of it is that she’s just. not. hungry.

…and that the menu is sticky from dried maple syrup (or what she hopes is dried maple syrup). She lifts her fingers and stares at their tips. Ick.

The waitress sets a full pot of coffee on the table, along with three mugs. They’re not white mugs. Wanda isn’t certain if they’ve never been white or if they intentionally got coffee mugs that already look stained. Either way, she isn’t interested in them. Wong takes one of the mugs and pours himself a cup while the waitress looks from Wanda to America expectantly. “What would you two like to drink?”

“Do you have any hot chocolate?” America asks. She looks up at their waitress, hesitates a second as she takes in her golden curls and bright features, and then seems to shake it off. “I’d love some hot chocolate.”

“Oh, honey, we’re just out.”

America scowls and stares at the menu again. “Don’t know why I’m surprised,” she mutters under her breath. “Do you have any almond milk?”

“No,” the waitress says, “but we have co*ke products and a wide variety of smoothies and milkshakes….” She hesitates and tucks an errant golden curl back behind one ear. “Sorry, you probably don’t want milk. I’m just the silliest goose.”

“Oh, I like milk, I just don’t like it first thing in the morning. Doesn’t sit well.” America kicks her sneakers along the floor. Carpet. Which is probably all full of more maple syrup stains and more stickiness and Wanda just isn’t going to think about any of that. She could fix it all with a wave of her hand. She won’t. “Orange juice is fine.” America’s tone says that it is not fine, but she’ll make do.

The waitress writes that down on a notepad and then looks at Wanda. “And you, miss?”

There’s something odd about being called miss by a woman who looks like younger than she is. Wanda quickly reads the woman’s name tag. Dottie. Her head tilts ever so slightly to one side. “Have we met before?”

Dottie blinks. “Oh, no, miss. I’m certain I would remember you if we’d ever met. You’re kind of—” She quickly covers her mouth and gives a little cough. “We haven’t met.”

“Hot mom vibes.” America makes as though to nudge Wanda with her elbow and then seems to think better of it. Probably a reaction to the whole don’t touch me and being thrown off of the porch. Or almost thrown off of the porch. Good. At least she’s learning.

“I’ll have an herbal tea, please,” Wanda says, folding her menu and offering the waitress a smile. “You don’t happen to know which kind it is, do you?”

“…no-o-o?” Dottie makes the word lengthen, and as it lengthens, it grows higher in pitch. She makes a panicked look over to Wong, who is sipping his coffee and not making a sound. “I know it’s not peppermint because we only use that in the winter with the hot chocolate, and I know it’s not pumpkin spice because that’s only for the fall up through Thanksgiving. Maybe strawberry? Or lemon?”

Wanda nods. “That’s fine. I’ll take whatever you have.”

Dottie writes that down. Before she leaves, she asks, “Are you ready to order, or do you need to look at your menus a little longer?”

Wanda doesn’t need longer. She’s not hungry. Looking at food she doesn’t want doesn’t suddenly make her want any of it.

Wong places his menu on the middle of the table. “Chicken porridge. No salt.”

“Really?” Wanda asks. “I figured you for one of the fried rice options.”

Wong meets her eyes steadily. “I don’t want rice for breakfast.”

She can’t tell if he’s joking. She was joking. She thinks he must have taken her seriously. Not that she cares.

“I’d like some of the Pancakes Puppies to start,” America says. Then her eyes narrow, and she looks up at Dottie. “They’re not actually puppies, are they?”

Dottie stares at America. She blinks twice. Then she gives an awkward look over to first Wong and then to Wanda. Neither of them suggest that she not take America seriously. “N-n-no,” she stutters. “We don’t cook dogs here. Um.” She glances back to Wong and Wanda for support and gets nothing. “They’re just little balls of pancake batter covered in cinnamon sugar.”

“Why are they called puppies then?”

“I…I don’t know. I’m just a waitress.” Dottie tugs her lower lip between her front two teeth. “You said to start?”

“Oh, right.” America grins. “And then I’d like some smothered cheese fries and a Grand Slam Slugger but with the banana strawberry chocolate chip pancakes instead of the normal ones. Can I do that?”

Dottie nods slowly as she writes it all down. “It costs extra.”

America’s face goes white. She looks over at Wong, who just shrugs. Wanda strongly begins to suspect that neither of them have any money and that she’s going to be left with the tab. She just as strongly suspects that, if Wong does have money, he won’t spend it on her. He probably wants her to pick up the tab. Petty punishment for killing a lot of his trainees. She supposes that she probably deserves that.

Wanda sighs. “It’s fine.”

America’s grin returns. “And for dessert—”

“Maybe we wait for dessert until after you’ve finished all of that,” Wong interrupts. He looks up and meets Dottie’s eyes. “Growing girl. Eyes bigger than her stomach.”

Dottie smiles at him easy. “Oh, don’t I know it. I was just like that when I was her age.” She gives America a fond look. “We can discuss dessert later, okay?”

America scowls. “Okay, but I know what I want, and I know how much I eat.”

By then, Dottie has already looked away and is staring at Wanda expectantly. “And you, miss?”

“Just the tea, please.” Wanda folds her menu and places it with the others’.

“You can’t just not get anything,” America says, staring at her with wide eyes. “We’re at a restaurant. I’ve only ever seen you eat ice cream, and I didn’t even really see that. You have to eat something.”

Wanda rolls her eyes. “Oh, to live for months on nothing more than ice cream.” She glances up at Dottie. “Really, I’m fine.”

“You should listen to our daughter, honey,” Wong says, ignoring the sharp look Wanda gives him. “A little food would be good for you. You’re so thin as it is.”

Wanda grits her teeth together. She glares daggers at Wong. He continues to ignore her. Then she takes a deep breath and glances up at Dottie. “Is there a way,” she starts, sighs, presses her fingertips to her forehead, and then starts again, “Is there a way to order French toast without the Slam bit?”

“Unfortunately not,” Dottie says, “but, um.” She glances down at her notepad. “You can substitute French toast for the pancakes on the Grand Slam Slugger, and then you can get the banana strawberry chocolate chip pancakes as a separate thing. But then it’s a whole meal, so you’ll get more eggs and bacon and sausage, so you might as well just…order the French toast…meal.”

“I don’t want the meal,” Wanda says, slow. “I just want the French toast.” She doesn’t even really want the French toast, but she doesn’t feel like using magic to make America and Wong stop giving her a hard time about what she does or does not eat – or to make Dottie just go away – would be particularly beneficial to this conversation. Still, her fingers clench and unclench, and she feels an ache to just make it so.

“If you keep the eggs,” Wong starts.

“I don’t want the eggs—”

“—then I’ll take the bacon and sausage,” he finishes as though Wanda hasn’t said anything at all. “Is that better?”

Wanda takes a deep breath in and lets it out. “It’s a compromise,” she says, slowly, and then looks up at Dottie. “If you will just keep the French toast and eggs on a separate plate, that would be excellent.”

“Don’t you mean eggs-cellent?” America gives them all a bright grin, one that is met with no responding grins and only a groan, if anything at all.

“I can do that.” Dottie finishes writing everything down on her notepad, reads it through once, and then gives a little nod. “I’ll be right back with your drinks.” She gathers their menus and walks off.

As she does so, America leans forward, propping her elbows on the table, and asks, “So why are we at a restaurant if you’re not hungry?”

“You were hungry,” Wanda says, switching her glare from Wong to America. “You were whining. We’re here for you.”

“Oh.” America blinks. “I just assumed, you know, morning. Everyone’s hungry in the morning.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“But you got food.”

“That I did not want.” Wanda glares at Wong. “This is your fault. You and your inability to teach her anything—”

Wong refuses to take that without comment. “We teach her—”

“Yes, you taught her how to make a magical gateway,” Wanda continues with a wave of dismissal, “but you didn’t teach her its name or the name of the sling rings you use to make them.”

America’s eyes light up. “I was right!”

“You were?” Wanda asks, gaze returning to America. “About what?”

Under her gaze, America shifts and looks away. “Nothing.”

Wanda doesn’t press her further. She’d suspected that America was lying during that conversation, but now she had proof. Not that she’d needed it. There was enough that the girl didn’t know that they’d needed to have this conversation anyway. Of course, it would probably have been better if America wasn’t here, but she’ll make do.

I can take advantage of this.

As America looks away, Wanda gestures to her. “You see what I mean? She knows nothing.”

America’s head snaps up. “I know some things! More than you! You’ve only been to two universes, and I’ve been to—”

“You know nothing of our universe, where you are living. That’s the problem.” Wanda stops herself from continuing and nods past America, where their waitress, Dottie, is approaching. America glances back, sees the waitress, and her eyes widen. She sits back down in her seat and says nothing.

Dottie holds a tray in front of her. Her eyes shift between the three of them when she notices they aren’t speaking, but then she continues as though nothing’s the matter. She places a glass of orange juice in front of America. “Here you go.” Then she places a cup of hot water in front of Wanda with the tea bag on the saucer just beneath it. “I thought you would prefer to steep your own tea.”

Wanda nods. “Thank you.”

Then Dottie pulls a platter covered with what are not aptly named Pancake Puppies and places it in the center of the table. They look just like the Cinnabons that they sell at Taco Bell, which Wanda has seen from the many, many times that Sam flew off just for his personal addiction during their time at the Avengers Compound. She’d tried Taco Bell once. It wasn’t good. The Cinnabons were okay, and these puppies or whatever they are look to be less good because instead of having the cream cheese stuffed inside them, there’s a little dipping sauce cup full of it instead.

“I assume these are for the table?” Dottie asks as she flattens the tray against her. “Do you need plates for those, or...?”

“Nah, we’re good.” America reaches across and takes the plate, scooting it over to her. “They don’t want any of these.” She pops one into her mouth and visibly relaxes. “Mmmm.”

“Oh. Okay.” Dottie smiles in a way that seems forced. “I’ll be back in a few minutes with your meals.”

Without a second thought, as soon as the waitress is gone, Wanda reaches over and snatches one of the pancake nuggets. She gives America a look and pops it into her mouth. It’s just as horrible as she thought it would be – far too sickeningly sweet to have much real taste – but the look of frustration on America’s face is worth it.

“Quit stealing my food!” America holds the plate closer against her. “Get your own!”

In all of this time, Wong has said nothing, has only seen the exchange between the two, has only listened to what the witch has to say with little interference. He still believes that she is wrong. He and the other teachers have been teaching America some basic, good sorcery skills. But he also sees some wisdom in her words. If America is meant to live here, on Earth-616, then there are some basic events she needs to know – and some information she needs to retain.

“What we call the gateways isn’t as important as knowing how to make them,” Wong says slowly. He leans forward, clasps his hands together around his mug, and rests them on the table. His gaze moves to America. “In your time universe-hopping, did you encounter a being known as Thanos?”

America shrugs. “Heard of him. Usually he wasn’t a problem.” She looks over to Wanda. “Does this have to do with that Snap thing you were talking about earlier?”

Wong’s eyes widen, and he turns to the witch, whose head tilts as her brows raise. “I see your point.” He leans back in his seat. “But Kamar-Taj is not equipped for teaching current events. I could find someone to teach her, but….” His voice trails off as their waitress returns, this time with another tray full of more food.

It has been five minutes at the most. The Pancake Puppies are all gone. America wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and looks up at Dottie. “More food?” She hasn’t swallowed. Her mouth is still full.

As Dottie places their different platters in front of them, Wanda turns back to Wong, and as soon as the waitress is gone again, she continues, “It’s much more than current events. I’m not sure she knows how to live around people. And from what I’ve seen, Kamar-Taj is full of people who are much older than she is. I’m sure mentors and teachers are great, but America should be with her peers.”

Wong begins to rip the sausage links and bacon he’d taken from Wanda’s food and drops the pieces into his porridge. “I’m not sure what I can do about that, and I’m not sure why you care.” He doesn’t glance up, instead carefully putting more meat into his bowl. “You wanted to kill her a few months ago. Why does it matter to you if she fits in around here?”

The witch takes a sip of her tea. She glances over to America, who has checked out of the conversation and is much more involved with eating the massive amount of food in front of her. It’s as though America hasn’t eaten anything in days, even though she knows that can’t be the case. There must be plenty of food at Kamar-Taj. Perhaps it’s all like what Wong has.

America stops eating long enough to look at Wong’s porridge and grimace. “That looks like gruel.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Wanda says immediately.

America shoots Wanda a look. “You’re not my mom. You’re not either of my moms.”

“I don’t want to be.” Wanda sighs. She turns to Wong and meets his eyes. “I don’t care if she fits in. I care that she doesn’t know who the Avengers are.” She hesitates and looks down into her tea, tapping the mug with her rings. “Who we were.”

Wong doesn’t say anything to that. There isn’t really anything to say to that.

The problem is that in his absence of words and America’s focus on her food, there’s only silence. Not that there can really be silence in a place like Denny’s. There are other people eating. There’s the clatter of forks on plates, of a spoon tinking against the edge of a coffee mug. People talking around them, although none of them really pay attention. (Wanda picks up a bit of their mental states and then shuts it off because she’s not really all that interested.)

Wong eats slow, but Wanda eats slower, if she can be said to eat at all. It’s possible that all she does is cut her French toast into pieces and then push them about her plate. America finishes before either of them do, and while her first thoughts are to the possibility of dessert (and something with chocolate in it), she’s tired. She hasn’t slept. Her eyes are heavy, and the Denny’s chair isn’t the most uncomfortable place she’s ever napped. By the time Dottie returns, she’s dozed off, a bit of drool dripping from one corner of her mouth.

When she’s satisfied that America isn’t listening, Wanda ask, not turning to him, “Do you know why I read the Darkhold, Wong?”

Wong stops with a spoon halfway to his mouth. He slowly sets the spoon down. “Because you wanted your children back.”

“No.” Wanda’s lips twitch into something like the beginnings of a smile and then disappear. “Do you know what happened in Westview?”

“I know that you changed an entire town to fit what you needed at the time. I’ve heard that you might not have been in control.” Wong doesn’t look away from her. “Why do you ask?”

Wanda hums, and her tone is light as she says, “I met another witch in Westview. She used runes to hone her magic, something I had never seen before, and she had a book that taught magic.” Her head tilts to the side, but she continues to look at America, or just past her. “Tony Stark locked me in the Avengers Compound because I couldn’t control my magic. You and your sorcerers must have known I existed, but none of you ever made contact with me. The Darkhold mentioned the Sorcerer Supreme, and you knew that it existed and how it was crafted. You could have found me. You could have helped me. But you didn’t, and I had to learn to use my magic the best that I could. And even then, it wasn’t always right. Sometimes it acted in ways strange and foreign to me. And then here was this book, that taught magic, that apparently had an entire chapter just dedicated to who this other witch claimed I was.” She shakes her head and almost laughs. “I wasn’t trying to find my boys. I was trying to learn better control.”

Wong hears the accusations in her words. He takes a sip of his coffee, finishes it, and pours himself another mug. “We knew you existed, Wanda. The Ancient One intended to try and contact you, once we learned about what happened Lagos. But we had our own problems we had to deal with, and when the Ancient One was free to contact you, you had disappeared, a fugitive. We didn’t know where you were or how to contact you, even if we wanted to.” He looks into his mug. “Then the Ancient One died and Stephen took their mantle. He didn’t know anything about anything, other than what he needed to know. And you were gone.”

Wanda tilts her head to one side and looks over to him. “Those are very good excuses.”

“Not an excuse, only an explanation.” Wong took another sip of his coffee. “I won’t leave America with you. You won’t be a good teacher.”

Then it comes again, that almost laugh, that almost smirk of a smile. “I wouldn’t have suggested myself. I know I’m not a good teacher.” Wanda continues to tilt her head as she looks at him. “I have someone else in mind. Someone you will like far better.” She quiets as Dottie returns.

Dottie begins to pick up their used platters and place them on her tray. She gives America a fond look that somehow seems feigned. “It looks like someone didn’t make it to dessert.” One hand reaches out as though to tousle America’s hair, but at the strong look she gets from the other two, she stops. “Sorry. Old habits die hard.” She reaches into her apron and pulls out a little black wallet-shaped folder. “Here’s the bill.”

Wanda gives the folder a look as Dottie walks off, and Wong takes it with a sigh. “I was going to make you pay.”

“I know.”

Wong puts a black card in the folder and crosses his arms. “Alright. Who is this teacher you’re so sure will help America?”

The witch glances down at her tea and gives it a little smile. “The man my brother died for.”

Clint Barton doesn’t have a job anymore. He doesn’t want a job anymore. That was the entire point of retiring after the war with Thanos. He doesn’t like who he became to survive – more than survive. He’d wanted something he thought he couldn’t ever have again, and here it was, with him, all because someone who deserved better sacrificed herself. He lives with the weight of that every day. He hates the weight of it.

There’s a lot to do at the farmhouse. It’s actually a farmhouse now, with chickens and sheep. He doesn’t know how to do retirement. He knows how to spend time with his family, how to love his wife and kids, and apparently how to adopt people who have been idolizing him for almost as long as he’s been in the public eye. Someone who must not have gotten Snapped like so many others had, someone who didn’t follow his actions through the Snap.

He’s busy. It’s easy to be busy here. It’s…it’s nice to have a familiar, normal sort of busy. He likes it.

He does not like it when he hears his name yelled from outside of the barn and one of his children comes running in with wide eyes, followed by Kate Bishop and, worse, he does not like the statement, “You’ve got company.” He’s not supposed to have company. Not ever. Not again.

And the company he sees when he walks out of the barn make him wish that he had a bow strapped to his back and arrows hidden in his boots.

Clint moves as far towards the people in front of him as he can, as though that will protect the people behind him. He knows better than to think there’s any protection here at all. But knowledge and hope can be two very different, very dangerous things.

“Wanda,” Clint says, cautious as anything. “I wasn’t expecting a visit. You’re not here to kill my kids, are you? Hear you’re in the business of killing kids now.”

He sees her laugh. It isn’t at all like the laughter he’d seen in the compound, when she’d shared one of those old-timey sit-coms with everyone. She looks up, brushes hair out of her face, and meets his eyes with her brilliant green ones. “I haven’t killed any kids except my own,” she says, bitterness lacing her tone, “and everyone says they didn’t really exist. So no, Clint. I’m not here to kill your kids.”

Clint doesn’t say anything to that. There really isn’t anything to say.

Instead, he keeps an eye on her as she scans the area. Her eyes light on Kate Bishop, and then she smiles. Wanda turns just enough to meet his eyes. “I see you’ve started adopting strays.”

“I’m not a stray—”

Clint holds up a hand to cut Kate off. It’s never worked before, so he’s surprised that it seems to work now. Or maybe one of his kids is holding her mouth shut. That would probably be better. “One. One stray.”

The dog comes out then.

“Okay, maybe two strays, but he’s hers.”

Wanda nods once, but the smile hasn’t left at all. “How would you feel about adopting another?”

Chapter 16: Part Two: Chapter Seven

Chapter Text

Wanda didn’t come on her own. Instead, she’d chosen to bring the child in question with her, along with a man in the robes of a sorcerer. At first, Clint kept an eye on the man as much as he did on Wanda, given how he moved about and seemed to shake himself off when they first arrived, but on learning that he was the new Sorcerer Supreme, he became a little less concerned. He knew he should be paying attention to the girl Wanda brought with her, who seemed anxious and tired and frustrated, but most of his attention was instead on Wanda herself.

Or should he call her the Scarlet Witch? Even this far removed from the rest of the world, Clint hears things. He hears more things now that Kate’s around, since she seems to find it impossible to completely disconnect from everything (and he hasn’t asked her to do so), and unlike before, when he could tune her out and turn off his hearing aids so that he didn’t need to hear her when she rambled on, he doesn’t want to do that around the rest of his family. He wants to hear them if they need him.

So Clint has heard about what happened at Westview. Kate had explained it to him wide-eyed, had asked if he’d known Wanda, but not like known her known her, but like hadn’t they worked on the same team, didn’t he, you know, know her, shouldn’t he be doing something if he knew her, and Clint had to say that he didn’t actually know her all that well. That wasn’t entirely wrong. He hadn’t lived at the compound. He’d wanted to keep separate from all of that. He’d wanted to retire, but they kept pulling him back in, and he kept refusing to say no because as small as the world was and as nonsensical as it was for him to be fighting those monsters with nothing more than a bow and a few trick arrows, they’d still asked. And he’d still gone.

He didn’t know Wanda that well, and he didn’t think she would want to see him. He hadn’t thought he would be much help. Besides, S.W.O.R.D. hadn’t called on any of the remaining Avengers for help. Even if they had, they would have known better than to call for him.

Clint has also heard about the attack on Kamar-Taj. There wasn’t any media coverage for that the way there’d been for Westview. Not that there’d been media coverage inside of Westview or even much around Westview during what they’d called the anomaly since S.W.O.R.D. had set up shop and prevented journalists from getting too close. (If any had gotten further, they would have been sucked into Wanda’s world, too, so still no journalism inside of Westview.) But there had been interviews with the inhabitants afterwards, asking what had happened, giving detail after detail of the horrors the people had lived through under the control of one Wanda Maximoff.

And Wanda had disappeared.

He knew a bit about disappearing.

But now she was here, with the Sorcerer Supreme and a girl in tow, asking him for…for what? For help? Somehow, Clint didn’t think it was that simple. None of the Avengers had ever been good about asking for help. They’d framed it differently: the world needs you, it’s your duty. They made you feel guilty for not doing your job as a hero. They never asked for help.

The girl was bleary-eyed. Exhausted. Dozing off on her feet, but not stumbling. Kate had taken her as soon as they reached the house and led her to her room, where Clint assumed she’d curled up in Kate’s bed and passed out within a few minutes. Eventually, he learned that her name was America Chavez. That didn’t change things.

The Sorcerer Supreme introduced himself as Wong. He didn’t seem quite happy to be there, but then, neither did Wanda. He followed them inside to explain things, while Kate and Clint’s children went elsewhere. This wasn’t a conversation any of them wanted part in. (Kate wanted part in. Clint said no. It wasn’t any of her business.) To be honest, it wasn’t a conversation Clint wanted part in, but he didn’t think he would get a choice.

Wong explained that he’d taken America could jump through the multiverse, that America had been chased by Wanda, that Wanda had realized the error of her ways, and that he had taken America in at Kamar-Taj to train her. He then explained that somehow, and he wasn’t sure how, Wanda had realized America didn’t know much of anything about their world, and he explained further that Kamar-Taj was not meant to teach teenagers about the world at large. It was secluded, and it was meant to be so. Wong had a lot more to explain, but Clint didn’t become an Avenger just to listen to a lot of explanations (although that was frequently required). He’d become an Avenger because he’d been able to notice things.

What he noticed was that Wanda hadn’t followed them inside.

So he’d patted Laura on the back, gotten out of his chair, pressed a kiss to her forehead, left the decision up to her, and gone outside to find…whoever Wanda was now. Whoever she’d become.

Wanda hasn’t gone far. She stands near what most people would assume is the edge of his property (it isn’t), her arms crossed as though to hold herself together, and stares out towards the forest nearby. The soft breeze causes the edges of her top to flutter like a cape, and though her outfit is all scarlet and harsh edges and knee high boots, she seems frail. But then, ever since her brother died, she has always seemed frail. She’s just usually been better at hiding it.

“Hey,” Clint says, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. “Like the outfit change. It suits you.” As she turns to him, he points to his forehead. “Especially the, uh, tiara. Looks sharp.”

For a moment, it looks as though Wanda plans to correct him. Then she softens. “I thought about making it a wimple, but the way it tucked about my neck…. I didn’t like it.” Her head tilts to one side, and the edges of her eyes crinkle, but she doesn’t smile. “I hear you got a costume change as well.”

Clint eases, and he groans. “Kid designed it. I don’t hate it. She thinks I have a branding issue.”

“I don’t think branding was ever your problem.”

The silence that lengthens between them doesn’t feel awkward, born as it is of two people who have never been very forward when it comes to sharing their thoughts. As they stand there, eventually Wanda nods past him, towards the farmhouse. “You should be in there.”

Clint wrinkles his nose, shakes his head. “Laura will tell me everything I need to know. Long info dumps aren’t my thing. You know that.”

Now Wanda does smile. “You used to turn your hearing aids off when Ross would talk too long.”

“You used to give me cliff notes.”

“Someone had to. If it wasn’t me, it would’ve been Vis, and that wouldn’t have been any bett--er—”

Wanda hesitates, and then her voice cuts off. Her eyes glaze over. She isn’t looking at him anymore. She doesn’t need to. Wherever she’s looking is somewhere he cannot go. The breeze pushes at her now, and the edges of her tunic flutter about her. She’s always had dark circles under her eyes, but they’re bigger now, bags. She looks as tired as she probably is.

He changes the subject.

“Did they tell you what I did during the Snap?”

For a moment, Wanda still isn’t there. Then she flinches. Her eyes darken. She turns just enough to meet his eyes. “No. That would require someone to tell me anything.” Her tone is bitter, and she snaps the words out, but they aren’t pointed at him. They aren’t barbed for him. Or maybe they are, and he just can’t feel it anymore. She tilts her head back. “But I know.”

“Then you know that I was where you are now. I know what it feels like.”

He waits for her to say something. Anything. But there’s nothing. Instead, she waits, head tilted to one side, considering him the same way a hawk considers a snake. When he doesn’t speak, she does instead, eyes narrowing. “What changed that for you?”

“Nothing.” Clint admits that easily enough. “I would still be there now, if not for Nat. I didn’t believe her at first. Time travel? Undo the Snap? Bring my family back?” He doesn’t turn away from her. That would be too easy. Instead, he holds her gaze. “If it hadn’t worked….” Now his gaze does drop. He shuffles his feet.

Nat let him go where he needed to go during the Snap. Be who he needed to be. If she hadn’t, one of them would have died. That’s how it would’ve gone. He needed….

“But it did work.” Wanda continues to stare at him. Her gaze is dark. “It worked. Everyone destroyed in the Snap came back. But no one else.” She doesn’t ask what happened to Nat. He notices. It’s likely that she already knows, not that she doesn’t care. “And here we are.”

“Here we are.” Clint takes a deep breath and glances over his shoulder. Kate’s with the kids somewhere else, but he can just see them. She looks up just enough to see him, and her eyes widen. She mouths something she knows he can’t hear, but then she points to herself then to him and then back again. That’s not helpful. He turns back. “You remember what I said to you? When we were fighting Ultron?”

“The city is flying,” Wanda answers immediately, and one corner of her lip twists upward with amusem*nt. “The city is.... It’s flying. This is nonsense.”

“After that.”

Wanda grows still. He knows she doesn’t like to think about the fight on Sokovia, knows she doesn’t like to think of the result, knows she blames herself for her brother’s death just as much as he does, and he hates that he’s making her go back there. But he needs her to say it. Her lips purse together, and she says, finally, “It doesn’t matter what you did or what you were.”

Clint nods. “That’s still true.”

“They would kill you,” Wanda says, bypassing his words, “if they knew what you did. If they knew who you were.” Her eyes narrow, and she looks past him. “If they thought they could, they would burn me at the stake for Westview. I cannot hide what I’ve done.”

Not like you.

She doesn’t say it. He hears it all the same.

“You don’t have to stay there—”

“And you don’t have to tell me what I can and can’t do anymore, Clint.” Wanda thrusts her hands to either side of her, and Clint flinches. Her hands create scarlet orbs, just enough for her to fly. She doesn’t wince when he flinches, but she smiles a little sadly. “If even you are afraid of me, why would you ever think the world would change its mind?”

“Wanda—”

“Teach her about the Snap, Clint.” Wanda’s voice is forceful, then. “That’s why I brought her to you. Teach her who we used to be.” Then she flies up and away, over the forest, somewhere other.

Clint keeps an eye on her for as long as he can. He’s not sure if she flies the entire way or if she teleports once she gets far enough away. He’s heard she can do that now, although he’s never seen it. He stands there and stares until he hears the sound of someone running up to him.

“She gone?” Kate asks, peering up at the sky, shielding her eyes with one hand to try and find her. “That quick? No dinner?”

“It’s morning, Kate. We don’t have dinner in the morning.”

“We could.”

Clint turns to her and gives her a look. Sometimes it feels like that’s all he does anymore. Give Kate looks. She ignores all of them, so he doesn’t know why he even does it anymore. “We don’t,” he repeats. Then he starts back to the house. “I need to have a discussion with this Wong fellow.”

Kate blinks. “What about?”

“Why he doesn’t think it’s appropriate for him to teach America about the Snap and why he thinks he should shove her off onto good people who don’t want to relive that.” Clint feels the bitterness in the back of his own throat now. It doesn’t help, and directing it at the Sorcerer Supreme likely isn’t a great idea.

But it’s what he wants.

Chapter 17: Part Two: Chapter Eight

Chapter Text

America Chavez wakes up in a bed that isn’t hers.

…or, at least, as far as she knows, it isn’t hers. It might be. Things might have changed while she was out.

The last thing she remembers is travelling with Wong and Wanda (try saying that twelve times fast) from Denny’s to this farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Big open land. A barn that might have been red once, like, thirteen years ago. A forest on one side that is actually, you know, alive and full of trees that might have been pine – she couldn’t be sure, they hadn’t been that close to them, but she thinks she could almost make out the littering of pinecones and pine needles that must have been all over the forest floor. Not that that matters so much as the trees being alive matters because that means they’re nowhere near Wanda’s log cabin in the middle of the woods. With trees that are dead. Very, very dead.

She remembers going in the farmhouse. She remembers there being another girl. She remembers—

Okay, so this must be the other girl’s room. She’s sleeping in another girl’s bed. That explains why it’s so comfortable.

America pushes herself up, yawning. There is a lot of purple in this room. A bow in one corner next to a bunch of arrows, some of which don’t even look like arrows but must be because they’re collected with them. Maybe arrows just look differently in this universe. But not all arrows. Just some arrows. Yeah. That, uh. That makes sense.

It isn’t until she starts to move that America notices the golden retriever sitting at the end of the bed. “Oh. Hi!” She grins. People who have pet dogs are automatically alright in her book. She holds one hand out, and the dog eagerly moves towards her. She runs her hand through its fur. So soft. “What’s your name? I’m America! Do you know how to shake hands?”

As soon as she asks, the dog holds up one paw. America beams and takes its paw in her hand. “You are such a good puppy!”

America understands that shaking hands is a trick that dogs can learn to do in some universes. She’s never learned exactly why because no one has ever told her that this is how humans, in some universes, act for formal introductions. It isn’t something she ever dealt with on Utopia, and with all of the universe-hopping, it isn’t something she’s ever picked up. But it’s cool that the dog knows how to do it!

Of course, this dog can’t tell her its name. Which is okay, she guesses, only that there are universes where dogs really can talk just as reliably as humans, although not quite as well. Almost as bad as the universe where the cats can only speak in lolspeak. For all that dogs talking can get repetitive, it’s not as bad as the lolspeak.

Sun filters in through the nearby window, some of the light slightly purple-ish from the sheer lavender curtains. So she can’t have been out too long. America gives the dog another pat, pushes a hand through her hair, and gets out of this random girl’s bed.

Time to figure out what’s going on.

First of all, Wanda is gone. She’s not surprised.

Second of all, Wong is gone. She is surprised by that, but not nearly enough.

Third, the girl who had put her in her bed is sitting at a table with the guy who had led them into the house and another woman who America guesses must be his wife.

The girl is talking animatedly about something, and the woman appears to be listening. The man less so. And he’s the one who first notices America walking down the stairs. He reaches up, tweaks something at his ear, and nods to her. The woman looks up. The girl keeps talking, until she notices that the other two aren’t paying so much attention anymore. She glances over her shoulder. “Oh, hi!” She grins. It’s a very bright, friendly sort of grin.

“Hi.” America doesn’t grin back mostly because she doesn’t know any of these people and she’s not particularly comfortable being left here by people who were supposed to—

Well. Not people. Wanda doesn’t actually care about her. She also tried to kill her. She’s not supposed to be taking care of her.

Wong, however.

“Um. I’m America Chavez.” She looks around again. “Is Wong here, by any chance?”

“No,” the woman says. She has brown hair, and she reminds America of her mom. Not her mama. Her mom. She doesn’t like that. “Wong left just a little while ago. He thought it would be best if you stayed with us for a little bit.”

America doesn’t like that. She doesn’t like that at all. She’d be lying if she said this was the first time someone who seemed to care about her had just left her somewhere (although she has no reason to believe Wong is only pretending, as had been the case the last time). Instantly, she reaches for her sling ring where she has it hidden in her jacket pocket. “That doesn’t sound like Wong.”

The woman gestures with one hand. “Why don’t you come sit with us? We’ll tell you what we talked about while you were taking your nap.” She offers her a gentle smile. “Wong said that you could return to him if you didn’t like it here. We won’t be hurt if you do.”

Instinctively, America doesn’t trust her. This woman seems nice enough, but that’s just the problem. It isn’t that there aren’t nice people in the world – there are, in every part of the multiverse where nice people still exist (and there are some universes where they don’t, universes where only one person still exists, and more often than not, that person is not nice (and if they are, it’s not the kind of nice you want to know)) – it is just that this niceness feels….

It hurts. It strikes her wrong, and it hurts, and that’s how she knows that this woman probably is really that nice and also that she can probably be dangerous, too, if she wants to be.

But she can’t be more dangerous than the Scarlet Witch.

America makes her way down the rest of the stairs, pulls one of the empty chairs out from the table, and turns it so that she can sit on it backward. “Why don’t you start with your names,” she says, hesitant. “I’d like to know who Wong’s left me with.”

The woman smiles. “Laura Barton.”

America hates that smile.

The girl next to her raises one hand. “Kate Bishop. You’ve probably heard of me; I’m kind of a big deal.”

America nods. “Never heard of you. Not in any universe I’ve ever been in.”

Kate pushes her chest out. “Maybe I’m the only one of me there is. How do you know I’m not? I might be.”

“Do you dream?” America asks, giving Kate a blank stare. She doesn’t dislike Kate. Even with the boasting, she doesn’t dislike Kate. There’s no bitterness in her tone, only curiosity.

“Of course, I dream. When I sleep? I have tons of dreams.” Kate leans forward, resting her arms on the table. “Why? Why do you ask? Is that a bad thing? Are dreams a bad thing?”

“No.” America’s head tilts to one side, and her gaze drops. “Dreams are just windows into what your other selves across the multiverse are doing. If you dream, you’re not alone.”

Kate’s eyes widen as her face falls, but it’s Laura who speaks next, in a soft, comforting tone that nevertheless sets America on edge. “Do you dream, America?”

America doesn’t answer her, instead staring at the man across from her. “Who’re you?”

“Clint Barton,” he says, one arm stretched across the back of Laura’s chair – the same last name means they’re likely partners, although they could just be siblings. America isn’t certain how that sort of thing goes here. He meets her eyes before continuing, “Formerly Hawkeye, of the Avengers.”

That name again. America scowls. This isn’t Wong’s doing; it’s Wanda’s. She knows it, can feel it set within her bones like trying to eat that first time in the paint universe. “I don’t know who they are,” she says, “but the witch got real upset when I didn’t know. Not as bad as with that Snap thing, but mad enough.” She considers before glancing up. “I’ve heard about you, though, in the universe I was in before this one. You were friends with the Strange there. You died.”

Clint nods. “I should have died.”

Laura nudges his side, but she doesn’t say anything. It seems like a sore subject.

Clint continues, “I’ve honestly gotten real tired of people dying instead of me.”

Laura takes a sharp breath in and then glances to Kate. “I think that’s our cue to leave.”

“Leave?” Kate echoes. “I don’t want to leave. I want to stay here and—”

Clint shoots Kate the same sort of look that Wanda has occasionally shot America, but where America tends to look away, flustered, and stops whatever she’s doing, Kate just returns the look with one of her own, crossing her arms. “You always tell the best stories when I’m not around, and I’m tired of it. I want to listen in this time.”

Laura comes around the table and squeezes Kate’s shoulder gently. “I don’t think this story is meant for you.” She leans down and rests her head on Kate’s shoulder, turns to her easily enough. “You already know how it goes and how it ends.”

Kate sighs. “Fine.” She scoots back from the table and turns to Laura. “But we’re making chocolate chip cookies to cheer everyone up afterward, and I get any leftover cookie dough.”

“Wait,” America interjects as they head towards the kitchen. “What if I want cookie dough?”

“There will be time enough for that later,” Laura says, and she gives America that smile again, and America hates it just as much now as she did the first time. It makes her uncomfortable. (It shouldn’t make her uncomfortable.)

America’s gaze returns to Clint where he sits at the table across from her. “I take it you’ve got something you’re supposed to tell me. All about this world and stuff I don’t know?”

“Something like that,” Clint says with a sigh. He rubs his face and leans forward. “You good with unhappy stories, kid?”

America considers, then says, “Only if I can get some hot chocolate afterward.”

Clint nods. “We’ll see what we can do.”

Chapter 18: Part Two: Chapter Nine

Chapter Text

By the time Clint is finished explaining, the cookies have come out of the oven, they’ve had time to cool, and a good half of them are gone, eaten by various members of the Barton household. America doesn’t eat much while she listens – partly because, for once, she is so caught up in listening that she forgets about the cookies (which is absurd, but true), and partly because the first time she does eat a cookie, she starts to ask questions with her mouth still full, sprays cookie bits all over the table, and is promptly told that is impolite. She has never heard this word in her life. Okay, that’s not true, she’s heard it, but it’s never been applied to her before. Since they don’t like her talking with her mouth full, she tries to wait out the conversation before eating more. It’s hard to grasp that new concept while struggling to understand everything that Clint is telling her. The stories are more important, so she waits for her food. (More condemning is that she forgets to bring up hot chocolate again. She can’t think about hot chocolate at a time like this. Her brain’s a little too full of everything she’s learning.)

As Clint explains, America begins to piece together some of her own experiences across the multiverse. She understands why she’d inexplicably started to feel not good in a universe that had previously been one of the most normal ones she’d visited, and she understands why she had immediately, unknowingly, unintentionally opened a portal to another universe – one where either the Snap did not happen or did not apply to her. Even more, she understands why some of the universes she’d been in had seemed so empty compared to others; they must have had a Snap of their own and either been living with the consequences or not yet to the point where the Snap could be undone. In some of them, it hadn’t been. She knows that much.

America is certain the Snap never happened in the paint universe. She can’t explain it, but she knows implicitly without question that it didn’t.

She listens, and she grows smaller. Up until the Scarlet Witch started sending monsters to consume her, her life hadn’t been so hard. Sure, she’d lost her moms when she was young – literally lost, they hadn’t died or anything (she hopes; she can’t be sure, since she hasn’t found them yet, but she doesn’t remember traveling through the paint universe until she was a little older, so they’re not there, and unless they were killed in a potential Snap on whichever they were on – are on…) – but that….

There is a certain danger to being a child roaming the empty streets of an unknown universe from the time you are six or seven years old and having to learn to take care of yourself. There is danger in having to learn who to trust and who can maintain that trust. There is extreme danger in the many potential ways that trust can be broken.

But America had her power. Anytime she was afraid – whether it was justified or not – a portal had opened and sucked her into it. Sometimes it had sucked in whatever was terrifying her, too, but they hadn’t ever made it to the same universe she had. Her powers sent her through multiple before finding a place to land. Even the ones who hung on (outside of Strange) hadn’t been able to hang on that long.

For all that could have happened to America before the Scarlet Witch’s pursuit of her, she’d been relatively safe. Even losing her moms, there’s been no one close enough to her that their death hurt her. The last Strange before this one, maybe, would have been rough, if he hadn’t tried to kill her himself first. She knows loss, but not like this.

Not like the Snap – or, perhaps, more like the Snap here than not. These Avengers found hope to bring everyone back in the same way that she still had hope she would see her moms again. Small or not, hope and the ability to pursue it is a powerful thing.

America knows loss but not like this world has known loss, not like this universe has known loss, not like these people have known loss.

She’s beginning to understand why Wanda would have done anything to get her children back. Not just because a person can only take so much, although that’s certainly part of it, but because the people in this world, the Avengers in this world, have a tendency to go above and beyond to save their people. Steve for Bucky. Natasha and Clint for each other. Vision for Wanda. The leaders of Wakanda for Vision, although they ran out of time. Pietro for Clint, even though they hadn’t been teammates for very long. Kate, who isn’t even an Avenger, for Clint. That was the hope on which Ultron was made and the hope which became Vision in the first place – to save people. And Tony, to destroy Thanos, to keep the universe whole, even though he didn’t know most of them. They hope and they find hope and they hold onto that hope, just like she does.

Wanda’s hope just became corrupted by something she hadn’t understood.

It’s a lot to take in.

America sits in the silence that follows Clint’s words, and that silence is laced with iron. Steel. Some sort of thick heavy metal. Do they have titanium in this universe? Clint mentioned vibranium, but if Vision could still fly, that stuff couldn’t be too terribly heavy. Silence like the center of a black hole.

“You okay, kid?” Clint asks when the silence has gone on too long without anyone to fill it.

America presses her lips together. “No,” she says, and then, “Yes,” she says, and then, finally, “I don’t know.” She glances up from hands that have punched survivors. “I didn’t have any of that. The universes I’ve been in had their own problems, but my power protected me. I haven’t….” She struggles to put words to all of it, tilts her head to one side, winces. “I’ve never lost anyone like that, and I’ve never had a team to back me up when I did.” She glances up, certain of what she is saying, but still confused. “The only people who ever cared about me that much were my moms. There might have been more, back on Utopia, but they probably all think I’m dead now. We disappeared so long ago. And the multiverse is so vast….”

“Makes you wonder how many other ways it could have gone.”

“An infinite number of ways.” America knows the answer to that one. “An infinite number of mistakes. An infinite number of changes that would lead to anything but this end. Some of them for the better. Some of them for the worse. Someone worse than your Thanos might have gotten those stones you were talking about and done something much worse. Universes can end over something so simple…and so complicated.”

She swallows, and her throat hurts.

“Do you need something, or—”

America pushes back her chair and stands. “I think I need a moment. It’s okay if I have a moment? I’ll come back.” She isn’t lying when she says that, although she very easily could be. She intends to come back. Wong wouldn’t tell her any of this. That’s why he left her here, after all. But it wasn’t so much that he wouldn’t but that he couldn’t. He wasn’t an Avenger. He couldn’t have known.

When Clint nods, America pushes through the front door of the farmhouse. She punches a hole into another universe without a second thought.

Wanda sits on her porch with a steaming mug of tea in front of her. The world is scarlet and destroyed and barren and a good image of what might have been if she hadn’t been stopped. She likes to think she would not have gone this far, but the truth of the matter is that in this small part of the world she calls her own she already had. The illusion isn’t just a detriment to anyone who wants to find her, it’s a reminder to herself. This is who you are. You might be a lot of other things, too, but you cannot forget this.

Sometimes she breathes in the ash of the air and it tastes like the guilt that sank under her skin when Sokovia began to fly and has never really dissipated.

Her mug burns her fingertips, and her tea burns her tongue, and then it burns all the way down, hot against her throat, hot as it spirals towards her stomach. The pain is small, after everything, but it’s still there. She needs it there.

Wanda takes a deep breath with her eyes closed, and the ashen air is cut through with the chamomile of her tea and something that smells slightly of chocolate and cinnamon. Something sweet. She stands with a sigh. Out here, nothing should smell sweet.

America’s portals give off a lot of light, but only if you are looking at them directly. With the girl returning behind her, Wanda wouldn’t have known – didn’t know – and she turns into outstretched arms that wrap around her. She struggles for only an instant, at first mistaking what is happening for some sort of constriction, but she stops as America rests her head on her chest and holds her, tight.

No one living hugs her anymore.

She looks down and stands there and does not move.

The portal is still open when America steps back, face flushed as scarlet as the witch’s clothes, and she nods. Then she wipes her eyes and steps back through the portal.

And Wanda lets her go.

Chapter 19: Part Two: Epilogue

Chapter Text

America settles into her new lifestyle readily enough. There’s some conversations to be had with Wong once he returns to Kamar-Taj and reads the letter she left behind, but he seems to understand where she’s coming from. She needs the space to breathe. That’s what she means by it. What she doesn’t understand – but he does – is that she has spent so much time running from one universe to another that she doesn’t know what it means to quite settle.

Now, America has two places to stay on Earth-616: her room at Kamar-Taj, which stays open and empty should she ever wish to be there, and the room she shares with Kate Bishop on the Barton farmstead. In both places, she learns, although her studies are entirely different: Kamar-Taj continues to teach her sorcery, which she still has trouble getting the hang of (other than her sling ring), and the Bartons teach her about life – some of that is the history of Earth-616, but most of it is the gentle life of homesteading. They teach her how to feed chickens, how to plant a seed and see it grow, how to look after cats and dogs. Kate tries to teach her how to shoot a bow and arrow, but America doesn’t like that nearly as much as she likes sparring.

Laura is the best at hand-to-hand practice. She wants to teach America how to cook and bake and clean, and America hears all of that. But she always wants to talk – or reminds America that she’s there if she needs to talk about anything, which is less about her talking and more that she wants America to talk to her – and it…hurts. She doesn’t think that Laura would mean anything by it the way that the Agatha Harkness of the other universe would. It wouldn’t be fact-finding or something for personal gain. It would be kind and gentle and….

Motherly.

America doesn’t need a third mom. She doesn’t want a third mom. She wants her own moms. Wherever they are.

But for the most part, those are all afternoon studies. America spends her evenings exploring. Sometimes it’s using the sling ring and creating those golden circles to go from one end of this Earth to the other (they don’t want her to explore the rest of the universe alone and keep mentioning they know some “guardians” who might be helpful for that sort of thing, but she hasn’t taken them up on that yet), and sometimes it’s creating portals from this universe into another one. She can’t tell if they’re nearby, and she doesn’t know what their numbers are – she’s not sure if any of the other universes have numbered themselves, and it’s entirely possible that if they have, those numbers don’t line up with the ones Earth-838 uses. Just because they think this is Earth-616 doesn’t mean the people from another Earth do.

And so on.

All of this together keeps America from becoming bored. When she gets tired of things at the Bartons’, she goes to Kamar-Taj, and when she gets tired of things at Kamar-Taj, she goes to the Bartons’, and when she’s tired of both of them, she spends a little more time exploring, and when she grows not just tired but weary, she visits Wanda.

America meant what she said when Wanda asked why she was there, and she means it even more now than she did before

No one should be alone.

Wanda never invites America inside her house. She can’t guess at when the girl will stop by, but her illusion still lets her know when she lands. Most of the time, America returns to the front porch and knocks expectantly on the front door, but every now and again, she makes a gateway to the edge of the dead forest and walks through the trees to the cabin. She takes a different path each time, though Wanda can’t guess why. To be honest, she doesn’t rightly care.

As long as she doesn’t find the sheep, she’s fine.

America’s visits are infrequent at best, and Wanda doesn’t always answer. Some days – most days – she is too tired to move from her bed (or from the couch, on the not so rare occasions when she sleeps there instead), and after the first two attempts at knocking with no response, America leaves. Sometimes, it isn’t that Wanda is tired; it’s just that she can’t people, and especially can’t America, whose multiversal hopping existence still burns something deep in the center of her.

But every now and again, something in her remembers the hug, and it aches for something she refuses to name.

And she pushes herself out of bed, shifts into the image of the Scarlet Witch, and brings out two mugs: one with herbal tea and, eventually, the other full of hot chocolate.

Chapter 20: Part Three: Prologue

Chapter Text

Wong doesn’t dream very often.

It’s not because there aren’t other versions of him in the multiverse – there are, and some of them are a lot more interesting than he considers himself to be – but because, contrary to what America Chavez has said and quite contrary to what she believes, not every dream is a window into the life of one of your selves in a different part of the multiverse. Some dreams – some nightmares – are memories, traumatic flashbacks to a time that no one really wants to relive and yet can sometimes find themselves because their brain doesn’t know how to let it go.

Wong’s nightmares are not the same as Tony Stark’s were, but he has had them for far longer. Long enough that the Ancient One taught him how to sleep without dreams (and, to some extent, a way to keep his other selves from dreaming of him, although they could not have known that was one of this particular method’s side-effects).

When Wong does dream, it is often because he has dozed off, too exhausted to stay awake, but without the knowledge that he would doze. He cannot prepare himself and settle himself within that method of no dreaming if he doesn’t know he will doze off, and so in those moments, he can allow himself, in dreams, to wander.

Now, these dreams usually do not last very long. Someone usually notices that he isn’t paying attention and rouses him within a few moments, unless they think, Oh, the Sorcerer Supreme needs his rest; it’s better that we don’t disturb him. But every now and again, hidden in a deep corner of Kamar-Taj’s library and studying yet another book, Wong dreams deep and Wong dreams long.

This is one of those times.

“The Illuminate will judge her soon enough. We just have to wait for them to become accustomed to working together.” Mordo lifts a glass decanter in half of a toast, more to himself and his own brilliance than to any of his fellow Illuminati members. He pours himself a glass of whiskey and then nods to Wong. “Do you want any?”

Both answers lead to no. Wong knows this. Mordo has never liked him, although he’s held in higher esteem than Stephen Strange ever was. Sometimes, he regrets that Mordo wasn’t killed in the massacre along with the rest of the Illuminati. He would have taken his place. He would have been the Sorcerer Supreme. It isn’t that he wants the power, and it isn’t even that he wants the authority.

It’s only that there are so many others so much more worthy of the title than Karl Mordo, who schemes and plots in ways only meant to justify his own ends. He pretends to be a hero only to prove the villain. No one sees this.

Wong sees this.

“No,” Wong says, clasping his hands behind his back. At least this way he can pretend it was his own choice.

“Of course, you don’t. I forgot.” Mordo places the decanter on the table next to him and lifts his glass as he settles into a large leather chair. “You don’t drink.”

He does. Just not around him.

Wong does not move, instead keeping a careful eye on his master. “What will you do with her, when they condemn her?”

Mordo doesn’t quite snort, and he doesn’t quite chuckle, because there is no sound to his expression. But he might as well have done both, for the way his dark eyes sparkle, for the way he almost seems to curl into a smile. His gaze flicks, briefly, to the roaring fire behind him. “She will do what every witch since the beginning of time has done when condemned by her peers. She’ll burn.”

The one who dreams and not the one being dreamed inwardly chuckles at the idea of this. As if she would let herself be killed by any normal fire. He is given purchase to speak, and he says, tone made solemn by the one being dreamed, “And if she refuses?”

“We have a Phoenix,” Mordo answers with a wave of his hand. “She will have no choice.”

The dreamer does not know what this means, but the one being dreamed does. He continues, staring at a man who continues to stare within the fire, “And the boys?”

Mordo doesn’t look up. “Billy should have belonged to us from the beginning. His mother doesn’t know what to do with his powers, and she isn’t training him adequately. He would waste away without us. You know this.”

Wong knows what the Sorcerer Supreme thinks, and he knows what the last Sorcerer Supreme thought, and he knows what the Ancient One before him would have thought. None of them would have agreed with each other, and the two previous certainly would not have agreed with Mordo, just as Wong does not. But there is no point with arguing. Instead, he asks, “And Tommy?”

Again, that wave of dismissal. “Someone else will take him. Jean, maybe, will let him sojourn with her mutants, although he isn’t quite one himself.” He sighs and glances up. “I don’t much care what happens with the other boy, as long as Billy stays with us.”

“You would split them up.”

“I would.” Mordo nods gravely, as though he regrets doing so. His feigned politeness with all its intricacies has never fazed Wong. Not once. Then he leans back in his leather chair and lifts his glass in another feigned toast before taking a sip of it. He hums with pleasure. “This is good.”

“I’ve heard it is.”

Mordo smiles a little smile to himself. “I will must remember to share it with the others when they arrive.”

Wong snaps awake. His eyes are wide, and he looks around him. It was just a dream, he tells himself, as he has always told himself when he is caught dreaming. He leans forward over his book, rubs a hand along the top of his head, and stares at the words before him without reading. The library is silent. No one else is awake right now. He looks around and sees no one, which means no one heard his sharp gasp as he awoke.

He is, unfortunately, lying to himself.

It isn’t just a dream, and after spending time with America, he knows that well enough. This wasn’t a memory of something that has gone on before, this is a memory of something happening right now to someone just like him tucked away in some other corner of the multiverse.

Not just like him.

To him.

Wong takes a deep breath, settling himself, and runs over the dream, trying to grasp as much of it as he can. But the problem with dreams is that, even in those first few moments after waking, they can slip through our mind like sand through a sieve, pulled and turned by the jetties where they are led. He can’t remember much.

But he remembers Mordo. He remembers an upcoming trial.

And he remembers an immense, immense feeling of dread.

Chapter 21: Part Three: Chapter One

Chapter Text

Wanda leaves one nightmare and enters another, with only the hope of returning to the first open to her.

She sits cross-legged in what she knows full well is a cage, though it has none of the normal accoutrements of one – no bars, no locked gate, no window so thin that even if she did remove the bars (of which there are none) she wouldn’t be able to scramble out. The wall behind her is not brick but some thick, impenetrable metal, and the others are of a form of glass that is much the same. She isn’t even sure it should be called glass anymore, only that it appears to be thin and translucent.

Her arms are cuffed together with some sort of modified, enhanced pair of handcuffs that prevent her from using her hands for magic, no matter how much she concentrates, no matter how she twists her fingers into the motions that have become so familiar to her. When she lowers her head to look, she feels a collar around her neck, just as when she’d been locked away after siding with Steve over Tony, although her reflection suggests that this one is much more enhanced than that one, given that it looks very much like the cuffs about her wrists.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, calming herself. Whichever version of her this is, they do not seem afraid. They seem calm. Resigned. When she opens her eyes to peer at her reflection, she is not surprised by the thin white scar across her forehead, left behind during a rampage she, herself, had caused.

Of course, this is the result of that. She doesn’t know what she expected.

“You’re here,” Wanda says, staring at her reflection, staring at something just beyond it. “Finally.”

Her eyes flicker with a scarlet light. It doesn’t stay, whole, the way it does when she uses her powers. It flickers, like one of her old tvs when the reception isn’t good – no static, just that flicker of light.

Wanda cannot pull herself from herself, but she sees a wavering image of the Scarlet Witch in the not-glass, and when she speaks to herself, it is the witch who speaks and not the woman who both is and is not herself. “You know when I dream?”

“It is the only thing I have left,” the other her says, staring at the image of the Scarlet Witch that flickers with each wavering flicker of the scarlet light in her eyes. “You come and you go – or you don’t, but others of us do – and I wait for you.”

“Why?” Wanda feels the ache building just above and between her eyes, feels it just at the base of her skull, feels it trembling outward from the collar about her neck, one that she suspects will end her if too much magic is used. Or – it won’t end her; if she dies in the dream, or gets too close to it, she will awaken. It is only this version of her who will die.

The other Wanda tries to speak, presses her lips together, licks them, winces, and tries again. “Christine mentioned help. I have seen the universe jumper in my dreams, in my dreams with you.”

Wanda’s eyes darken. “You would have them kill me instead.”

She knows that she deserves it, just as she knows that she would ask the same thing of herself if she were in this situation. She would ask for the sacrifice while at the same time knowing that it would not happen. But she would try.

“No,” the other Wanda says, and she licks her cracked lips again.

Examining her, Wanda can see bruises on one side of her face, dark circles under her eyes. Her cheeks are hollow. She wonders, briefly, if they have been feeding her; she wonders, too, how long they have held her here. It cannot have been long. But she had spoken of multiple others of them dreaming of her, so perhaps it is longer than she believed. Perhaps these bruises were worse, once.

She doesn’t want to think about that, just like she has refused to think of what this one must have felt, flying back through the building, seeing the bodies of the Illuminati members and her own body stained with her blood, sitting in the shower and scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing and still feeling like that blood is there, beneath her nails, somewhere, even though she has gotten it all off already. Just like she has refused to think about the looming dread she must have felt, waiting on the one who was left to decide what to do with her.

Wanda knows that she fought because she would have fought.

Wanda also knows that she lost, or else she would not be seeking her out now.

“What do you want from me?”

“My boys,” the other Wanda says, and her eyes flicker darker. Her teeth grit together. “Save our boys.”

Wanda doesn’t say anything. Her heart twists within her. It aches.

Then the flickering in the other Wanda’s eyes becomes more rapid. Her mouth opens in a silent scream. “They’re coming,” she says, and her voice rasps from a throat too sore to be able to truly speak anymore. “They’re coming—”

Wanda’s vision begins to fade, and she catches a glimpse of someone she once loved before everything goes black.

Wanda wakes from one nightmare only to find herself in the one she is forced to live with.

She pushes herself from the couch. Her indigo blue robe falls about her, tugs at her shoulders. It’s too heavy, really, but the weight is nice when she rests. She read somewhere that weighted blankets can help with anxiety, can help with rest. She needs it so desperately. The robe might not be a weighted blanket, but if it’s heavy enough, that should do the same thing, shouldn’t it?

Her newest nightmare suggests that this is not so.

Wanda picks up the bowl of cereal from her coffee table – hates that the table is called that, since she isn’t much of one for coffee – and moves to the kitchen, where she leaves it in the sink. It’s all soggy now. That’s no good.

These are small things that she keeps doing, that keep her mind from spiraling into overdrive trying to figure out how to fix yet another problem that she – she, herself – has caused. There isn’t anything she can do unless America opens the portal, and even then, once she’s there, she will have to find her boys, and she has no idea where they are keeping them. She could figure that out. She could find them. And that’s assuming they don’t have the same protections that she – the other version of herself – now has.

She moves through her house by route, mind elsewhere, focusing, prodding at her plans, thinking things through.

Everything revolves around whether or not America will make the portal, whether or not she will come with her on this rescue mission. She cannot ask that of her, even if she suspects that America will join her, even if somewhere inside of her she knows that she would go without question.

America is a much better hero than she ever was. Wanda knows that, too.

Heroes die.

When the knock comes at her front door, it startles her. Wanda glances over her shoulder. It’s too early for one of America’s visits. Or maybe it’s too late. She cannot tell; she just knows that the timing doesn’t feel right. It’s wrong somehow. If she’s honest with herself, she knows that there have been multiple tiny little vibrations from her illusion letting her know that someone is approaching – it is that which woke her, more than her other self’s flickering, dissipating power.

Wanda shifts into the intimidating image of the Scarlet Witch, and she phases through the wall, instead of opening the door. She turns, brows raising, and her head tilts to one side. “What do you want?”

Wong jumps at her voice. “I didn’t know you could phase through walls.”

“I picked up a trick from my dearly departed husband.” Wanda’s eyes narrow. “I’ll ask you again, Wong. What do you want?”

Wong is taller than she is, and he tries to use this to advantage. He stares down at her, until she uses her magic to hover even higher, until she is the one looking down on him, her eyes blazing scarlet. It is impressive that he doesn’t stand down under the weight of her stare. “We have a problem.”

She doesn’t ask what the problem is. She suspects that she already knows. “What do you suggest?”

Wong takes a deep breath. He looks unsettled. She can’t tell if that’s from the situation or from her or from the illusion she has so carefully crafted to be precisely that. His teeth grind against each other.

There is too much silence broken only by the sound of the wind rattling through the branches of her broken trees. “Well?”

“We team up,” Wong says so small as to be nearly unheard.

Wanda pretends she can’t hear it. She raises one eyebrow and tilts her head towards him. “Say that again?”

“You heard me the first time.” Wong’s eyes narrow, and he glares at her. When Wanda neither agrees nor answers him, his hands clench, fingers tightening and releasing before he says, again, “I suggest we team up.”

“You? Team up with the Scarlet Witch?” Wanda grins because she knows it intimidates him, because she knows how much he doesn’t like her and how much it will unsettle him to see her do so. “What about your darling doctor?”

Wong’s gaze drops. “Strange is unreachable.”

Wanda’s grin softens. “You tried him first.”

“Of course, I tried him first.” Wong’s gaze snaps up, meeting hers again. “I know him. I don’t know you.” He waves one hand, gesturing to her appearance. “Not until this.”

“Not the best introduction, is it?” Wanda’s grin becomes a smile – regretful, soft, sad. This isn’t intentional. “You don’t have to like me. You don’t have to know me. You do have to trust me.” She holds his gaze. “Can you do that?”

Wong’s teeth grind together again. “Do I have a choice?”

“Of course, you have a choice, Wong.” Wanda shakes her head once. “You already made it when you came here. I just need to hear you say it.”

Wong takes another deep breath. “I need an Avenger,” he says, finally, “and you’re the strongest one I’ve got.”

Wanda nods once and lowers herself back to the ground. Then she stares up at him. “That’ll do.” She moves past him, pats his shoulder, and heads to the edge of the porch. Then she glances over her shoulder back at him. “Why don’t you take us where we need to go next?”

Chapter 22: Part Three: Chapter Two

Chapter Text

America Chavez does not dream.

Some people might think that this is a horrible, terrible, most awful thig, but to America, it isn’t. She has never dreamed, and so she does not know what – if anything – she is missing. When she hears of the great things some people dream, she thinks maybe it is a sad thing that she does not dream, but then she hears of the horrible nightmares that some people have and thinks maybe she is better off not knowing the thigs another version of herself might be getting into.

It is only that it is so lonely.

Sometimes, America wonders if dreams – those windows into other universes – help people understand themselves a little better. In dreams, she hears that people empathize with the person they are. Perhaps that was why the Wanda of Earth-838 could be so compassionate towards the Scarlet Witch. Perhaps, in her own dreams, she had acted just the same as the woman before her.

Or not. It is just as possible that the Wanda of Earth-838 had never dreamed of the Scarlet Witch before she found herself possessed by her.

America Chavez does not dream.

Normally.

And – for now – that normalcy continues.

For now.

America isn’t sleeping, so it doesn’t matter that she isn’t dreaming the way our other two protagonists have been. She is on the move, not even on Earth-616 at all, but hopping into another universe. This one is one she’s become quite familiar with over the past many months, a world that reminds her a little bit of what Utopia was before she disappeared from it. Just as on Earth-838, there are plants everywhere, covering every surface. It seems as though what buildings left draw their sustenance from the plants and do not quite use electricity at all. She tends not to spend her time in the cities proper, but instead travels in what might be called the suburbs in other universes but here are mostly referred to as the forests.

Most homes are carved within the centers of trees in a way that doesn’t harm the plant itself. It isn’t a parasitical ecosystem that the humans of this world have created, but more of a codependent one. They prune and water and tend for the trees that are their homes, while the trees provide them shelter and quite a lot of food. Even the fruit trees of this world are thicker and bigger, leaving room for one or two person homes – smaller homes, what she has heard referred to as starter homes elsewhere but are simply called fruity homes here.

America has been here enough to know that she wants a fruity home of her own, eventually. She likes the idea of having something she can tend for and that will tend for her in return. She’s even found the exact one she wants, not that it’s open. But she’s seen the young witch – not Wanda because she doesn’t look for her in every universe where she lands because she doesn’t need to look for her in any other universe anymore (and, honestly, with how much time her Wanda spends not awake, she thinks that she’ll dream their encounter and be upset with her for it – not worth it) – but another one, one with darker hair and a husband who controls metal with the same twisting finger hand gestures that Wanda has when she uses her magic, pulling a copper lantern down out of the tangled branches of their lime tree.

This world also has hammocks intertwined with most of their trees, meant for the nomads who haven’t got a tree of their own (whether that is due to pricing – less likely, in this world – or choice of lifestyle). There are more wanderers on this world, in this universe, than America has seen on Earth-616. Maybe that’s why she feels so welcome here, why she feels so comfortable.

She, too, has taken the time to doze in one of those hammocks, although she doesn’t do so quite so often. It’s familiar. Most of her life has been spent wandering around different worlds, wearing holes in the soles of shoes she sometimes stole and sometimes didn’t, and finding places where she can rest safely (and sometimes less safely, which led to new worlds and new, safer, beds).

America would never refer to herself as a nomad because her wandering hasn’t quite been by choice until recently, but if she knew the word, she would refer to herself as one tinted with a twinge of wanderlust. That, or still seeking something – certain someones – she hasn’t yet found. She knows they’re not here. She’s looked. She just likes here.

A soft spring breeze rustles the leaves in the trees, and America sighs with contentment and turns away. It’s time to leave. Again.

Maybe, one day, when she’s found her moms, she’ll set up her own fruity tree here. It might not be fair to the people she’s getting to know on Earth-616, since they won’t be able to visit her when they want (if they want – she strongly suspects the Scarlet Witch will not want to visit her), but she also realizes that they will be happy if she is happy. For the most part. The aforementioned also not included. In point of fact, she thinks as she shifts the straps of her rainbow backpack, she still isn’t sure what the witch thinks of her. She probably sees her as a nuisance. But she hasn’t tried to kill her in a few months now, so that’s something. She thinks.

Now, she just needs to decide where she wants to land in that other world.

No, she doesn’t. It isn’t even a question.

The sparkling blue white star portal opens onto the lawn of the Barton’s farmstead, and America is greeted with a sight that she did not expect and, on seeing it, realizes that she doesn’t actually want – Wanda, again in that full on Scarlet Witch costume that she is in most times (America has asked if she ever washes it, only to have that hand-waved away with I can stitch together reality; it’s new every time I wear it – which sounds so much more complicated than just using a laundry machine, but she’s never said that), with Wong at her side, golden magical shields on both of his wrists, and Clint just across from them, bow out and arrow notched, with Kate next to him in the same sort of position. She’s heard enough from Kate to know that they both have trick arrows, but she also highly suspects neither can hold their own against Wanda – she’s not even sure they can hold their own against Wong, which is saying something.

But looking at their faces, none of them seem particularly mad. Did she walk in on some sort of training exercise? It can’t be a real fight, or Kate would be in that purple and black costume she likes so much. (Kate says Clint has a matching one somewhere, but America has never seen it and doesn’t really believe it exists.) But what would they need to train for?

Clint and Kate fire simultaneously. Wong’s shield expands enough to block one of the arrows, and the one that makes it past is disintegrated in thin air before it can reach either of them. Kate scowls. “That’s not fair! Not everyone can do that!”

Wanda co*cks an eyebrow. “You don’t know who we’ll be facing.”

“Neither do you,” Wong says, glancing up at her where she hovers in midair.

Clint takes the momentary distraction to shoot another arrow. Wong misses it, and before it gets within the range Wanda appears to have been using to disintegrate them, it explodes, surrounding the two of them with a thick cloud of smoke. It only takes a few seconds for the smoke to shift from its dark gray color to a deeper, warmer scarlet, and it swirls around Wong and the Scarlet Witch.

The bow users use the cloud cover to move from where they are, and they swarm forward as though intending to use it to attack their prey. But the cloud changes too fast, and as soon as Kate rushes in headfirst, the scarlet cloud thickens around her, tightens into orbs around her limbs, and then holds her aloft. She opens her mouth as though to scream, but the cloud covers it, too, holding her mouth shut tight.

America is grateful for this, at least. Losing her own mouth had been terrifying. Just because Wanda can do that doesn’t mean she should.

Clint slows as he sees what happens to Kate, and he stops, nocks an arrow, and shoots one at her. It’s a moment too long. The scarlet smoke stirs, shifts, swirls around his ankles, and lifts him, too, holding him upside down next to Kate. The arrow narrowly misses Kate.

A voice calls from within the smoke. “Had enough?”

Wong’s voice. America smiles.

“Not nearly,” Clint says, but Kate nods. Rapidly. A lot. The smoke doesn’t have hold of Clint’s arms, and perhaps that is intentional. He nocks another arrow.

America has an idea. She steadily creates one of her gateways – that’s what she’s heard Wong and Wanda call them, but she hates that name. It’s so simple. Too simple. They’re sparkly and golden and should have something like that in their name. She’s still thinking about that one, though – and jumps through it, pushing Clint away in what she hopes is a heroic measure. But the smoke still holds onto him, even as she lands in the middle of it, pounding the ground with a punch that makes the earth shake. She grins at her own power. It’s been growing. She’s noticed that, too.

Without a second thought, America punches the person nearest to her, and her hand hits something that feels like a solid wall. Must be Wong. She twirls and spins around him and tries again. Nothing, but she can feel the magic shield splinter.

One more time.

America spins and twirls and tries a third time, and this time she finds purchase on the small of his back. Wong stumbles. America grins. An arrow flies through the smoke, grazes her cheekbone, and shoots out something that looks like thin webbing into the air. It’s hard to see through the smoke, but something – someone – lands with a harsh thump.

Wanda? America refuses to believe the Scarlet Witch could be so easily felled. Not after everything she and Wong and Strange had gone through so many months ago. She turns and catches a small glimpse of the witch through the smoke. “Take off the kiddie gloves,” America says, sticking her tongue out at her.

The Scarlet Witch phases through the webbing, her eyes glowing the same color as her magic. “I don’t feel like killing anyone today.” She doesn’t question when America got there, nor does she question just why America immediately joined Clint and Kate in attacking her. Instead, she smiles, and for a moment, there’s something familiar to it but not fitting to Wanda’s face, something that bothers America just as much as Laura Barton’s smiles do. She’s unsettled. “You’re really fed up with him, aren’t you?”

America glances over to Wong and then shrugs. “Seemed like he wasn’t that helpful. You’ve got everything taken care of.”

Wanda tilts her head to one side, fingers twisting. “That I do.” She steps out of the smoke, gesturing with one hand for America to follow her. There are no attacks here. Not even for training purposes. She doesn’t have to say why.

Outside of the scarlet smoke, Clint is bound just as Kate is, although he is hovering upside down. Wanda looks up at him, all trace of a smile gone from her face. “I think you understand why the two of you cannot go with us.” She releases the smoke gags over their mouths first.

Kate just looks at America. “I don’t think you’re thinking with portals.”

America almost – almost – gets the reference. Then Wanda gives a little wave of her hand. The smoke disappears, Kate and Clint drop (both landing remarkably well, likely because they’ve trained for that), and Wong sits up from where he’s been laying on the ground, groggily holding his head with one hand. He gives America a sharp look, and she waves one hand at him awkwardly.

Then America realizes something – she still has no idea why they were fighting in the first place. She looks at Wanda. “Where are you going?” She can’t stop the fear from creeping into her voice, even though Wong was on her side, so it can’t be anywhere bad. Still. She looks over to Wong. “Are you going somewhere?”

Wong sighs, scratches the back of his head, and then pushes himself up. “Yes,” he says, “and you are, too.”

“If you want,” Wanda corrects through gritted teeth. She glares at Wong. “We discussed this.”

But Wong doesn’t take his eyes off of America. “Your choice. Let’s talk.”

Chapter 23: Part Three: Chapter Three

Chapter Text

America is tired of sitting at tables. She’s tired of sitting on couches, and she’s tired of sitting on beds. She’s tired of sitting on porches. Mostly, she’s just tired of having long, deep, meaningful conversations about things she should or should not be doing with her life or being told about things she should or should not know. She might not be an adult yet – and she might not be from Earth-616 – but that doesn’t mean she’s a child. Sure, there are things she should know about the earth where she currently resides, but she doesn’t plan on staying here forever, and the thing of it is that everyone has basically been keeping her sequestered away unless she makes a sparkling circle to go other places around the world. No one goes with her to any of these places, so though she still has a place to land – places! multiple places! – she still feels very much alone.

So America stays where she is, standing in the middle of the Bartons’ front lawn, and crosses her arms as Wong explains the situation to her. As he continues, her eyes flick to Wanda, gauging her reaction. The witch doesn’t react at all to Wong’s words. In fact, as soon as America looks over to her, their eyes meet. Wanda is gauging her reaction just as much as America had planned to gauge hers.

Of course, Wanda already knows. None of this is news to her. Wong might be describing the dream he had, but America guesses that Wanda had one, too. She wonders if Wanda even needed a dream to know that the her she’d used to massacre almost an entire superhero group in her pursuit of America would be facing the consequences of actions she hadn’t even made and hadn’t been able to stop.

But America wants her to react! She wants her to look ashamed when she meets America’s eyes. She wants her to feel even the slightest bit of regret. Or guilt! Something to suggest that she knows what she did is wrong and that she wants to go on this trip to make up for it.

…and not just to lay claim to sons who might now be losing their mother.

Instead, Wanda stands there, keeping an eye on her, looking the same as she always does. Nothing phases her.

It’s infuriating.

I’m not going back there, America thinks at first, staring down an unfeeling witch. Not to clean up your mess. Not there.

America remembers Earth-838 all too well. She’d been drugged (as had Strange, because he had trusted this world’s replacement for him despite knowing that, in his world, said replacement hated his guts). She’d been locked in a glass cage (that she could have punched through at any point in time, but hadn’t known that until she was too scared to stay there any longer). She’d been chased down by the body of a woman possessed by the witch now standing across from her covered in blood with glowing scarlet eyes bent on her destruction.

And how, exactly, had she left that world?

Oh, yeah. Wanda caught her. Wanda caught her and dragged her back to Earth-616 so that she could use her magic to chain her to an altar to absorb her magic and kill her.

America didn’t have good experiences on Earth-838, and she doesn’t want to go back.

Her eyes don’t leave Wanda as Wong finishes. Her arms are still crossed, and she can feel her knuckles growing white with how tight her fists are clenched. “You said I had a choice?”

Wanda nods. “I know what it is like to be forced to do something I do not want. I will not try to do the same to you again.”

The witch’s words should feel comforting, but considering everything, considering how America feels right now, they’re just another smack in her face of what was done to her the last time. It’s been months. The witch hasn’t tried anything. They’ve been alone together multiple times, all because America decided to seek her out. She doesn’t realize it, but that, too, had always been her choice, and she had continued to choose those encounters.

Out of the corner of her eye, America can see Wong’s expression tighten. How odd, that he should not want to honor her choice. Less odd when considering her track record with one of the other Stranges. Sometimes heroes want to do the right thing and expect others to do what they see as the right thing regardless of the potential cost to them. How could that be heroic?

“I don’t want to go back,” America states firmly. “No.”

Wong stares at her, his expression suddenly pained. “You can’t be—”

“You don’t know!” America said, her voice growing louder, as she whirled towards him, glaring. “You weren’t there! You didn’t see what she did!” She gestures with one hand to the witch as she speaks. “I did,” she says, her voice softer. “I’m not going back there. You can’t make me.” She swallows and continues to look at Wong. She can’t look at the witch right now. “I’ll open a portal for you, and I’ll open another one later for you to get out, but I’m not going. I’m not.”

“Thank you,” Wanda says, and her voice is quiet, so quiet that America doesn’t know how she hears it. When America turns to her, she notices that the Wanda she sees is not speaking, although she still hears her voice curving against the shell of her ear. “Don’t come.” Then, even quieter, “Don’t be a hero.”

America isn’t sure if that’s a mockery of who she is or not. Her hands clench even tighter, and she storms off, into the farmhouse. She can’t take this.

“Told you.”

Wanda doesn’t look at Wong. Her gaze continues to follow America, who slams the door behind her. Only then does she look back to Wong. “She’s not ready to—”

“I’ll go talk to her.” Wong heads toward the house.

Wanda doesn’t follow him, but she makes sure that he hears her. “Don’t push her.”

“It is a bad idea for her to just leave us there,” Wong mutters under his breath as though Wanda is standing next to him. “What if we need to get out of there immediately? What if we can’t make it to the meet up point anymore and need to find a new spot for her to find us? What if we need to contact her?”

“We can teleport. None of those issues are important.” Wanda takes a deep breath. “Don’t push her.”

Wong ignores her and goes inside anyway. She isn’t surprised.

“So, um,” Kate says, looking from Wanda to Wong and then back again, “what happens now?”

Clint wraps an arm around her shoulders. “Now you,” he starts, pulling to his side, “go inside and make sure Wong doesn’t do something he’ll regret in the morning.” He gives her a noogie.

“Ow, ow!” Kate breaks away from him. She runs a hand over her dark hair. It’s still pulled back into a ponytail, but now it’s all mussed up. She glares at him. “Don’t do that!”

Clint shrugs. “Do what?”

“Ugh.” Kate storms off in much the same manner that America just did, with her bow slung across her back with her arrows, but when she makes it to the front porch, she turns around and sticks her tongue out at Clint for all the world like an amused child. Then she laughs it off and follows the other two inside.

Wanda turns to Clint, her arms still crossed. She hasn’t relaxed yet. She doesn’t know if she can. “You think she’ll stop him?”

“I think Kate, when she wants to talk, won’t shut up, no matter what anyone else says.” Clint gives her a look and one nod, sharp. “She’ll take care of it.” He gives her a onceover, and Wanda’s heart clenches. Not quite unlike fear, even though it isn’t that. “You’ve lost weight.”

Wanda raises an eyebrow. “Most people would think that’s a good thing.”

“Most people aren’t you.” Clint looks over her again. “Have you been eating?” He picks up the black at the edges of her fingertips, tracks it to the dark bags under her eyes. “Have you been sleeping?”

“I eat,” Wanda says, “and I don’t like being awake.” She rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry about me, Clint.”

“I do worry.” Clint moves closer, and he stretches his hands out the way Wanda might with a skittish stray cat.

Wanda looks at his hands and then back up at him. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure you don’t attack me.” Clint finishes crossing the yard to her. It’s closer than she normally is with other people – other than America, sometimes – and it makes her uncomfortable. It didn’t used to. But she hasn’t been around anyone in a while, and she doesn’t trust that it’s a good thing. He looks her over a third time, and his face darkens. “Don’t look like you’re eating enough.”

“I eat, Clint.” Wanda can’t keep the bitterness out of her tone. She nods towards his farmhouse. “Go check on America. You’re good at that.”

“I’m checking on you.”

“What happened to not wanting to babysit me?” Wanda glares up at him. She could hover. She could make herself taller than him, so that she can look down on him instead of the other way around. But she doesn’t. “I’m not a child anymore.”

“I know.” Clint meets her eyes and holds her gaze. He tilts his head towards the farmhouse. “Come eat with us. Have a nice, warm meal for once.”

“I told you, I eat—”

“By yourself, wherever it is you live now.” Clint continues to hold her gaze. “I don’t think you’re making meals from scratch. Not alone. Not if you don’t like being awake.” He crosses his arms, but he isn’t angry with her. “You’re going to want to leave from here as soon as possible, America doesn’t seem ready to send you yet, but you shouldn’t leave before she is. So come inside. Eat something.” One last look. “Change into something more comfortable.”

Wanda glares at him. “This is comfortable.”

“Something less intimidating, then. Be a normal person for a few minutes.”

“I stopped being a normal person when I lost my family.”

Clint takes her words in stride. “We were family once, weren’t we? The Avengers. They were family.” Before she can say anything, he continues, “A bit of a dysfunctional family, but what family isn’t, honestly.” It isn’t a question. He doesn’t need an answer. “Come inside. Spend time with us. We don’t bite.” He sighs, head bobbing back and forth for a bit. “Except for Kate. She bites. But not too hard, and I think you can take her.”

Without thinking about it, Wanda laughs. Almost. A sharp snort of a thing. She looks away, over to the farmhouse. “No one in there likes me.”

“No one in there hates you either.” Clint waits, but there’s nothing. Then he shrugs. “Or don’t. It’s up to you. I figure – you give America a choice, I give you one. But you don’t have to take it.” He starts back to the farmhouse.

Wanda stares after him. She considers. She grinds her teeth together. Then she lets out a sigh, pushes herself off the ground, and flies first after and then past him. Her clothes shift into something not more comfortable but more appropriate – jeans, scarlet plaid – and her hair slowly braids itself before falling across one shoulder. She presses her lips together. “Better?”

Clint just passes her by as though she hasn’t done something marvelous. “It’ll do.” He holds the door open for her, waiting.

It takes a moment. Looking inside a family home makes her heart ache. She doesn’t want to go. She doesn’t want to do this.

But she does anyway.

Chapter 24: Part Three: Chapter Four

Chapter Text

America is gone.

She’s gone as soon as Wong makes his way through the front door because she doesn’t want to talk about it – she doesn’t want to talk about it – and she knows that stance, she knows that way of walking, she knows that physical expression of frustration and movement, and she knows that way he looks at her, and she is gone.

She punches a hole through the universe, walks straight into another one, and turns to face him with a grim look on her face as the portal disappears.

Wong doesn’t grit his teeth. His hands aren’t clenched into fists. He doesn’t seem mad.

But she’s running, she’s running, she’s running, and she is gone, four universes away before she thinks to look back again.

America finds her way back to the universe full of plants, which she is coming to call the Wanderer’s World, and collapses onto the nearest hammock. The other wanderers might talk to her, but she doesn’t have much to offer them. She’s not really in a talking mood. It’s a shame. They always have such nice things to say.

She just doesn’t want to hear it.

When Wanda enters the farmhouse, both Wong and America have disappeared. That doesn’t bode well.

Kate turns with an expression of disgust, head lowered, and snaps, “They left. Wong said she just made a portal – which she’s not supposed to do in the house,” she gestures to the scattered papers and overturned rocking chair, all of which had been drawn to the portal as soon as it opened, “and then he made another portal to chase after her.” Her brows knit together in annoyance. “He could have at least taken me with him. We all know she likes me better.”

“He can’t chase after her,” Wanda says, massaging her now aching head. “She’s gone to another universe. He probably just went to Kamar-Taj.”

It’s a little slip that feels like things are falling apart. Which is fine for their universe, just not so much for the other. Besides, it isn’t like she hasn’t lived through things falling apart before. Multiple times, actually. And the one time where she died, but she’d gotten better. (The others hadn’t. Not nearly as permanently.)

Kate gives her a onceover, but it’s of a different sort than the ones Clint had given her outside. Her head tilts to one side, and she bites her lower lip. “Um.” She blinks a few times. She hesitates. “You look, um. Different?”

Wanda meets her eyes, lets her own blaze scarlet. She isn’t going to do anything. “Is that a problem?”

Kate swallows and looks away. “Your eyes look really nice when you do that.”

“Okay, um.” Wanda presses her fingertips to her forehead again. She gives a little shake of her head. “I will pretend I didn’t just hear any of that.” She waggles her fingers and turns away. “And I will not be sitting next to you at dinner.”

“Oh, we’ve got our specific seats, so….” Kate’s voice trails off. She blinks again. “You’re going to eat dinner with us?”

A hand claps Wanda on the back, and she tenses. Clint moves past her without even looking at her. “I invited her. She’s family, so no flirting at the dinner table.” He sets the rocking chair back upright and stares around the room as Kate stands still, spluttering. “America run off?”

“Looks like it,” Wanda manages to make out, despite her face flushing a brilliant scarlet, despite covering her face with her hand. Why is it whenever she decides to be with more than one person at a time some child decides to hit on her? Or tell her she’s attractive? It makes her so uncomfortable. “She’ll be back.”

Kate’s head pops up. “How do you know?” She starts to move about the room, picking up the scattered papers, not putting them in any particular order, just clumping them together into piles that are at least piles that aren’t on the floor.

“I have some experience with running.” Wanda rubs a hand awkwardly up and down her arm. “Do you need help, or...?”

“No, I think we’ve got it.”

Then there are hands on her shoulders – warm, comforting – and although Wanda, again, tenses at the gentle touch, she nevertheless turns to face Laura Barton. Laura is shorter than she is, but not by much, and she squeezes Wanda’s shoulders before giving her a hug. “It’s good to see you again, Wanda.”

Wanda doesn’t hug her back. Her arms feel a little pinned to her sides, but not in a bad way. She just feels uncomfortable. “Um, thanks?” She steps out of the hug. “Clint wanted me to stay. I don’t want to intrude.”

“No intrusion.” Laura smiles as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Why don’t you come help me? I could always use an extra set of hands.”

The words set in the center of Wanda’s chest. She’s used those words before, she’s heard those words before. With her boys. The words sink and they set and she aches and she says nothing about any of that. “Sure,” she says instead. “Just show me how I can help.”

And Wanda does help. She helps set the table. She helps put the pot roast just in its center. She helps place the sides around it in a sort of decorative hex (and says nothing about why she does). Clint brings a chair in for her, and she sits between his daughter, Lila, and his eldest son, Cooper. Kate sits on the other side of his daughter. Then Clint, then Laura, then their youngest son, Nathaniel. They leave a seat open between Nathaniel and Cooper, just in case America comes back.

Wanda sits, and she says little, and her heart aches. She hasn’t forgotten about Nathaniel, exactly. It’s impossible to forget about the son who was simultaneously named for Natasha, who wasn’t dead then, not yet, and her brother, Pietro, who had only just died. His name rings in her head and reminds her of the deceased and is its own special kind of ache.

The worse ache is that he is the same age her boys were, just before they decided to jump to an age where they would be allowed to keep a pet dog (a pet dog who had died within a matter of hours, the grief of whom she had counseled them not to run from, as if she had been doing anything else). Wanda looks at Nathaniel and thinks of her boys, and she sits among this family being a natural, normal family doing natural, normal family things, and she thinks—

This is the way it was meant to be.

She thinks it, and the words sink just as Laura’s did earlier, but they sink further, faster, harder, and they do not let her go.

Wanda sits and tries to eat around the lump gathering in her throat. She sits and tries to listen in on the conversations. She sits and tries to introduce herself to the boys, but as soon as Nathaniel, in his tiny voice, tells her she looks familiar and asks if she’ll be coming back again for dinner later (he asks his parents, and he calls her the nice lady, and her heart breaks), she pushes back from the table. Her head hangs low. She looks up just enough to meet Clint’s eyes, and she whispers, “I can’t.”

He can’t hear her, that soft, around everything else, but she’s certain that he can read her lips.

She knows enough sign to turn her hand into a fist and rubs a circle in the air with it just above the center of her chest. Sorry, sorry, sorry.

Then she presses her lips together, swallows around the lump choking her words, and walks out the door. She refuses to rush, and she hopes that she is not followed. She does not want to break this moment – their moment – more than she already has.

Chapter 25: Part Three: Chapter Five

Chapter Text

America Chavez does not dream.

She has multiple times mentioned this to multiple people – that dreams are windows into the lives that her other selves across the multiverse might be living, if they existed, and that since they don’t exist, she doesn’t dream. She is alone herself, a singular entity across infinite realities attempting to live the best life she can in spite of that (or perhaps because of it).

America Chavez has never once in her entire life dreamed of anything. Never. Not once.

So the first time she has a nightmare, it terrifies her more than anything.

This is not helped by the terror the nightmare would have caused regardless of that.

Dreams, as has already been discussed, are not always visions of the multiverse. Sometimes, they are memories. Not always good ones and quite frequently bad ones. Wanda’s dreams are mostly sweet because in reaching out into the multiverse, her mind knows what it thinks that she needs to counteract the bad memories that would otherwise flood her rest. Wong’s dreams are a mismatch because his subconscious mind so rarely gets the chance to reach out and take something it thinks might be useful.

America’s mind finally has something to take hold of, and it takes that moment now, when it thinks she needs the memory most. (She does not need this memory right now, she does not need this memory ever, she does not need this memory.)

The problem with dreaming memories is that sometimes the brain decides to twist and change them, and in so doing, it can make a moment that was quite horrible infinitely worse.

Curled up in her hammock, America dozes off, and instead of waking soon after in that very same hammock, she finds herself in the intricate tunnels of Earth-838, just beneath the Baxter Institute, only this time, instead of being with Strange and his Christine, she finds herself completely alone.

America feels her heart beat against her chest, ramming against her ribcage like a million tiny birds trying to escape, and her breath catches in her throat. She shouldn’t be here. She wasn’t here. She isn’t here. There can’t be another of her living this right now.

She can’t think about any of this while tendrils of scarlet smoke are curling out of the mists just in front of her.

America turns and she runs.

Running doesn’t help.

America can hear the worn out soles of her sneakers slapping on the concrete beneath her. Every time she feels like she’s getting a little farther away, actually making it, a tendril of scarlet smoke wraps around her ankles. One time, she tries to stomp on it, but it’s smoke, and all that does is give it a little more time to try and grab at her. She stumbles forward and away from it and keeps running.

Her chest constricts. She’s having trouble breathing. She glances over her shoulder.

Bad idea.

The scarlet smoke – which wasn’t even there when she lived through this – thins just enough for her to make out a pair of glowing scarlet eyes in the middle of a blood-soaked face. America can’t make out more details than that, but she doesn’t have to. She knows what the Scarlet Witch looked like while she was chasing her. She can fill in the image of her bare feet, trailing blood, and not knowing whether that was hers or someone else’s. She can fill in the screams she’d heard when she’d been locked in the glass box, screams that she knew meant people were dying, but she couldn’t tell who, and she couldn’t tell if it was a good thing or not.

(It’s never a good thing. Not with that battle. Even if they had defeated Wanda, they wouldn’t have killed the one chasing her, they would have killed a Wanda who had done nothing wrong, except for being the Wanda of the Earth where America and Strange happened to land. All deaths were bad.)

But no one is dying here. This is a dream. America doesn’t know that. She knows that these people should already be dead. She knows that she survives. Her brain doesn’t give her this information. It’s a dream.

This time, when America stumbles, the scarlet smoke tightens its hold on her ankles. It holds her aloft, upside down, and before she can punch a hole in the universe, the smoke wraps its way around her wrists as well. It keeps her in one piece as the Scarlet Witch hobbles forward, one leg dragging, limping from the glass in the soles of her feet.

The sound shifts. There is no more limping or dragging. There are no footsteps.

The Scarlet Witch floats through the scarlet smoke with scarlet orbs in each of her hands, her eyes blazing with scarlet fire. She tilts her head, examining America, and smiles. It is a smile she has never seen on her before. This Scarlet Witch is enjoying this.

America opens her mouth to scream, but she has no mouth. Her eyes widen. She tries to get her powers to work, to get a portal to open behind her the way it always does when she is afraid, but nothing happens. There’s nothing. Her powers have failed her at the moment she needs most. She struggles against her bonds as the witch draws closer.

The Scarlet Witch grins. “I think your heart will do nicely.” She reaches into America’s chest and pulls her hand out, dripping with blood, holding a still-beating heart in her hand. Then she licks her lips.

America tries to scream—

—and sits upright in her hammock before it twists and turns and dumps her out beneath it.

America groans and gasps and pushes herself up off of the ground. She’s covered in sweat. It’s still hard to breathe. Her chest feels tight. Everything hurts. She’s shaking. She reaches out as though to grab for her backpack before having to realize that she didn’t bring it with her. There’s nothing to hold onto. She climbs back into the hammock and curls on her side, still shaking, still sweating, heart still pounding, taking shallow, shallow breaths.

No one in any of the other hammocks seems to notice. None of them have woken up. So she didn’t scream. That’s…that’s good, isn’t it? And yet she can’t help but want someone to be awake just to talk her down out of whatever this is. It was a dream. But it wasn’t a dream. There isn’t another America in the universe, so she can’t have been dreaming. There has to be another explanation—

Two small hands grab the edge of her blanket, and America’s eyes widen. She scoots back away from them, unable to stop herself from being frightened of whoever that might be. (So maybe it’s good that the others in the nearby hammocks aren’t awake.)

Then a head pops up over the side of the hammock – a small girl’s head. Her bright green eyes stare at America, freckles dark against her pale face, and she tries to meet America’s eyes but fails. “Daddy said you looked like you were scared,” the girl says. “Did you have a bad dream, too?”

“Um.” America stares at the brown-haired girl. She swallows. Her throat is so tight, and her mouth is so dry, that it’s hard to speak. “I don’t dream.”

That’s a lie now. But it isn’t, not really. She doesn’t dream. She only remembers wrongly.

The girl’s brow furrows. “You looked like you were having a bad dream. Daddy said I should come see you because I always have bad dreams.” Her gaze shifts away. “Sometimes I have good dreams.” Then her gaze snaps back to America. “But mostly they’re bad. And Daddy says that panic attacks me sometimes when I have my bad dreams and it looks like panic is attacking you like it attacks me and Daddy said I should come see you and help you because maybe you haven’t been attacked by panic before.”

America isn’t able to understand half of what this small child is saying, but she nods, slow, like she does anyway. It helps to have something else to focus on. She hadn’t realized how much that would help. “Who’s your daddy?”

The girl turns away from America and glances back behind her to a nearby fruity tree – the one that America keeps looking at and would love to one day have, if she ever gets to that point. The man with the hand gestures like Wanda’s, the one who seems to control metal, notices the two of them looking at him, and he raises one hand in an unmoving wave. “That’s him,” she says, and she points over to him as she turns back to America. “Do you want me to get him? He’s good at helping me when panic attacks, so maybe he’ll be able to help you, too.”

America catches herself nodding – she doesn’t mean to nod – and then shakes her head. “N-n-no. I’ll…I’ll get up. I can go over there. He’ll be fine with me going over there, right? I can go over there?”

“I don’t know.” The girl shrugs. “But I can ask!” She scurries off.

As she runs to her dad, America slowly pushes herself out of the hammock again. She tries to take a deeper breath, but it’s hard. Everything in her feels like it should run somewhere. Anywhere. Just not here. She hasn’t thought about it, but as soon as she does, she realizes that she hasn’t opened a portal, despite how terrified she still feels. That’s odd. There should be a portal here somewhere, but there isn’t one. Why isn’t there one? Is that just a bonus of learning how to open them, that they don’t spontaneously open just because she’s scared?

She feels more than scared.

America halves over, hands on her knees, as she waits for the girl to come back. It doesn’t help. She wants it to help. It doesn’t help.

The girl returns and stands back in front of her, all grins. “Daddy says you can come in! He won’t hurt you or anything.”

That’s…an odd thing to tell someone.

America nods and glances up. “Might…might take me a bit.”

“Here! Let me help you!” The girl takes one of America’s hands in hers and slowly starts to walk over to the fruity tree house. They walk slow and easy, and whenever America needs to take a moment, the girl waits with her. Every now and again, the girl looks up, and her daddy stares back at them, keeping an eye. “I told him I could help you myself,” the girl says as they make their way over. “It’s not hard walking with you. Just long.”

America doesn’t know what to say to that. She just lets the little girl lead her. “I’m…I’m America,” she coughs out as they walk. “Do you and your daddy have names?”

That’s a stupid question. Of course, they have names. Everyone has a name.

But still, the girl’s emerald eyes widen. “Oh! I forgot!” She looks up at the man. They’re almost there now. “Daddy’s name is Erik, but he doesn’t like me using it.” Her brows furrow, and she frowns. “He likes it better when I call him Daddy because daughters shouldn’t call their daddies by their first name. He says that’s weird.” She shrugs and then looks back up at America. “And I’m Wanda!” She grins, and her teeth are all a little lopsided.

America blinks. America stops moving for a moment. America stares at the little girl.

Oh, this is SO not fair.

Chapter 26: Part Three: Chapter Six

Chapter Text

Wanda – tiny Wanda, baby Wanda, a Wanda so much younger than she is now, a Wanda who is maybe around the same age that America was when she lost moms – leads her to her house and beams with pride when she makes it back to her daddy. Her hair is a dark, dark brown – so dark that it’s almost black – which is nothing like the lighter golden red of the Wanda that America knows best. Closer, maybe, to the Wanda of Earth-838, which is not something she wants to think about right now. Not after that dream and the waves of sheer terror that sit in the middle of her chest even though she knows, she knows, she knows she doesn’t need to be afraid anymore.

But the anger at her powers for bringing her to a place where she would deal with a tiny Wanda and then not opening during her moments of terror—

America isn’t sure who, exactly, she is mad at right now or even if there’s a who TO be mad at. This just feels a little bit contrived.

Still, she looks up at the man that Wanda has called her daddy – whose name she has been told is Erik – and she tries to give him a smile. She’s just so exhausted. “Thanks,” she barely makes out, “for sending your daughter to help me. I was, uh.”

America doesn’t know how to explain it because she can’t even explain it to herself. She shouldn’t be dreaming. This has never happened before. It shouldn’t have been happening now. And it really shouldn’t have been happening somewhere where the tiny child version of the woman plaguing her nightmare could show up to try and help her feel better about having said nightmare.

“You were having a panic attack.” Erik speaks firm and strong and easy. He keeps his hands in his pockets. Despite his apparent young age, he has a shock of silvery-white hair. It confuses her. His blue eyes take her in. “Looks like you’re still having one.”

“I don’t know what that is.” America takes a deep breath, but her heart is still pounding, and she’s still shaking. Another shake – harder this time – rocks through her. Then it’s like she’s just vibing, but in a bad way. Vibe shaking shouldn’t feel like this.

“Is your heart beating quickly for no apparent reason?”

America nods.

“Do you feel all over like you’re excruciatingly hot – or, if not, excruciatingly cold?”

America nods again.

“You’re shaking. Your breathing is quite shallow—”

“Yes, yes, yes, now what do I do to fix this?” America’s words come out quick as her heartbeat – quicker, even – and she stares up at the stranger, meeting his bright blue eyes.

Erik’s head tilts ever so gently to the side, and the movement is so like Wanda that it hurts. “You learn to wait it out.” He grins, but the expression looks more like a non-menacing, non-malevolent sneer than anything. “Running might help.”

America blinks twice. “Running?” she coughs out.

The child Wanda nods with a scowl. “He makes me do jumping jacks, but he doesn’t make Bubba do anything.” She glares up at her father.

“That’s because your brother has a hard time getting his heart rate up with exercise.” Erik reaches over and ruffles his daughter’s hair fondly.

America doesn’t understand. Any of this. At all. “Wait, my heart rate is already up. Why would I need to get it up more?”

“It’s a mind trick,” Erik says, calm as anything. “Right now, your mind is panicking over a threat that isn’t there. If you do something that will naturally get your heart rate up – like exercise – then your mind will think the two are related. When you stop, your heart rate will slow as it would if all you’d been doing was exercising.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Of course not.” Erik ran a hand through his daughter’s hair. “Why don’t you tell your mother we have company? I believe she will be much better at helping our new friend here than I am.”

Wanda grins up at her father and scurries back into their fruity home as Erik gestures for America to follow him. “Come on, then. My wife has much more comforting measures to help you.”

America isn’t sure that she trusts this strange man’s wife’s comforting measures after what he just suggested, but she’s willing to give them a shot. Whatever these measures are, they seem to have helped this Wanda enough that she wants to share them with a stranger, even if that initial attempt was prompted by her father himself. She’s just not so sure she trusts them all as a whole. Her body racks itself with another, strong shudder.

Okay, panicking mind, just because you’re scared of the Scarlet Witch doesn’t mean you need to be scared of all variations of her. The last one you met was nice. And fed you ice cream! And even the one who terrifies you hasn’t been so terrifying recently. Calm down!

But logic doesn’t really help with panic attacks. America’s mind took all of her reassuring thoughts and just threw them right out of the nearest window.

Normally, entering a new place for the first time, and especially a new place in a relatively new universe (it doesn’t matter that she’s been here more and more frequently over the past little while, she still hasn’t been inside one of the tree homes, so they’re still new to her), America tries to learn as much as she can just from picking up what things look like, how they’re arranged, all those sorts of little bitty details that help her to survive in a new universe by blending in with everyone else. Right now, though, she’s a little too overwhelmed for that. Erik said she needed to wait this out, but how long do panic attacks take? How long until her mind realizes there’s nothing left to panic over, nothing here to harm her?

She doesn’t know.

She does know that the inside of this tree is surprisingly cold.

America isn’t usually a big fan of the cold, but it helps now. She shivers, but this time, it isn’t the fear coursing through her, it’s a valid response to the chill hitting her hot skin. Somehow, despite everything, that’s soothing. Oddly soothing.

Little Wanda prances back into the main room, dragging behind her the woman that America has frequently seen outside of the fruity house. Her dark hair – just as dark as this Wanda’s – falls in curls past her shoulders, and in this light, there’s a bit of a dark reddish tint to it. She can see, now, where Wanda gets it. Her Wanda, not the child who hasn’t grown into the weight of her name yet. There’s a soft, rosy handkerchief holding her hair back out of her face, and she wears a billowing skirt of the same, albeit darker, shade. She smiles, and it’s warm and comforting and soothing.

She, too, is beautiful, and looking at her, America can see bits of the Wanda she knows in her face – the way her cheeks curve, the slope of her waist, the bright green of her eyes – and bits of the child Wanda next to her – particularly the smattering of freckles across her nose. But though this woman has Wanda’s eyes (or perhaps it is the other way around), America has never seen the bright light sparkling in Wanda’s eyes the way she now sees it in those of this woman.

“Wanda, Wanda, I’m coming.”

They come to a stop in front of America, and Wanda beams up at her before turning back to her mom. “I’m gonna go upstairs and see Anya, okay? She’ll want to see America!”

Anya?

America knows about Pietro – Clint had mentioned him – but she’s never heard about a sister. Maybe that’s just a trick of this particular universe. Maybe there wasn’t a sister on Earth-616. (Maybe there was, and Wanda either didn’t know or hadn’t ever mentioned her. Both seem valid. Especially the last.)

But the woman waves at Wanda with a smile. “She would love that, dear.” As Wanda runs off, she turns and calls after her, “And don’t forget your brother!”

Just as soon as she says it, a young boy, about the same age as Wanda but with the same shocking silver white hair as his father, flashes into the room. Literally flashes. Like he wasn’t there and then all of a sudden, there he is! “Can’t forget me.” He crosses his arms and looks over America. “Not interested.” Then he zooms off, as if he was never there to begin with.

The woman sighs and then looks up, meeting America’s eyes. “I’m Magda,” she says, holding out a hand. Her fingernails are painted an even softer pink than her handkerchief is, and there are little roses on each of her thumbs. Before America can question what she’s supposed to do with Magda’s hand, her eyes widen. “You’re sweating. Are you okay?”

“Panic. Attack,” America makes out, and she tries to smile. It doesn’t work. “Erik told me you had nicer options than running in place?”

“You could do jumping jacks,” Erik calls from behind her as he shuts the door. He does not come inside with them.

America gives Magda a pleading look. “Something that doesn’t involve exercise. I don’t think that helps.” She doesn’t say that it already feels like her heart is going to explode at any moment and that the idea of pushing it further is just as terrifying as not being able to make any of this stop.

“Follow me.” Magda gestures with one hand and leads America over to their couch – a long, green thing that doesn’t look soft but is somehow infinitely so, worn in all the right places, and somehow sculpted just to fit her. Which is a weird thought, but it’s one she has. “Now, look at me.”

America turns to her and meets her eyes. They’re even brighter this close, to the point that they seem almost unreal. That’s soothing. It helps. Probably not what Magda means, though.

“Take a deep breath in with me,” Magda says, and she lifts her hands as she breathes, counting slowly from one to ten as she does so. “Now hold it.” Another count to ten. “And out.” And another count to ten. She smiles and starts again. As she breathes in this time, she says, “Deep breathing like this tells your brain that you’re calm, and that calm helps settle your heart.” She holds for ten and then says, “Taking your jacket off might help as well. You look hot. A change of temperature helps trick your brain, too.”

America breathes along with her, and she feels her racing heart slowly slowing down. She doesn’t take her jacket off. That would only make her feel unsettled, and somehow, that seems like it would make things worse. Besides, the cool of the tree is helping with the whole temperature thing. After a few more deep breaths, she says, “A lot of this sounds like I’m just supposed to trick my mind.”

Magda nods as she holds her breath. “Right now, your brain is in fight-or-flight mode, and it has tricked itself into being there. We’re trying to trick it back out. Trying to logically explain things to your brain doesn’t help; these tricks do.” She smiles as America continues her slow breathing. “Feeling better?”

America nods slowly. “Thank you.” She grabs Magda’s hands in her own without think about it. “Really, thank you. I’ve never had that happen before. I thought I was dying.”

“The first panic attack can be really hard,” Magda says, and she gives America’s hands a gentle squeeze. “You’re not just having a panic attack, you’re panicking over your symptoms and over your panic. Now that you know what’s going on – well, it doesn’t always help, but it helps.” Her nose scrunches with her little smile. “Would you like some tea? Peppermint helps with anxiety.” She hums a bit. “Chamomile helps, too, but that tends to make you sleepy, and I’m not sure you want to be sleepy right now.”

America shakes her head rapidly. “Bad dream. Really bad dream. Not really looking for sleepy right now. But maybe later.”

Maybe after she gets back to Earth-616. She knows she needs to go back. She knows she shouldn’t have just run off like that. But running gives her time to think. Or at least to cool down. Just because she’s a kid doesn’t mean Wong – or anyone else – has the right to lecture her into doing something she’s terrified to do – with good reason! Her nightmare just proved that!

“Peppermint sounds right then. I’ll be right back.” Magda gets up, gingerly removing her hands from America’s, and heads to the nearest room.

For being inside a tree, America would have guessed everything would be a lot more rustic. It’s not at all. It’s more like being inside a soothing greenhouse. Tendrils of vines and some branches full of leaves weave in and out through the walls, the windows, the ceiling. It could be a little much, but for America, it isn’t. She likes it, even more than she thought she would. One of the branches curls towards her, holding a lime out for her. She strokes it gently. “I don’t think lime will be good in peppermint tea, buddy.”

The branch just taps her shoulder and holds the lime out to her again.

America shrugs. “Okay. I’ll just, uh, take this with me, then.” She tugs the lime gently from the branch, and the tree seems to glow the slightest bit with contentment as the branch weaves its way back through the ceiling. As nice as that might be, it makes her a little more concerned about the idea of living in a tree. She stares at the lime in her hand until she hears pounding down the wooden stairs, and then she turns to see the two girls.

Wanda leads an older girl with burn scars all along one side of her face and bright red hair. The scars extend along her right side, curving around her right arm, and her right eye is a milky white color. When the girl smiles, only one side of her mouth moves, but she still smiles – beams, even – and her left eye, the same bright blue as her father’s, lights up as she sees America. She hobbles to America and wraps her arms around her neck. “New friend,” she murmurs, in a voice that is both husky and rasping.

This close, America is convinced that the girl is almost the same age she is. “Are you Anya?” she asks.

Anya nods against the curve of her neck and then steps back, still smiling. She opens her mouth, tries to say something, and then stops. Her hands fly into a variety of signs that America can't quite make out.

America has tried to pick up sign language across the multiverse, but there are so many varieties that she tends to be just slightly off. It’s usually the same with spoken languages, too, but given that she interacts so much more speaking than signing, she picks up on those variations quicker. She makes out a few of the words, and guesses at others, but waits to see what Wanda will say.

“Anya says we have to send pirozki with you when you leave. And latkes!” Wanda’s brow furrows. “And challah – Anya, that’s a lot of food! She can’t carry all of that!”

Magda returns with a daffodil yellow cup and a white sauce covered with etched roses. “We’ll just have to give her our wanderer’s bag, won’t we?”

Wanda’s eyes twinkle. “Yes!” She grabs her sister’s hand and pulls her along with her. “Let’s go get it!” The girls scamper into the kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” Magda says as she hands the cup of tea over to America. “My girls don’t get many visitors. Erik likes to keep Anya hidden.”

“Because of her scars?” America asks with her cup halfway to her mouth. (She does not realize this is rude. She hasn’t been taught what that means. Clint and Laura have tried, but there are things they don’t notice and they haven’t had that much time with her yet.)

Magda takes her question in stride. “No. There were a lot of people where we used to live who didn’t like us very much,” she speaks soft and hesitant. “They caught our tree on fire. Anya almost died. Erik saved her, but….” Her voice fades away, and she shakes her head, pushing a soft little smile back on her face. “We were wanderers for a little while after that. It was hard on Anya, and because I was pregnant, it was hard on me. We’ve been hiding here ever since.” She glances up and meets America’s eyes. “The people around here seem to like us, but Erik wants us to keep them at arms’ length. We’re more likely to invite wanderers like you into our home than someone who lives around here.”

It sounds lonely, but America doesn’t say that. Instead, she says, “At least you still have each other.” She takes a sip of the tea and feels herself relax even more. “This is good.”

“Thank you.” Magda sighs. “We’re thinking about selling this tree soon. Going somewhere else. Somewhere bigger. It’s been long enough.” She shrugs and leans back on her hands. “Are you feeling better?”

“Much.” It feels like a lie when America says it, even though it isn’t quite. It’s true. But she’s still unsettled. Her lips press together, and she considers whether or not to ask before finally jumping into it. “How can you trust that…that people won’t hurt you and your kids again? How can you live in a house again after someone tried to burn all of you in one?”

“You get to know people,” Magda says, “but Erik doesn’t really trust anyone. That’s why he’s outside now, keeping an eye out, just in case.” She drums her fingers on their couch. “And, like I said, we were wanderers again for a while. We were afraid.” Her head lilts to one side. “I’m sure Wanda told you she has nightmares, too.”

America nods. She isn’t surprised.

“It’s easier to deal with those sorts of things when we have a house and real beds and a kitchen and something consistent. Habitual. The fear doesn’t necessarily go away. We’ve just gotten accustomed to dealing with it. Not always well.” Magda nods towards America’s cup of tea. “We drink a lot of that. Wanda likes chamomile better; she says the peppermint makes her mouth feel all funny.”

America nods. She looks into her cup for a little bit. “I probably shouldn’t stay very long,” she says. “There are people….” She presses her lips together, and when she speaks next, it doesn’t feel like a lie, “My family is waiting for me. I should keep moving while I’m awake.” She glances up and meets Magda’s eyes. “Thank you for helping me.”

“Of course.” Magda’s nose scrunches a little bit as she smiles. Her teeth are a little lopsided, too, just like this universe’s Wanda’s are.

Wanda comes scampering back into the room with Anya following, slowly, behind. Anya holds out a bag to her – what they’ve called a wanderer’s bag. It’s made of thick burlap with one long strap that will hang over one shoulder and across her chest. This one seems old and worn out and covered with intricate hand-stitched flowers: roses, tulips, daffodils, violets – colors in every color of the rainbow and then some.

America reaches out for the bag, instantly realizing that this must have been Magda’s. She turns to the other woman. “Is it okay if I take this?”

Magda nods – hesitant at first, and then again, more emphatically. “We don’t have much use for it anymore, and I think, wherever you’re going, you’ll need it more than I do.”

Anya holds the bag out again, and when America takes it, she signs something else, beaming. This time, America can just make it out: We filled this with all sorts of goodies for your trip!

America smiles back at the two girls. “Thank you,” she says, and she tries to sign it. Her attempts cause Anya’s eyes to light up; it’s the best feeling, even if it might not be exactly right for this universe. It seems like it’s close enough.

Then Anya tugs on Magda’s dress and signs something to her. Magda’s eyes widen, and she nods. “My daughter reminded me that when you’re starting to panic – when you’re starting to feel like things are wrong and a bit too big for you – then you can run your fingers over the flowers. Focus on that feeling, on naming the flowers, on counting the stitches. It’ll give your mind something else to think about.” She winks. “All tricks to trick your mind.”

“Tricks to trick my mind,” America repeats. She hefts the bag, which is quite heavier than she expected, over one shoulder as she stands. Her tea is almost gone, and she finishes it with a quick last gulp. “Thank you, again. I don’t know if I can ever repay you.”

Magda just laughs. “You’re a wanderer. It isn’t your job to repay us; it’s our job to help you on your way.” She stands, too, and brushes her hands on her skirt. “Let me show you the way out.”

America punches a hole through the universe, enough out of sight of Wanda, Magda, Erik and the rest that she doesn’t feel like she’s caused them to ask too many questions. She steps through into the lawn in front of the Bartons’ farmhouse with a deep sigh. She still doesn’t want to go, and she’s still certain that she won’t go, but she can open a portal for them. She can open one to bring them back.

Then she hears a soft sound like crying behind her.

America turns to see someone familiar and yet not. She’s not sure that it is who she thinks it is because – other than Denny’s – she’s never seen Wanda in anything other than her Scarlet Witch uniform. Everything has been intimidating, in different ways. But now, she looks almost…soft.

It’s weird. She’s not sure how she feels about it.

But America steps forward, one hand out as though to touch her. She hesitates – remembering how Wanda doesn’t like to be touched – and then reaches forward anyway.

Wanda flinches, and her entire being flickers, shifting from the softer flannel, denim jeans, and loose braid into the Scarlet Witch façade that America knows so well. She turns, but her eyes are not dry. “What do you want, America?” she asks, and her voice is rough and rasping.

America presses her lips together, considers, and then pulls one of the loaves of bread out of her bag. “Wanderers are supposed to share with each other,” she says, although she’s not certain that’s exactly true. She digs into the bag with her other hand and pulls out the lime. “Also, I think you’ll like this one better than I do.”

Wanda stares at her for a moment. She blinks a couple of times. Then she shakes her head and moves past America towards the farmhouse.

It’s something, although America isn’t sure what. She shoves the two back into her bag and follows Wanda inside.

Chapter 27: Part Three: Chapter Seven

Chapter Text

It takes a little while before Wong returns, and while his eyes widen with the slightest surprise about how quickly America has returned, he doesn’t say anything about that, instead explaining that he had returned to Kamar-Taj to do a quick bit of studying before returning. He doesn’t have a bag with him, as America now does, but his robes likely have many places to store things (and that doesn’t include anything he can create with his spells). It is just important to be aware that there are ways for them to minimize the use of magic on Earth-838 – to prevent it – and he mentions he would rather be prepared than not.

Still, Wong gives America a strong, expectant look. It makes her uncomfortable, but she doesn’t squirm. Instead, she stands her ground, crossing her arms. “I’m not going,” she repeats, even firmer than she’d said it before, less frustrated yelling. “I’ll open a portal for you to get there, and I’ll open one at intervals to bring you back, but I’m not going back there.”

After her nightmare, after her panic attack, America is even firmer in her resolve. The idea of returning to Earth-838 makes her stomach churn. She refuses to do it. Refuses. Worse, seeing Wanda fully in her Scarlet Witch outfit, which hasn’t bothered her for the past several months, has started setting her heart beating faster, and not in a good way. She takes deep, measured breaths and says nothing about it.

“So what’s the plan?” America glances up, staring at the other two. They sit in the Bartons’ living room, staring at a long, blank piece of paper spread out across their coffee table. She hunches forward, propping her elbows on her knees.

Clint stands behind them, near the stairs, with his arms crossed, but Kate stands immediately behind America’s chair, resting her elbows on its back and staring over it at the blank page. Mostly staring at the blank page. Her brows are furrowed, and every now and again, she looks up at the others, confused. “What’s so great about the paper?”

“It lets me do this.” The Scarlet Witch twists her fingers, and dark scarlet filled with threads so dark as to be black but not quite orb between them before spiraling out in tendrils and creating an imperfect map just above the page. “When I was in the other Wanda, she knew roughly what the Baxter Institute looked like on the inside. There are some paths she doesn’t, but this gives us a beginning.” She presses her lips together. “I have added onto her knowledge with what I learned while we were there.”

America looks over the map and can’t suppress a shudder. She can see the paths of blood along the trails that Wanda now adds, and she remembers running. She continues taking deep breaths, and it helps, but not enough. Her fingers begin to brush along the flowers of the bag she still holds in her lap.

Wanda glances up briefly. “America, you were being held here” she uses magic to light one of the rooms on the map, “but that is a decontamination zone. Wanda is likely being held here.” The magic fades from one room and moves to another, much further back. “It seems to be some sort of isolation zone for prisoners.”

America nods slowly once, but her throat tightens when Wanda lights the room where she and Strange had been held. She hears the screams again. Her hands clench. When the light moves away, she feels like she can breathe again. She hadn’t even noticed her breathing change. “And her boys?” she asks, focusing on the map and the stitched flowers beneath her fingertips.

“Mordo plans to separate them,” Wong says, and as he does, Wanda’s jaw clenches so hard that her muscle quivers beneath her skin, “but I don’t know if he’s done so yet.”

Wanda’s eyes scan the limited map she has, and then the magic shifts again. “Here, maybe.” She twists her fingers again, considering. “Or here.” She glances up, over to Wong – and while her eyes hold the hue of her magic due to its use, there is something harsher underlying them. “Why does he want to separate them?”

Wong doesn’t meet her eyes. Instead, he focuses on the map hovering before them. “Mordo wants to train Billy. He thinks you – the other you – are failing in that regard.” He grits his teeth together before continuing, “He doesn’t think he has a use for Tommy.”

It is so simple, so easy, the way the fire in Wanda’s eyes blazes hotter at the mention of her boys by name, at the righteous fury towards what Mordo is doing to them for his own personal benefit. Still, she says, through clenched teeth, “The goal here is to get in and out without notice. No one dies. No one gets hurt.” Her tone is bitter, almost as though she’s saying this to herself more than to anyone else. Then her lips twitch. “Except for the Ultron bots. If you find one of those, if there is no way of getting around it unseen, destroy it. They’ll all know the moment one of them sees us – killing it, they’ll still know there’s an intruder, but they won’t know what or who.” She takes a deep breath and stares at the two chambers she’d designated for her boys. “You will check one, and I will—”

“I will go with you,” Wong says. “Your boys are terrified of you.”

“When I look like this—”

“Separating the group gets people killed,” Kate interjects. She gives them a look like they’ve all missed the point. “You’ve actually seen horror movies, haven’t you?”

America raises her hand. “I lived one.” She glances at Wanda. “And she was the CGI monster.”

Wanda’s eyes narrow.

“Look, if you separate the group – or, uh, duo,” Kate says, seeming to think while she’s speaking, “one or both of you gets killed. That’s how horror movies work.”

“This isn’t a horror movie,” Wanda says. “This is real life.”

“Real life can be a horror movie, and Earth-838 had to deal with you, so I’d say it definitely runs by horror movie tropes.” America clutches her hands together against her bag. She doesn’t look up. She doesn’t want to see Wanda’s expression. She’s already trying to maintain deep breaths as it is. “Where do you the portal?”

For a moment, there is nothing. America still doesn’t look up. She doesn’t want to see the considerations Wanda and Wong are making, and right now, she’s still having a hard time looking at the Scarlet Witch. It’s hard to shake the false image of the one who’d ripped her heart out in her nightmare. She shudders as she waits.

But Wanda’s voice is oddly soft as she asks, “Can you put us where you were contained?”

America’s eyes snap open, but she only looks up enough to stare at the room on the map. She can feel the blood drain from her face. “Why there?”

“The other Wanda said Christine mentioned help, and it seems that’s what got her to wait for me to dream her again. It’s possible Christine might help us—” Wanda stops, hesitates, and then sighs. “It’s possible she’ll help Wong, if she sees your portal. She won’t help me. She might even think it’s an attack.” She presses her black-stained fingers to her forehead. “This is a bad idea.”

“It’s the only idea we have,” Wong interrupts. “Your theory is sound. If she trusts Stephen, she’ll trust me.”

“Maybe.”

“So I let you out there,” America says, voice still soft with memories and fear, “and check back in every…thirty minutes? Hour? How often do you want me to open a portal?”

Wanda takes a deep breath, steadies herself, and then continues, “If Christine helps, she can give you an update. She might know where the boys are. There are a lot of ways this could go. It could go badly.”

“But we try anyway.” Wong leans back against the sofa, his arms crossed. He stares at America. “Every half hour. If we run into trouble, Christine will know. She’ll tell you. If you see alarms going off, don’t check back in. Keep yourself safe. We’ll figure something out.”

You can’t figure out how to get to another universe without me, America thinks but doesn’t say. Instead, she pops her knuckles and stands. “When do you want to go?”

Wong turns to Wanda, and she flicks her fingers, causing the magic blueprints to disappear entirely. She glances at America and then says, voice still soft, seeming to still be gauging America’s reactions, “Now. We want to get the boy out before Mordo can split them up. They should be our first priority – that’s what the other Wanda wants. If we can get her, too, we get her, too. But she might be dead by then. The sooner we leave, the more likely we are to succeed.”

“You should take me with you,” Clint says, cutting through them. “One Avenger might not be enough for this, and stealth is…one of the things I’m not bad at.”

Wanda shakes her head as she stands. “If we fail, this world loses its Sorcerer Supreme and me, who it’s already unsure about. Don’t make them lose another Avenger, Clint. The world needs you here, even if you are retired.”

America looks around the room and lets out an even sigh. She isn’t sure about this. She isn’t sure about any of this. But she isn’t going, so she doesn’t need to be sure. “Alright,” she says, heading towards the door. “Let’s punch through to the horror-verse.”

Chapter 28: Part Three: Chapter Eight

Chapter Text

Wanda stares through the sparkling star into a universe she has primarily seen through another Wanda’s eyes and takes a deep breath. She lied when she said that there were a lot of ways this could go wrong. If she’s honest with the others, she’d say that there is no way this could go right. The goal isn’t to do things perfectly and have everyone return unscathed; the goal is to do the best she can and have as few people harmed as possible. Assuming any of them make it back at all. She doesn’t say this to Wong. She doesn’t say this to anyone. It’s just a feeling. A very, very, very strong feeling.

When she and Wong step through, the decontamination boxes are empty. This only makes sense. As far as she knows, they are the only creatures to traverse the multiverse into this universe since she crossed – quite unintentionally – into her other self’s home.

But, as expected – or, more, as hoped – Christine is there. She sees the reflection of the star-shaped portal on her computer, and her eyes widen. When she turns, she isn’t looking at Wong but at Wanda. She swallows. Then her eyes narrow. “You actually came,” she chides. She notices the portal closing behind them and the lack of child with them and then audibly groans. “You didn’t think this might have been, oh, I don’t know, an elaborate set-up just to get you?”

This is not the reaction Wanda was expecting. She turns to Wong, blinks, and then turns back to Christine before gesturing to Wong. “He had a dream, too.”

Christine turns to Wong. “You had a dream, too.” The words sound bitter coming from her. “You don’t think that couldn’t have been part of the set-up?”

Wong meets Christine’s eyes, his hands clasped together. “Was it?”

It takes a moment before Christine sighs. “No,” she says, turning away from them. “It wasn’t. Not that I know of. Not that they would have included me in their set-up.”

“Wanda mentioned you,” Wanda says, stepping forward. “She said you thought I might help.”

Christine shoots a glare over her shoulder. “I thought you would get the boys, you selfish witch. That’s all.” Her gaze softens, but not enough. Then it hardens all at once. “Is that not all? Are you planning to kill the Illuminati again? Because I really hope you’re not—”

“We’re not,” Wong interrupts. His gaze shifts from Christine to Wanda and then back again. “The boys are our priority because that is what your Wanda wants. If we can do more than that, we will. But they come first.”

Christine’s glare never leaves Wanda. “Is that what she told you? Don’t you think she would have lied?”

Wong nods once. “I considered that.” His gaze doesn’t leave Christine the same as hers doesn’t leave Wanda. “My dream concerned Mordo’s plans for the children. Separating them is not in their best interest. And if we are to take your Wanda as well….” He pauses. “Your Illuminati will be more likely to notice. More likely to retaliate. If we take her first, that puts the boys in danger. Taking the boys first will not put her in any more danger than she is already in. We must take them first.”

It takes another moment. Christine doesn’t say anything, still just glaring at Wanda – at the Scarlet Witch. Then she continues, “If we give them her, they’ll let our Wanda go. They only need to punish one of them.”

“You don’t know that.”

Wanda remains silent. It doesn’t feel right to say anything, and even if she did, she isn’t sure if Christine would believe anything she said. She doesn’t like letting Wong fight for her, and she doesn’t like how long this conversation is taking. But it is what it is. She can give them another moment. Maybe not more than that, but she can give them that.

Wong keeps his hands clasped together and continues to keep an eye on Christine, as though waiting for her to look away from Wanda and toward him. “Mordo is very interested in Billy. He believes that your Wanda is failing him in his magical studies. I do not think that he will let her get away even if we give them the witch.”

“We could try,” Christine counters.

That’s enough.

“The witch doesn’t feel like being given away.” Wanda’s voice is easy, bored. “And I don’t think you will be able to stop me. So stop this bartering and tell us where the kids are. We’ll take them, we’ll come back for your Wanda, and then we’ll be out of your hair.” She smiles, but it’s intentionally menacing. More baring her teeth than a real smile. “So to speak.”

Now Christine’s gaze flicks to Wong, but he gives a little shake of his head. She turns back to Wanda. “You trust me not to lead you into a trap?”

“No,” Wanda replies, the smile not dropping. “I trust that your trap, if there is one, won’t live up to me. Now.” She steps forward, and Christine flinches but does not step back. Good. “Where are my boys?”

“You really didn’t go with them,” Kate says as soon as the portal closes. She gives America a disbelieving stare. “I mean, yeah, it must have sucked the last time you were there, and everything, but you could have, you know—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” America turns and heads to the Bartons’ front porch. It’s bigger and apparently much better constructed than the one on Wanda’s log cabin, but she’s not sure the latter is true. For all it looks like it’s falling apart, America has never seen anything on her cabin actually break. It all always feels very sturdy, even when Wanda doesn’t shift it to look like something other than burned or full of rot.

Kate rushes after her. “Okay, you don’t want to talk about it, but, like.... We can talk about something else, right?”

America sighs. She finds one of the rocking chairs and sits into it. Her bag is still heavy. She pulls out one of the pirozhkis and hands it over to Kate. “Want one?”

“Where’d you get that?” Kate asks, blinking as she sits in one of the other chairs.

“Plant universe. Some really nice parents took me in, and their girls decided to give me a bunch of food.” America continues to hold the pirozhki out. “Want it or not?”

“Uh. Sure?” Kate takes it and stares at it. She tentatively takes a bite. Then she blinks. “This,” she says, “is really, really good. Is this unique to the plant universe? Do you think they make those here?”

America, mouth full of her own pirozhki, shrugs. How’s she supposed to know that if Kate doesn’t? It’s not like she was born here or anything. Kate’s been here for years. She chews on her bite then asks as she chews, “What did you want to talk about?”

“Ew, don’t talk with your mouth full.” Kate makes as though to brush crumbs off of her shoulder. “That’s so disgusting!”

“Sorry, sorry!” America swallows quickly and rubs her mouth with her sleeve. Then she turns to Kate and repeats, “What did you want to talk about?”

Kate holds up her finger as she continues to chew her own bite. She licks her lips, swallows, and then asks, “That teleporting thing you did with the magic circle when we were fighting Wong and Wanda.”

“Yeah?”

“Can you just make one of those that goes anywhere? And you just jump through them?”

America blinks a couple of times. Why is Kate asking about all of this? She doesn’t know magic. “Do you want to learn how to make one? I don’t know if you can – and I don’t want you to take my sling ring – but I think Wong can get one for you later if you want.” She rubs her own. “They taught me at Kamar-Taj, so you might have to go there.”

“No, no, no, no, I don’t want to learn how to make one,” Kate says all at once. Then she stops. Her head tilts to one side. She considers it for a moment. Then she shakes her head again. “No, nope, that’d be so cool, but no, no, I’m good at the whole bow and arrows thing, but I was wondering.” Her eyes light up. “I think if you aimed one of those, I could shoot through it.”

America shoves the last of her pirozhki into her mouth and nearly chokes on it. She coughs a couple of times without covering her mouth and then forces herself to swallow the rest of it. “How is that any better than you just shooting the arrow?”

“No one here knows how to think with portals.” Kate sighs. She shakes her head. “What if I want to shoot an arrow at someone in a different room? I could run into the other room, but then they’d know I was coming, and they’d know to be prepared, and I’d have to use a lot of trick arrows, probably, but you could just open a portal into the other room, and wham! bang! no one’s the wiser!” She grins and then nudges America with her elbow. “C’mon. It’d be cool.”

“I guess.” America rocks her chair back and forth, thinking about it. “But then you’d have to be standing really, really close to me or you’d have to shoot the arrow at me and hope that I get the portal made before the arrow hits me. Not sure either of those are great ideas.”

“Oh.” Kate’s face falls. “I didn’t think about that. Bad idea. Pretend I didn’t bring it up.”

America just shrugs again. “It’s fine.” Her eyes widen. “Do you have a watch or something? How much time has passed? I don’t need to open the portal back up again yet, do I?”

Wanda knew that it was harder to teleport to somewhere she’d never been, but she tries anyway. The intent is to teleport both herself and Wong to one of the hallways leading to her boys – near enough to them that it won’t be far away, but not so close as to teleport directly on top of them. She hasn’t teleported on someone before, and she doesn’t want to start now (and especially not with her boys).

The teleport goes as planned. They definitely land in a hallway near to her boys.

But everything that can go wrong likely will go wrong, so in this case, they are nowhere near as alone as they might have hoped. Not in as bad a situation as they could have been, but not in a particularly good one either.

Christine has failed to mention that there are multiple Ultron bots patrolling this corridor.

The Ultron bots haven’t seen them. That’s one of the few good things about this entire situation. But Wanda can hear a man’s voice echoing down the hallway. She starts to creep closer so that she can better make out what is being said, but Wong places a hand on her arm, stopping her. At his touch, she tenses. Hopefully he doesn’t notice. “What?” she hisses.

“Mordo.” Wong nods down the hallway. “Don’t.”

Wanda has never met the man. He was the only one of the Illuminati who stayed with Strange instead of fighting her, which means he was the only one to survive. That was smart of him. But everything she’s heard suggests that she will not like him, and the more she hears his voice echoing down the corridor, the more she is certain that that is, very much, the case, even if she can’t make out exactly what he is saying. Her lips press together in a thin line. “I need to get closer.”

Wong grabs hold of her arm. “No one can know we’re here. That’s what you said, isn’t it?”

“Stop touching me.” Wanda shakes Wong’s hand off of her arm. She meets his eyes and grits her teeth together. “Fine,” she hisses. “He won’t see me.” She closes her eyes and projects herself, just as she had when she was trying to get into Kamar-Taj, when she was trying to take America, only this time, instead of trying to find a weak point where she could whisper one word and cause destruction, now she only wants to be still and listen. “He won’t even know I’m there.”

“Wanda—”

She stops listening to Wong. He can take care of a few Ultron bots on his own. This is more important.

“We want to see our mom!” Billy – her Billy, her strong, brave Billy – yells at Mordo. There are cuffs around his hands just as there were around the other Wanda’s, and she instantly bristles at the idea of anyone chaining up her children.

“Oh, my dears,” Mordo purrs – literally purrs, “I don’t think she will be able to see the two of you anytime soon.”

Tommy glares at Mordo. His hands aren’t cuffed because his powers weren’t in his hands, but his ankles are cuffed together instead. It makes Wanda’s heart ache for her sons and bristle towards the man she has still refused to so much as look at. “You’re lying,” he spits out at him. “She’ll be here. She’ll kill you, and then she’ll be here!”

Billy gives Tommy a look. “No, she won’t,” he says, his voice soft. “Mom doesn’t kill people. She’s a good person.”

“And your mom,” Mordo interrupts, “has killed many, many people. That’s why we’re in this situation. We can’t let her continue to do that, can we?”

It is only now that Wanda lets herself turn to look at Mordo. He has a charisma to him. His lips aren’t pulled into a grin. Instead, he seems to wear an expression of utter sadness, as if he is just as wounded by what she has been doing as her boys are. His dark eyes exude feigned warmth, and his hands are clasped in front of him. The robes he wears are similar to those that Wong wears, but instead of being a nice, neutral brown, they’re a forest green. She doesn’t like it. She doesn’t like him.

Billy’s gaze moves from Tommy back to Mordo. “Our mom didn’t kill anybody!” he says, voice strong and firm. “It was that other lady! The one who looked like Mom! The one who attacked us!”

I didn’t attack you, Wanda thinks at the same moment that Mordo’s eyes widen, and he leans forward. “A strange lady who looked like your mom attacked you?”

“She attacked our mom! She said she was our mom, but she wasn’t!” Billy continued. He turned to Tommy, who gave a nod of agreement. “She must have been the one who killed all those people, not Mom!”

Mordo seems to consider this, but it’s all an act. Wanda knows it’s an act because he already knows she was the one who killed the Illuminati and not the other Wanda at all. He takes a step forward, his hands still clasped together. “And if that other woman – the one who looks like your mom – came to break you out of here? What would you say?”

Tommy crosses his arms and moves in front of Billy, stumbling a little bit due to the cuffs hooking his ankles together. “We’re not going anywhere without our mom,” he says, glaring at Mordo. “Not with you, not with her, not with anybody.”

“That’s a good boy.” It is only then that Mordo grins. He bows to the boys and steps away from them. “I’m sorry, but I must be getting back to what I was doing.” He begins to make a gateway like the ones that Wong and America make – like the one Strange makes. “I will be back as soon as I can.” He starts to step through the gateway.

Billy shoves past Tommy. “And bring our mom with you!” he shouts after him.

Once Mordo is gone, Tommy collapses on the ground. He rubs at his ankles around the cuffs and hisses when they spark at him. “I don’t think we’re gonna get to see Mom again, Billy.”

“Yes, we will!” Billy exclaims. “She’s going to come, and she’s going to break us out of here, and you’ll get to run again, and she’ll save us! You’ll see!”

It hurts.

Wanda stays completely still, looking at her boys, defending their mom, accusing her for things she very much did. None of that hurts as much as seeing her boys chained as they are, in pain, waiting and wanting her – or, well, not her – and fighting as much as they can while they’re locked up. It hurts.

So she does the only thing she can do in this moment. She doesn’t let them see her – they would be afraid if they did – but she moves near them, wraps her arms around them, and says, voice as soothing as she can make it, “I’m coming, boys. I’m coming.”

Both of them pop up. “Mom?” Billy looks around, but he doesn’t see anything. “Mom, are you there?”

“She’s not here,” Tommy answers, scowling. “You’re just making things up.” But every now and again, he looks around, too, as though he could see her.

“I will be back,” Wanda whispers, loud enough that they can hear her, and then pushes herself back and away. She has to push, or she wouldn’t go at all.

Wanda comes to back with Wong with a sharp intake of breath. He stands next to her with a magic whip in one hand and three crumpled Ultron bots near him. He turns over his shoulder and looks at her. “Good. You’re back.” He glances down the hallway. “I don’t hear Mordo anymore. Let’s get the boys.”

“No.” Wanda places a hand on Wong’s shoulder. “There’s been a change of plans.”

“I think it’s been long enough.” Kate glances at her watch and nods. “I mean, it’s been twenty minutes since you last asked me, and it must have been, like, I don’t know, ten minutes before that. I don’t think I could eat one of those pirozhki things faster than ten minutes, and we were talking, so maybe it’s been longer than ten minutes—”

America doesn’t even listen to the rest of what Kate is saying. Instead, she stands, makes her way down the porch, and punches a hole into the horror-verse.

Red lights are flashing all around the decontamination room. Sirens are blaring. There seems to be a little bit of smoke.

But Christine is still there.

America looks around the room, takes a deep breath, stills her heart as much as she can, and then steps through. She places a hand on Christine’s shoulder, trying to keep herself moving, trying to keep herself focused, because if for a moment she isn’t, she feels like the fear is going to tear her apart.

Christine jumps at her touch.

“Hey, hey, it’s just me,” America says. She meets Christine’s eyes as the woman turns around. “I’m supposed to check in on Wong and the witch. What’s going on?”

“Ultron bots destroyed on the third floor,” Christine mutters, although she doesn’t explain that. “Intruders – likely your intruders – have been noticed but not spotted. That usually throws everything into lockdown. Just like it did when—”

America cuts her off because she can’t be reminded of that. She’s already starting to shudder. “Is that where the boys are?”

Christine nods once.

“Okay.” America takes a deep breath. Wong told her to leave if the alarms were going off, and she’d said she wasn’t going to go with them, but here she is. It’s hard, but here she is. That should count for something. “I’m just going to go pop in and get them, and then we’ll just be gone, okay?” She doesn’t wait for a response from Christine. “Okay.”

She starts to make one of those golden magic spirals, imagining where she wants to go in her mind. It’s hard to make one of these with only a mental image – it’s fine when she’s randomly traveling and not really paying attention, but to somewhere specific where she’s never been—

It’s rough.

And it’s rougher when she feels a hand behind her on her shoulder.

America looks behind her and almost – almost – lets out an insufferable groan.

“So this is what another universe looks like,” Kate says, looking around at everything. Then she breaks into a grin. “Cool.”

Chapter 29: Part Three: Chapter Nine

Chapter Text

“You’re not supposed to be here!”

America gives Kate a rough shove, but the other girl barely moves at all. Instead, Kate looks around the room, at the flashing red lights, and flinches a bit at the sirens. She shrugs and looks down at America. “You’re not supposed to be here either. Sirens and alarms and everything. Wong told you to just leave and not come back. But if you’re here, then it’s okay for me to be here.” She grins.

America’s eyes narrow. “No. You’re wrong.”

“I’m right, and you know it.” Kate just continues to grin as she looks around the room. She crosses her arms. “This isn’t that terrifying. Just a room with two glass boxes. Alarms going off. Flashing red lights.” She taps her chin with one finger. “This is actually pretty standard for horror movies, though, so horror-verse works.” Then her eyes widen in shock. She meets America’s eyes. “Wait, if we’re part of the party now, does that mean we split the party? Are we going to die?”

“I don’t think that’s how that works.” America groans and pinches the bridge of her nose like she’s seen Wanda do a million and one times when she’s tired and frustrated with her. It doesn’t help. Why does Wanda do this if it doesn’t actually help? She looks up at Christine. “Right? That’s not how that works?”

Christine raises her hands up and backs away. “I’m not part of this.” She pauses. “But if I was, I would say that your party was always split with you staying behind while Wong and the Scarlet Witch were here, and I would remind you that we were technically at our most powerful when our party was split across the multiverse.”

“Yeah, but Strange possessed himself and became a zombie. That doesn’t really count.”

Kate blinks. “No one told me about zombie Strange. Why did no one tell me about zombie Strange? That’s so cool.”

“It was not cool,” Christine interjects. “It was terrifying, and I had to use a make-shift flamethrower to make sure that—”

“It was kind of cool,” America interrupts. “He used these ghosts to make a cloak so he could still fly and then he sicced them on Wanda. A little scary, but mostly really cool.”

Kate nods once. “Rule of cool overrides rule of scary. Most definitely.” She gives Christine a smile. “So where are we going? I assume you know where we’re going. They went after the kids first, right?” Then she turns back to America. “Actually, I’m excited to meet Wanda’s kids. I keep hearing about them and then imagining they’re like Clint’s kids or like mini-Wandas, but they can’t be mini-Wandas because they’re boys – but Lila’s kind of a mini-Clint, so I guess that’s not really true.”

“They’re okay, I guess.” America shrugs. “They tried to attack the Scarlet Witch by throwing toys at her, so maybe not the smartest kids in the world, but their protection defense instincts? On point.” She considers what she just said. “Okay, so definitely mini-Wandas.” She begins to check off on her fingers. “Impulsive, over-protective, and stubborn. Definitely her kids, yep.”

Kate tilts her head to one side. “Wonder what I got from my parents….”

“Look, are you going to just keep standing there, or are you going to do something?” Christine hisses at them. “The Ultron bots are looking for intruders. You’re intruders. You should get moving.” She pulls out a printed map. “The other two left before I could give them this.”

America rolls her eyes. “That would be Wanda’s fault.” She takes the map. “The room with the two Xs is the boys, right? And the big X is your Wanda. And this…room…?”

It’s all too easy to hesitate as America looks at the map. The other room is much nearer to their own, which sets her already pounding heart pounding harder. Her lips press together. “Is this the trial room? Where the Illuminati took Strange?” The last place they were before they tried to fight the witch?

She doesn’t know why she’s scared of that room. No one had died there. She hadn’t even been there. But the fear had started when she’d woken up from her drugged tea in a glass box, increased when they’d separated her from Strange, and then built from there. Even being in this room is hard. She’s trying not to think about it. She isn’t doing a good job of not thinking about it.

Christine nods. “Worst case scenario, they’ll be there.” She reaches over and touches the map gently, avoiding touching America herself. “Don’t go there.” When America looks up, she meets her eyes. “Trust me. Don’t go there.”

“Right.” America rolls up the map and sticks into her bag. Then, on second thought, she pulls it out of her bag and stuffs it into the inside pocket of her jean jacket. “Don’t want to get crumbs all over it.” She slings her bag into a better position on her back and then starts making a golden circle in the air. “C’mon, Kate. Time for you to see more of the multiverse.”

Kate beams and starts to nudge America before stopping, likely concerned that doing so will break the circle. (And she’s right.) “This is going to be so cool.”

“It’s going to be scary.”

Kate shrugs. “Same thing.”

“Change. of. plans?” Wong asks, raising one eyebrow, tone suggesting that he does not believe Wanda in the slightest. “Does the new plan involve death and murder?” He steps forward, raising a hand as though to place it on her forehead. “Are you sick?”

Wanda flinches away from his touch. “I’m not sick,” she answers. Her gaze moves down the hallway, towards her boys, and she sighs. “I need to protect my boys.”

Wong nods slowly, not understanding. “The best way to protect them is to remove them from the situation you put them in.”

“They won’t leave with us.” When Wanda smiles, it’s sad. Pained. “They will only leave with their mother.”

“Who you look just like.” Wong gestures with his hand, the other crossed across him. “Shift clothes. That shouldn’t be too hard for you.”

Wanda taps her forehead. “She has a scar. Right here.” She doesn’t say that the scar is her fault. He doesn’t need to know that.

“So give yourself a fake scar.”

Before Wanda can answer, the sounds of another Ultron bot come clanking down the hallway. Her expression grows more firm, and she shoots a bit of magic down the hall without looking. The accompanying crumpling sound gives her comfort. “No. I have something else I need to take care of first.”

Wong’s eyes narrow again. “Murder?”

“No.”

But Wanda can feel the lie on her lips even as she says it. “I told you. No one dies. No one gets hurt.” She tilts her head in the direction of the Ultron bots. “Except for them, because they aren’t real.” Before Wong can correct her, she holds up a hand. “They’re real, but killing them doesn’t kill Ultron unless they all die. So no one dies. I’m not sure Ultron even feels their deaths.”

And the more she mentions Ultron, the more frustrated she becomes. Something tells her that she’s not entirely right here, and it all lies within the flicker of someone she’d seen through the other Wanda’s eyes before being cast out of her dream.

None of that matters. (Lies. Of course, it matters.)

“Are you coming with me,” Wanda asks, voice soft, “or are you going to stay here?”

Wong glances out into the corridor. He takes a deep breath. “Get rid of the Ulton bots first, and then we’ll go.”

“Done.”

The Scarlet Witch snaps – a mimicry, a mockery – and the fallen corpses of the Ultron bots disintegrate into nothingness. It has been far too long since she has done this. Far too long. The last time, she’d felt the death of her brother; the last time, it hadn’t been intentional, had just been the outpouring of her grief, just like Westview hadn’t been intentional, had only been the outpouring of her grief. Ripping Ultron’s beating metallic heart out – that had been intentional. But the disintegration of all the bots she’d previously been sniping with one shot after another?

Using that power now...it felt good. Right.

Like maybe disintegration is what she should have been doing all along.

Her head tilts to one side. She doesn’t smile, but she can feel one pulling at the corners of her lips. Not happy. But pleased.

“Let’s go.”

Wong feels the shift in Wanda’s presence almost as soon as it happens, and although at first he questions it, there can be no questioning once they land near the other Wanda’s cell. The woman with him isn’t quite Wanda anymore. She’s more witch than Wanda. It’s in the overwhelming, overflowing sheer presence of her.

The Scarlet Witch. On his side. He’s not sure he likes it.

The cell before them is empty.

Wong stares at the thin glass and presses his hand against it. There’s nothing about it to seem opaque. But when he turns to the Scarlet Witch to say something, she is no longer quite there, her eyes closed and hands out, fingers pressed together. Likely projecting herself within the cell to check and make sure.

That’s the hope. That she is projecting herself within the cell and not somewhere else entirely.

There are surprisingly few Ultron bots here. None, when he expected there to be at least two waiting just outside the cell, guarding their prisoner. So he isn’t surprised when the Scarlet Witch returns into herself with the softest of breaths and says, “They’ve taken her to the interrogation room.”

“Tell me before you do that.” Wong gives her a strong look, but she doesn’t seem to see him at all. Instead, her gaze is shifting down the hall, through the wall across from them. She starts forward.

Wong grabs her wrist. “No murder.” He meets her eyes, but they are glazed with a thin scarlet veneer. “No one dies, remember. We get in, we get out. No one gets hurt.”

The Scarlet Witch stares at him like he’s a few crayons short of a full box. “I only hurt those who deserve it.”

“No.” Wong speaks more forcefully now, hoping that he is getting through to her. “You said no murder. You said no one gets hurt. You said that. Not me.” He makes as though to tap just above her chest, rethinks that, and then taps the center of her forehead instead. “I need Wanda in here. Not you.”

The Scarlet Witch takes a deep breath in. She lets it out. The scarlet veneer doesn’t leave. “Don’t worry, Wong,” she says, each word measured and careful. “I’m being entirely reasonable.” She doesn’t shake his hand from her wrist, and she didn’t flinch at the tap on her forehead. Neither does she retaliate.

Instead, her head tilts ever so slightly to one side. She looks past him. Then she nods, more to herself than to anyone else.

Wong doesn’t know when the teleportation first begins, but he knows once it’s started, knows from the dark scarlet smoke around them that doesn’t appear when they do, knows from the shivers it sends up his spine, knows that when they land in that room, his goal must be to prevent their deaths. It would not be wise – or fair – to massacre the Illuminati again when most of them have done nothing wrong.

Their footfalls make no sound as they land.

No.

His footfalls make no sound as he lands.

The Scarlet Witch hovers next to him, her arms outstretched, just above and behind this universe’s Wanda, her eyes blazing scarlet flame, and she looks out on this new Illuminati as though she is the one who will be passing judgment on them and as though she has found them unsurprisingly wanting. Her eyes move among the new members, half of whom Wong doesn’t recognize, other than Mordo, other than the suit of iron sitting just next to him, resting its head in one hand, peering out over everything with a bored sort of curiosity, other than the robot in the form of a man sitting in almost the very center of them.

They settle not on the Vision but on Mordo, and her head tilts to one side. “I believe you have something that belongs to me.”

Mordo does not stand. He stares back at her, curious, and a small smile curves its way onto his face. “No, Wanda. I don’t believe anything here belongs to you. It belongs to her.” He nods towards the other Wanda, who stands between them, barefoot, collar around her neck, hands cuffed together. “But trust me, my dear. After what you did to us, I would be more than willing to strip it from you as well.”

The Scarlet Witch looks at him as though he is nothing more than a bug. “I would like to see you try.”

Wong slowly shifts into a defensive position and sighs. He is not paid enough for this sh*t. Next time, he’s going to find Stephen. Or one of the other Avengers. One of the bug people, maybe. They seem like they are much more reasonable than whatever this is.

His eyes shift across the new Illuminati.

Nope, nope. He’s not going to enjoy this one bit.

Chapter 30: Part Three: Chapter Ten

Chapter Text

The Scarlet Witch takes a deep breath in.

It’s calm, hovering like this, feeling her power coursing through her. Before, she might have been convinced that it felt hot, like rage, or cold, like grief, or everything all mixed up together to overwhelm her, but it’s surprisingly calm. Like there is one right thing and a million wrong things, and the right thing is what she wants, and the wrong thing is everything else.

The calm can be quite addicting.

She holds Mordo’s gaze and sees him as nothing more than an insect to be squashed beneath her power for so much as daring to speak against her, but she holds back. She does not strike first. That is mercy. She will not be so merciful if he attempts to attack first.

No one will die. No one will get hurt.

Inwardly, the Scarlet Witch laughs at this. Of course, someone will die, and of course, someone will get hurt. Even if they succeed in getting her boys away, the life they were living in this universe will die just as it will be reborn in the universe where they land. Those left behind – Mordo – will be hurt by their loss. This is not the way the world works. It runs on pain and death. The question is whether or not there is any meaning behind it.

But she isn’t particularly concerned about that in this moment.

It isn’t Mordo who stands first, but this universe’s Vision, who places a hand on his arm and stills him. “Let me speak to her,” Vision says, head curiously tilted to one side, examining her. “I do not think she intends to harm us.”

He is only true in respect to the matter of harm she intends. If they do as she wills, then she will not physically harm them. That isn’t her intent. It is only sometimes the only path towards her intent.

The Scarlet Witch holds Mordo’s gaze, and she smiles within herself, pleased, as he resettles himself in his seat. Good boy.

Vision hovers across the divide between them, meeting the Scarlet Witch in the air. His eyes search hers. “Surely you won’t harm me, will you?”

Beneath them both, Wanda spits in front of her. She glares up at Vision, who ignores the act.

The Scarlet Witch sees it. She does not know the why behind the action, but she acknowledges and respects it. Her gaze flicks up and focuses on the stone still glimmering golden in the center of Vision’s forehead. “I could destroy you so easily. I’ve done it before, you know. On my world. You begged me to kill you, rather than let you live through what would happen next.”

“And what happened next?”

Vision is curious. He’s different on this world. She knew he would be. Ultron bots still exist here, which means they all must submit to his reign or there is a better version of Ultron here, compatible with who the Vision has become. But his name came from Ultron even on her world – he was Ultron’s Vision for a better future, stolen from him by people who knew that a better future couldn’t exist without human beings.

“You died. Thanos brought you back, and then you died again.” The Scarlet Witch lets a corner of her lips lift in a smirk of a smile. “You really aren’t that hard to kill.”

She feels the weight of the others’ stare on her – on them – as they listen. As they judge. Wong’s stance suggests he believes they will be fighting soon. If that’s true, he will likely die. His whip and shields are nice, but they aren’t much to this caliber of super. His role is more of support and defense than offense. Maybe he won’t die.

Wanda doesn’t look at her. She stares straight ahead. But she isn’t looking at the Illuminati either. Only past them, through them. She believes that her fate is sealed.

Well. It’s time to change that.

The Scarlet Witch feels the shifting of probability with her magic, and she shifts things in Wanda’s collar, in her handcuffs. If she shifts them wrongly, they intend to kill her; that’s the failsafe in these sorts of things. The cuffs less so; Strange’s cuffs had been broken without killing him. But the collar? One wrong move, and it dissects the head cleanly from the body. One wrong wire tripped, one wrong lever—

Vision seems to notice what she is doing – he must have some sort of inner notice on their mechanics, which suggests they are connected to his wiring somewhere, although likely not in any real physical form, like the Ultron bots are extensions of Ultron but their death doesn’t hurt him, but they act slightly autonomously, provided they follow along the lines he’s set for them – but by the time he can start to say, “Wanda, don’t,” the cuffs have slipped from Wanda’s wrists, the collar unhooking from her neck.

Wanda removes them both. She rubs her wrists. She rubs her neck. She glances up at the Illuminati with soft green eyes. “I told you,” she says, beginning to wring her wrists again. “I told you it wasn’t me.” Then she looks up at the Scarlet Witch. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” The Scarlet Witch’s gaze moves from Vision to the other members of the Illuminati. “I don’t think they intend to let us leave.” Her gaze focuses, harsh, on Mordo, despite how calm she still feels. “He certainly doesn’t.”

Mordo looks up at her. He seems to smile. “You’re a murderer, Wanda. You don’t deserve to live for that.”

The Scarlet Witch laughs. “The only reason you are still alive is because you decided your petty hatred for Strange was worth more than the witch slaughtering the other members of your order.”

“Wanda,” Vision says her name again, and her gaze moves back to him. This is not her Vision. She knows that. But it still hurts to hear him say her name. “You did kill people.”

“Only the ones who were in my way.” The Scarlet Witch tilts her head to one side. “Are you in my way, Vis? I don’t want to kill you again.”

Something inside of her screams. Past the calm. Somewhere deeper. If she tries, Wanda will not let her kill him. Pity. They are so much more powerful when their desires align. But that’s fine. She can leave the little robot alive.

Wanda moves closer to Wong. They whisper about something. It’s irrelevant. If they wish to leave, let them. She can take on these fools on her own.

One of the other members of the Illuminati – one she does not know – lifts into the air. Her outfit is similar to the Scarlet Witch’s own but with slight variations – emerald where hers is scarlet, golden where it is black, the outline of a bird etched in gold on her chest when hers has the black marks of a blast just over her heart. Their eyes are the same color green, but her hair is a much brighter, ginger red, and there are freckles across the bridge of her nose, freckles that Wanda has hidden beneath make-up where they even appear at all anymore.

They aren’t quite mirror images of each other. Whoever this woman is, she isn’t a Wanda. But there are similarities.

“You know, when I’m dark, I prefer scarlet, too.” The woman smiles, as though this is easy, as though they aren’t in the lead-up to a fight, and holds one hand out in formal introduction. “My name is Jean. I’m here to help.”

The Scarlet Witch looks at her outstretched hand. Her gloves are golden, and they cover her hands completely. Hers leave her black-stained fingers bare. It’s a matter of preference, perhaps, but hiding the dark of her fingers feels a bit like hiding herself. “You already know my name.”

“True, but I doubt you knew mine.” Jean continues to smile. It’s hard to gauge its authenticity. “I know I exist on other worlds, but I don’t think I’m on yours. If I am, it’s not quite like this. Not yet.” She holds her hand aloft. “Among other things, I’m a telepath. Can we communicate that way? My friends won’t harm you while we do.”

It’s a trap.

The Scarlet Witch feels that instinctively. One of the others before had been a telepath. He had entered Wanda’s mind and attempted to free her, and she had killed him with an easy snap of his neck. Whoever this woman is must be beneath him, so she should be able to hold her own. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Wanda below, with Wong, glancing up at her with a little nod.

So she nods, too. “Do your worst.”

“Oh, please.” Jean lifts her hands to either side of the Scarlet Witch’s head. “There’s no need for threats.”

As the Scarlet Witch closes her eyes, she can finally pick up on what Wanda is saying to Wong. It doesn’t scare her like it might have before. Right now, she is nothing but calm, even as she hears, “Be prepared. Jean said they wouldn’t harm her, and she’ll hold to that. But she didn’t say anything about us.”

“Do you even know how to follow this map?” Kate asks. She turns it upside down and around, softly munching on a latke she’s stolen out of America’s bag. “I mean, I know we saw that magic version Wanda made for us, but it’s been an hour since then, and hers was nowhere near as complete as this one is. Are we even going the right way?”

“Don’t—”

America groans and grabs Kate’s arm, pulling her closer to where she hides, crouched in one of the turns from their hallway to another one. “There are Ultron bots everywhere, and we’re easier to see when we walk in the center of the hallway, and Clint said he was sneaky, and you should know better.”

She’s on edge. She knows she’s on edge. Her heart hasn’t slowed since she stepped into this place. If anything, it’s only gotten faster as she’s grown more and more tense. She can’t hear any screaming around her, but she feels like she can hear echoes of it, memories of it flooding down the halls, just like the screams she’d heard the last time she was here.

But there are no screams, only the continuous wailing of the sirens overhead.

Kate glances up at the sirens. “You’d think someone would have turned those off by now.”

“As long as they’re going, that means they’re still alive,” America whispers, not sure she wants Kate to overhear her. She pulls the map over to her and spreads it out on her knee. “We’re here.” She points to a spot on the map. “The boys should be here.” She points to the room marked with the double X.

“Okay.” Kate polishes off her latke and licks her fingers. “Those are really good. Have you had one yet? Great mission food.”

America’s head snaps up. “We’re in horror-verse, Kate! How can you eat at a time like this?”

Kate shrugs. “An assassin once fed me macaroni and cheese in my own apartment. She hadn’t poisoned it because she didn’t consider me a threat. I don’t think any of the Ultron bots will consider us a threat either. So I think it’s fine that I eat.” She considers it for a moment. “That’s why the first Illuminati squad died, isn’t it? Because they didn’t consider Wanda a threat? It’s like everyone here is really, really dumb.” She smacks her lips. “Or really, really co*cky. Maybe both. I hope it’s both. It’s always nice to push someone down a peg.”

America stares at her. She blinks twice. She tries the measured deep breathing that Magda taught her, but it doesn’t help all that much. “C’mon. I think I’m close enough that I can try this now.” Her hands move in the motions to make another gateway, and this time, on the other side, she can see the same two boys from before – Wanda’s boys.

The boys are looking away from her, out at a glass wall that looks a lot like the decontamination cubes she and Strange had been locked in last time. One of the boys has the same cuffs Strange did on his arms, and the other, sitting with his legs splayed out in front of him, has cuffs on his legs. She can’t imagine why they would be on his legs.

Then, one of the boys – the one with the cuffs on his wrists, the one she slowly recognizes as Billy from that conversation so long ago with the other other Wanda and Agatha – looks up and notices their reflection in the glass. His eyes widen, and he turns to them. “Tommy, look!”

The other boy – Tommy, of course – turns to face them just as America gestures Kate through the portal and then follows her through. His eyes widen, too, but he scoffs at them. “Who are you?”

“America Chavez,” America says, holding a hand over her chest, “and Kate Bishop,” she continues, gesturing to Kate. “We’re here to break you out.” Her eyes narrow. “No one else has been here?”

“Just Mordo,” Billy answers as Kate gets to work removing his handcuffs. “He’s evil. He came to get us on Shabbat. No one should do that. No one ever.”

“I don’t think he cares.” Tommy stares down at America as she removes the cuffs from his legs.

Once the cuffs are gone, Billy looks from America to Kate and then back again. “Did Mom send you?”

Tommy crosses his arms. “You really think Mom would send strangers to help us?”

Billy gestures to America. “Don’t you remember her? She’s the girl that evil lady was trying to kill. She can’t be bad! So Mom might have sent her. You don’t know!”

“Um.” America looks from one boy to the next and gives them an awkward smile. This is a lot. It shouldn’t feel like a lot. But she still hasn’t calmed down – she’s not sure she can calm down here – and trying to fix things between two arguing boys who have been kept in a cell for who knows how long is not helping. “Yes,” she says, finally, because it isn’t exactly a lie, even if it isn’t exactly true. “Your mom sent us.”

It’s a long story that she isn’t going to tell because she’s certain the boys won’t believe it if she tells them: Your mom contacted the evil lady who hurt her to come here to save you and I just happen to be the person who can make the portals for her to get here. Also, have you seen her? She should have come here first. Why isn’t she here? She should be here.

The worry about Wanda – which is weird, considering where they are and how her heart gets pounding whenever she thinks about her here – just compounds on top of the worry she was already feeling. The anxiety just keeps building. She can already feel her teeth beginning to grind against each other. Her breaths are growing shallower.

She is not going to have another panic attack in horror-verse. That just sounds like a bad idea.

“See?” Billy says, and he sticks his tongue out at Tommy. “Mom sent her for us.” He looks back at America. “So where is Mom? She said she’d be back. We felt her give us a hug earlier.”

“That must have been Wanda,” Kate says, finally. “She must have been here.”

“Yeah, duh.” Tommy gives them a look like they’re both stupid. “Wanda’s our mom. We literally just told you she was here. Duh.”

Kate opens her mouth to speak, considers it, presses her lips together, and then shakes her head. “Nope, nope, not going to comment.”

Tommy stares at her. “Saying no comment is its own comment.”

“You’re ten years old. Shut up.”

America holds her hands out, trying to get them to stop, trying to clear her mind. She takes another deep breath. She holds it. This is supposed to help. Why isn’t this helping? Maybe because this time, she isn’t panicking unreasonably. “I’m going to make another, um.” She hates that Wong calls them gateways. That’s such a bad name. “One of the glowing golden circles. We’re going to see if we can find your mom, okay? We need to get her out, too.”

Billy nods, but Tommy just stares at her, arms crossed, tapping one of his feet. She’s starting to get the feeling that maybe, just maybe, she won’t like these boys as much as she thinks she will. Or maybe it’s just the situation. Right now, she doesn’t feel like she likes anyone.

Wanda least of all. For getting her into this. Again.

“Hold on.”

The Scarlet Witch has never had to deal with her own mindscape. Last time, she had been a predator swarming about in Wanda’s mind, ready to destroy the first person who tried to take her out of the rubble. This time, she is in her own mind, and it looks…familiar. Strangely, unfortunately familiar.

Her mindscape mimics the illusion that Wanda maintains around her house. Dead trees sprouting from dark earth, reaching twisted limbs into a scarlet, cloudless sky. Her log cabin sits out in the distance, a rotting rocking chair just on the porch. She can almost make out a form of herself sitting on it, drinking a cup of chamomile tea, and looking out into the sky, but she tells herself that isn’t the case.

In the center of the sky, hovering above the rotten log cabin, is a television screen, more like the larger, mirror images that might be seen at sportsball games or concerts than like the old school screens she far prefers. It flickers with static. Every now and again, an old black and white show starts instead. Sometimes not a black and white show. If she looks at them more, she’ll notice exactly what is playing, but she doesn’t want to look.

She stays calm. This is her mind. Whatever Jean tries, she will not succeed. Not here. Not now.

Jean steps behind her, and the ground cracks with the weight of her. When she steps again, there is no sound. She must be floating again. “Your mind is a hellscape.”

The Scarlet Witch turns to her. “It could be worse.”

It isn’t harder to speak, but her eyes do shift a little bit as she takes in Jean’s appearance. It’s the same as before, almost, but now there’s a thin layer of something like fire burning around her edges. “You look different.”

“Phoenix,” Jean says, as though that answers the question the Scarlet Witch did not ask. She waves a hand, not so much dismissively as regally. As though the Scarlet Witch’s mindscape – anyone’s mindscape – is her domain. “I trust your mind hasn’t always been like this.” She moves forward and raises a hand, fingers tracing along the bark of one tree. “These seem to be fruit trees. What happened to make you like this?”

The Scarlet Witch turns. There isn’t a camera here, like there was in Westview, but if there was, she would be looking straight into it. Just for a second. Quick enough that you might not have seen it at all. Then she turns back to Jean. “I’ve already done the relive my trauma so that someone else gets my life story bit recently. Let’s just skip that part.”

Jean nods. “If you’ll let me, I can look without you having to relive it. I know how painful that can be.”

It’s none of your business, the witch wants to say but doesn’t. Her eyes meet Jean’s, and just as the Scarlet Witch’s eyes blaze scarlet with her power, Jean’s blaze fire with hers. Again, she doesn’t ask, only thinks to herself, Phoenix, and lets it pass.

“No.” It’s a simple enough answer, and the Scarlet Witch doesn’t thank Jean for her consideration. There is no consideration when rifling through someone’s memories, particularly not when it is an enemy who does so. Jean might pretend to be something other, but she isn’t. She’s an enemy. Part of a superhero group of another universe wanting to condemn her because her group decided that the Scarlet Witch wasn’t a threat.

co*cky. Arrogant. Dead.

Jean smiles and gestures easily enough. “I don’t really need your permission.”

Wanda sense the flinch of her other self before she quite sees it happen. She knows that Jean can be ruthless in her pursuit of what she considers to be justice, which might not be fair for the witch still hovering above them, but it safely gets her out of the way while she finds out what, exactly, the Illuminati plans to do with her.

Not the Illuminati. Mordo. Who she has never liked, not once. He’s always felt smarmy to her.

Wanda stands next to the other universe’s Wong. He still has his hands out in a defensive position. That’s good. She hasn’t done so yet, instead peering at the rest of the Illuminati. If it comes down to a vote, she knows Vision will vote against her, provided Mordo has set up his trap well enough. Prove that she’s a threat to their universe, and no matter what lingering feelings he may or may not have for her, Vision will cut her down. It’s the Ultron in him.

Jean is preoccupied with the Scarlet Witch. By the time she is finished, the vote will have already been made. She might not want to fight her, but if she comes into a fight already started, she will choose her own side. No question.

Dottie doesn’t care. She’ll sit and see the fight before her and munch on popcorn the entire time. Wanda still doesn’t know why Peggy chose her as her alternate, but with Romanoff out of commission and her close friendship with Dottie…. Well, it is what it is. Dottie votes for chaos and what best serves her own needs. If there’s a fight – and there’s likely to be a fight – she won’t step in until the end, if she does at all. She likes popcorn too much to step in on a quick fight, and Wanda hopes it won’t be a long fight at all.

Natasha Stark and Donald Blake wouldn’t fight, and they wouldn’t vote. Natasha won’t feel like she has enough information to make a well-informed decision. She knows her snap judgments have often caused really horrible consequences, and she’s been trying to be better about that. Wanda’s glad for that. She’s proud of her for that. It doesn’t help her here. And Blake – he’s a doctor. He’ll cite something about mental health and medication and more physical, real world ways of dealing with the issue that don’t have to end with anyone dying. He’s a good man, Donald Blake, and he won’t fight her, even if one breaks out. It’s not his fight.

Which leaves Mordo, who wants her dead because he wants her son and there is no other way he can conceive of to get him away from her.

Mordo, who smiles as he crosses one leg over the other, making himself comfortable in his own seat, as though everything is going precisely to his plan.

“You see?” Mordo says, gesturing to the Scarlet Witch. “Even when we think we’ve been rid of her, she comes back to protect herself. To harm us.”

Wanda blinks. That was definitely not what she had been doing the last time she was here. Mordo knows that. He has likely lied to spin things in his direction. Still. “If she is guilty, then I am innocent.”

“Oh, no.” Mordo gives a little tsking noise, tutting her like she is a small child. “You are capable of just as much harm and power as she is. You’re the same, after all.”

“I’ve never used it against you.”

“Except when prompted by her,” Mordo counters. He gestures with one hand. “It is with your body that she massacred the last of us. As long as you have your powers – and as long as those powers can be overcome with your grief or your pain – we are all at risk.”

Wanda glances up and meets his eyes. “And what sort of grief or pain would I deal with that I haven’t already?”

“The same as she has,” Mordo says, smooth as anything. “If you lost your sons, wouldn’t you become just as she is? Just as desperate to get them back?”

Wanda does not deny this. There is no longer a book available to her that might corrupt her or give her the access to other universes that the Scarlet Witch above them had, and to be honest, she had never had much access to it before at all. Strange had kept a thick lock and key on it before his death, and when it had passed into the Illuminati’s hands, they had kept it away from everyone who wasn’t one of them. Not that she had ever wanted to look at it. Not that she wanted to consider it. “You cannot kill me for crimes I have yet to commit.”

“No?” Mordo glances to Vision. “Isn’t it your job to protect the world from those who might destroy it?”

Vision looks back at Mordo. He glances to Wanda and takes her in, takes all of her in, and for a moment, for a moment, Wanda can be convinced that he will side with her. Instead, he takes a deep breath and returns to his seat. “If you think it is necessary, Mordo, then the decision is up to you. I will not fight you, and I will not fight with you. I am biased. My vote should not count.”

It’s better than Wanda could have hoped for from him, but worse as she sees Natasha Stark nod in agreement with him.

“Mordo, you are the one who survived. I leave this decision to you.” Then Natasha stands, claps a hand on the back of Blake’s chair, and waits for him. “What do you think, old friend?”

Blake sighs. “I believe this one is beyond me. I believe that all of you know what I will say. And I also believe that for Mordo, none of that matters. This is not my fight.” He stands carefully and leans heavily on his cane. “Let us leave,” he murmurs, “before they try to draw us into this even further.” He glances over to Dottie. “Will you join us?”

Dottie props her feet up. She tilts her head back and stares at them, incredulous. “What? No. I want to see what he does.”

“Of course.” Blake sighs again. He walks, careful – so careful, out of the interrogation room, following Stark slowly but surely.

Mordo stands, brushes his hands together, and stares down at Wanda. “I hope for your sake that you will go without a fight.”

Wanda tilts her head back and glares at him. “You hope wrong.” She turns to Wong. “Tell me you’re ready.”

Wong nods and shields spring to life in front of each of his fists. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” He spares a brief glance up at the Scarlet Witch. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“No.” Wanda stretches her hands out, and magic flares to life within each of them. “Soon, maybe, if Jean lets her. That woman is fierce.”

She doesn’t say what she knows he already recognizes. She’s weak. It isn’t even a comparison between her and the Scarlet Witch; it’s a comparison between herself at her best and where she is now. They’ve barely been feeding her. She’s still sore from the fight that threw her into their clutches, and she’s tired from spending so much time awake. She couldn’t afford the Scarlet Witch’s dreams to pass her by until she’d been able to contact her.

All in all, Wanda is exhausted. At this point, she’s more a liability than an asset, and she knows that, too. It’s why they were supposed to get her boys first – only her boys, not her. She could’ve died without feeling like she was bringing anyone else down with her.

Mordo steps forward, and he smiles. “Don’t bore me this time.”

America makes her first opening into the room where Wanda is meant to be held, but a quick peek in shows that there is no one there at all. She takes a deep breath and lets the golden circle spin itself into nothingness. Her heart is still beating so fast, and now her chest is starting to hurt. She’s having trouble breathing at all.

“Hey,” Kate says, placing a hand on her back, “what’s wrong?”

“I can’t,” America whispers. She sits on her knees, staring at the floor, unable to look up at the boys who are expecting her to do something. “She’s not in her cell. She’s in the interrogation room, and I can’t.”

“Can’t what?” Billy looks up at her. She knows that he does. She refuses to meet his eyes.

Tommy scoffs and kicks his sneaker against the ground. “Take us to Mom,” he spits out. “I knew it. You’re not here for her. You’re just here for us. You’re as bad as that evil—”

“No, she’s not!” Billy interrupts. He glares at his brother. “She’s trying. That counts for something!”

“Doesn’t count for anything if she can’t get Mom.”

“Hey,” Kate snaps. “Your mom – or, uh, not your mom – it’s confusing, I don’t really understand it, but whatever – America almost got killed the last time she was here. Both times she was here! By that evil witch lady! She’s just….” Her voice fades off, and she looks down at America. “She’s having a hard time.”

Tommy crosses his arms. “So are we. We’re locked in a cage. We could do a better job than this.”

Sometimes – not always, but sometimes – anger can overpower other emotions. In most cases, this isn’t a good thing. Wanda’s rage overpowering her depression led to some very, very bad decisions, but in that same breath, her frustration with America had also kicked her depression into something occasionally more manageable. It got her up. Got her moving. Anger is a double-edged sword that way.

In that same manner, America could feel anger bubbling up within her. Anger at the situation – being back in a universe she’d stated repeatedly she didn’t want to visit. Anger at the boys – particularly Tommy, who doesn’t seem to understand that there is only so much she can do. And even anger at herself – for letting her anxiety get the best of her, for knowing what she should do and not wanting to do it, for being crippled by a very, very reasonable fear.

America chooses anger, clenches her fist, grits her teeth, and stands back up. “You want your mom?” she asks, eyes dark and dangerous. “I’ll take you to your mom.” Before Kate can say anything to stop her, she creates an opening into the interrogation room – hopefully a little too high for any of them to jump through – and stares out into the world therein.

The first thing America notices is that she failed in that first regard. They could all jump through easily enough, if they want. The second is that….

Well, it’s just like the scene that she’d heard but hadn’t seen. Only this time – this time it is quite, except for blasts, except for ricochets, except for grunts and sneers. But what she sees is enough.

The Scarlet Witch and a woman America has never seen before but looks similar enough that they could be cousins or distantly related, if not for the fact that their faces look so startlingly different, hover above everyone, seemingly unmoving. The woman’s hands are outstretched, fingers close enough to either side of the Scarlet Witch’s temples that they could be touching, but they aren’t. Wanda from this universe stands just next to Wong; he holds up the magical shield that America still hasn’t been taught to make to protect them, while Wanda shoots orbs of scarlet magic out at Mordo.

But Wanda appears exhausted. Her attacks don’t hit him. They miss. Mordo smiles at both of them in that fake sort of gentle, comforting smile he’d given America and Strange when they arrived right before drugging them with whatever it was he’d put in their tea. His attacks don’t miss, but Wong steps in front of each, holding up his shields in defense. They are making no good progress. If anything, they are close to failing.

A man – maybe? America isn’t certain he’s actually a man – stands on one side of the room, in front of a large chair, keeping an eye on everything. Every so often, a golden gem in the center of his forehead glints, but she can’t guess from what. It’s not a shifting of the light. The more she looks at him, the more America is certain that he isn’t a real man. Why would anyone paint their face such a shocking shade of red? And their hands? Maybe he’s an alien. She can’t tell.

And…Dottie? Is that Dottie? Again?

America’s eyes squint. That’s definitely Dottie. She’d thought Agatha was joking about her being the original Black Widow. She hadn’t even known what the Black Widow was then! Not until Clint had given her the rundown on who all the Avengers were! She peers at Dottie. Is she really that great? She’d been their waitress at Denny’s, too. But she couldn’t be an Avenger, otherwise Clint would have mentioned her. They’d had…. Natasha? Was her name Natasha?

What is going on here?

And the more America looks out at everything, the harder her heart pounds, the more she begins to shake. Her hands are growing sweaty. She’s having a hard time breathing.

An attack hits Wong, and he falls.

Wanda stands alone, scarlet magic twisting in and through her fingertips, but she looks so tired.

The Scarlet Witch isn’t moving, but her eyes glow bright beneath her shut eyelids. She shakes all over. Something is happening. Something—

“Mom!”

Billy jumps through the opening and runs over to his mom, Tommy zooming so fast next to him that he’s a blur – just like that other kid in the planet universe – and now they’re in the path of open fire, and now Wanda is moving to shield them, and everything is happening too fast—

America doesn’t even turn to Kate. “I hope you’re ready for a fight.”

And she jumps into the fray, not noticing Mordo’s eyes glint as he sees her.

The Scarlet Witch’s mindscape is silent.

It isn’t that she isn’t fighting Jean with everything she has, teeth gritted together, lobbing shots of magic at her that sometimes hit except that Jean doesn’t seem to show any wear at all. That has to be a trick of some sort. She knows that she’s hit her.

Jean hasn’t attacked her at all, though. She seems intent to just dodge her attacks while the flame surrounding her grows bigger. Every now and again, the flame stretches out like a wing and absorbs one of her orbs. Which doesn’t make any sense. But it is what it is.

“I want you out of my head,” the Scarlet Witch snarls.

“Oh, I know, I know.” Jean speaks as though the Scarlet Witch is nothing more than a child who wants to stay up to see Santa Claus but is being told she has to go to sleep first. “I’ll leave, trust me. It’s just going to take a few more—”

The Scarlet Witch aims a shot just past Jean, and the other woman’s voice cuts out as she dodges. Except she doesn’t quite. The Scarlet Witch wasn’t aiming for Jean at all, but for the large television screen behind her (which currently reads something like Counting Bodies Like Sheep until it shorts out). Where her magic touches it, the screen begins to flicker with static, just the same way that the Wanda of this universe’s eyes had flickered and shorted out as she tried to maintain contact with her despite the collar and cuffs intended to keep her from any magic at all.

The screen flickers and flickers and, finally, drops.

It’s big. The flame surrounding Jean grows large. Jean turns, but she looks at something past the screen. She sighs. “Oh, alright.”

The screen hits Jean, and the Scarlet Witch is thrown out of her own mind.

There’s a moment where the Scarlet Witch doesn’t know what is happening.

Then it comes all at once.

She sees her boys rushing for their mother – for the other Wanda. She sees Mordo sending an attack directly at that Wanda, where she has turned to see her boys, and she sees that attack heading not for Wanda but for her boys.

She does not see the way Mordo turns to America. She barely even sees America, let alone how Mordo might be reacting to her.

She also does not seen the bird of fire expanding around the woman next to her, heading to the same place the Scarlet Witch now rushes towards.

The Scarlet Witch makes it to her boys with a shield outstretched – shields are easy; she has been doing shields since before her brother died – at the same time the Phoenix fire does. Together, she and the other Wanda shield her boys. The attack wasn’t meant to hit her. She does not shield herself.

Phoenix fire envelopes her, and she falls.

America jumps back from the fire. Don’t touch that, don’t touch that. She notices where her Wanda has fallen, but she can’t think about that right now. She can’t think about anything right now except that she has to go, and she has to get everyone out of here, and she has to go. She doesn’t want to be here, she can’t be here, she shouldn’t be here, Christine told her not to go here, and she shouldn’t even be back in this horror-verse anyway, and—

Her thoughts spiral and spiral, and her heart beats harder and harder, and her breaths come shallower and shallower, and her hands are sweaty and unprepared for much of anything. She clenches one hand into a fist as she skids to a stop next to Wong and makes to punch a hole from this universe into the next one—

And finds golden green magic wrapping around her wrists and ankles, holding her aloft in a position she has grown quite familiar with but had hoped she would never have to deal with again.

f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck—

Wanda gathers her boys to her unharmed. She doesn’t want to think what might have happened to them if the Scarlet Witch hadn’t thrown up a shield; her own had flickered out as soon as the fire touched it, barely able to hold its place until it had finally dissipated. She’s so tired, and she feels that even more as she wraps her arms around her boys, as she holds them to her. They hide their faces against her neck, and she murmurs something to them – even she doesn’t know what she is murmuring, only something soft and gentle and sweet.

I’m here, I will protect you, we will get out of this, it’s all going to be okay.

She isn’t sure she believes any of it. But she says it because they need to hear it.

They need the hope of it.

Then Billy looks up, and he points behind her, and she turns to see Mordo holding the universe-hopper aloft. Her teeth grit together.

“I was waiting for you to come back, America Chavez.” Mordo smiles at her like a sardonic teacher who has been waiting on his favorite student to fail. His head tilts to one side as she struggles against the magic holding her in place. “You seem to have better control of your powers now.”

Wanda waits to see if the girl will say something, but she doesn’t.

Mordo just sighs at the lack of a response. “Unfortunately, your powers are a threat not just to our universe but to the multiverse as a whole. You jump here and there without a second thought, and you leave destruction and devastation in your wake.” He leans forward with a bit of a smile. “I think it’s better that power rests in wiser hands.”

He flicks his hand, and sparkling white blue magic begins to siphon from the girl into him.

The girl screams.

Warmth.

That’s the first thing the Scarlet Witch thinks as the fire hits her. It feels warm.

She smiles as it hits her, although she’s not sure anyone else notices it. This wouldn’t be such an awful way to die. She deserves it, after all, doesn’t she? She deserves to die by the hand of the Illuminati of this world after killing all of their members. Well. Not all of their members. There was still one left.

He’s the one who set all of this up, isn’t he?

But Wanda stays where she is. It’s so nice here. Nice and warm and comforting. It doesn’t even hurt.

She just feels so calm.

For a moment, this is enough.

Then she hears America scream.

It doesn’t take much. It breaks through that nice calm feeling she had. It doesn’t change the warmth, and it doesn’t make her pain go away because she isn’t in pain. She just expected to be in pain. She expected to be hurt. But she isn’t. She’s fine.

And when she opens her eyes, blazing with their own scarlet fire, and stares up at Mordo attempting to do something that she’s already attempted – multiple times – as though she isn’t right there to do something about it—

Wanda fills herself with the power of the Scarlet Witch and Wanda remains herself and Wanda brings up her shield and cuts through the magic that Mordo is siphoning away. Her fingers twist and play with their magic before sending sniping shots at the golden green chains around America’s wrists and ankles. Then she turns back to Mordo.

“I don’t think that belongs to you.”

And she surges forward.

America drops to the ground. Her heart feels like it’s stopped. It hasn’t. Without even thinking, she punches a hole through the universe and gestures to Wanda and her boys. “Go, go, go, go.” Then she glances at Kate, who has started trying to drag Wong over to them. That’s useful. It isn’t what she needs right now.

As the Scarlet Witch and Mordo swirl around her, shooting magic here and there and everywhere but not hitting each other much at all, America begins to craft another golden circle. “Kate!”

Kate’s head pops up, and she looks at America. “What?”

“Shoot me!”

“Wait, what, no.” Kate shakes her head. She pushes Wong through the star-shaped portal and stands half inside of it herself. “I’m not going to shoot you, that’s such a bad idea, I don’t think—” Then she stops, and she sees the golden circle, and she understands. She grins, pulls out her bow, and readies the shot. “Tell me when.”

America finishes the circle. She feels the opening stretching to just where she wants it. “Now!”

Kate makes the shot, and her arrow – her trick arrow, one that Clint probably doesn’t want her to have – pierces through the circle, does not hit America, but travels to the other end of the gateway, landing squarely in the back of Mordo’s head before exploding.

Bits of Mordo fling across the room. Some of them land on America. She heaves but nothing comes up, which is odd, considering what she’d been eating before, considering that she’d been eating before. For a moment, she thinks she stops breathing. She can’t move. She’s—

Her vision starts to fade.

The last thing America sees before she passes out is the Scarlet Witch coming for her. She wants to scream again, but her throat is too raw to make a sound.

The Scarlet Witch grabs her, and they fly into another universe just as the portal closes.

They say, after a battle, that the dust settles.

There is no dust in the Illuminati’s interrogation room within the Baxter Institute, although there are various pieces of the being who once was Karl Mordo staining the walls mostly red, although there are some bits of bone and skin and hair and clothes within that. So not entirely red.

Jean raises a hand and stares at the blood of him and telekinetically removes all of it from her. “I think that will do.” She glances over to Dottie, whose feet are propped up on the edge of her chair. “You saw all of that?”

Dottie grins, even though there’s blood dripping down her face. “Oh, yes.” A spot of blood lands on her lower lip, and she licks it up, tilts her head to one side, and then spits it out. “He tastes horrible.”

Vision, despite being a robot, blinks. Multiple times. He looks at the two women. “I feel as though I am missing something.”

“Mordo’s an ass,” Dottie explains with a wave of her hand. “He wanted something that wasn’t his, and he got killed for it.” She shrugs. “Probably would have killed us, too, if he could’ve gotten away with it.” She nods towards Jean. “We weren’t really fans of his single survivor story. Or the let’s go kill Wanda Maximoff bit. So we figured…let the bad things happen to him, and we’re probably better off for it.”

Jean hovers over to Vision and lands just next to him, still telekinetically wiping Mordo’s remains off of her. “No more ripping children from mothers who have done nothing wrong.” She glances up and meets his eyes. “You saw everything, too. I didn’t kill him. You didn’t kill him. And Dottie didn’t kill him. One of the others – from the other universe – they killed him. Not us.”

“Not us,” Dottie echoes, still grinning.

Vision nods slow. “Ah.” It’s all he can say. Then he glances around the room. “And who, precisely, is going to clean all of this up?”

Dottie shrugs as she slowly moves from her chair the way a panther stretches across a jungle branch. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

“One of the Ultron bots,” Jean says without a hint of anything. She glances up and meets Vision’s eyes. “You don’t have to say it, but I know you prefer this, too. You didn’t want to see Wanda die.”

Vision doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t nod, and his expression doesn’t change. It is enough. “Who will be our last member now?” he asks. “Mordo is the one who chose all of us, and Strange chose the group before him. It would only make sense for the next Sorcerer Supreme to take his spot. But who will that be?”

Jean glances over to one of the side doors, where Wong stands waiting, his hands clasped behind his back. He gazes around the room, takes everything in, and seems to understand without saying or asking anything. Eventually, he looks to her and meets her eyes.

He doesn’t have to say anything either.

Still, Jean smiles. “Someone better, I hope,” she says. Then she turns back to Dottie. “C’mon, Dottie. After all of this, I think we need a girls’ night.”

Dottie scampers to her side and walks with her as they leave the interrogation room. “Do you think Natasha will join us? She has the best big screen. And popcorn! I didn’t know there was a better way to make popcorn until—”

Her chatter continues, and Vision stays behind, staring out into the room. It’s a moment.

Then the first of the Ultron bots arrives to clean up their mess.

Chapter 31: Part Three: Chapter Eleven

Chapter Text

The first and most important thing to do when you enter a new universe is to make sure you have your multiverse buddy. Do not go into a new universe alone, unless you’ve been doing this a really long time and know what you are doing. If going in a tourist group, make sure not to get separated from your guide. Actually, if going in any group, make sure you don’t get separated from your guide.

And, as in Jurassic Park, it is in your best interest to not let your guide die, whether that’s due to their/your negligence or to being eaten alive by a dinosaur who has somehow broken out of its containment area. If they pass out, that’s slightly better than if they die, because they can be revived at some point, but until they do, you are basically sh*t all out of luck – and you better hope that you’re able to carry their dead weight around with you while you run from rampaging dinosaurs because if you can’t – and they get eaten – you’re in even worse luck.

Of course, one would hope that your multiversal guide would be more prepared than one of the guides at Jurassic Park, but if you’re planning to end up in a random, entirely unplanned universe, they might know just as much as you do. Guides, after all, usually only take you down paths they already know – ones they know well. They don’t take you to the secret areas behind the park, and they certainly don’t take you to the tunnels underneath. Even more importantly, they don’t take you out of their park and to an entire other one where they don’t work. Imagine a Disney Park guide trying to take you around Jurassic Park – or vice-versa!

Which is all to say that, in this analogy, the closest thing the group leaving horror-verse (also known as Earth-838) has to a multiversal guide is America Chavez, and they have, quite unfortunately, allowed her to pass out.

The Scarlet Witch does not land gently with her, not for lack of trying, but because her intent to scoop her up and fly through the portal, which succeeded, ran smack dab into her inability to actually carry America Chavez for that long. She was pushing forward. She was in a hurry. She didn’t trip, but she was overcome by not being equipped to carry that much dead weight at once.

So when she falls, she does so as gracefully as possible, which is to say, not at all.

It is without thinking that the Scarlet Witch holds America against her, and it is without thinking that she forces her shields out, and it is without thinking that she turns herself so that she lands against the ground and America lands much more comfortably against her. This world is softer, greener, more full of plants than the one they came from – even than the one where she was born. Trees around them shudder beneath a gentle breeze. It’s…oddly calming. She grunts with the weight of the girl and pulls herself out from under her, glancing around at everything, at everyone.

America and Kate weren’t supposed to be here, but they are. That’s two, and they both made it. Wong appears to be knocked out, too, and blood appears to be trickling from a deep gash in his forehead. It’s hard to tell if it’s his blood or not, but the path of it seems a little more straightforward than the Mordo splatter all over each of them.

No. Not each of them. Her boys and their other mother are completely clean. They must have made it through the portal before Mordo’s demise. And Wong isn’t completely covered. That’s…that’s good.

The other Wanda looks at the space where the portal once was, and she holds her boys against her. Maybe the boys didn’t see anything at all. That would be for the best. It would be traumatizing if—

She knows what it is to survive a traumatizing event with her twin sibling, and she knows what it is to feel like she is trapped and just waiting on death, and she knows that maybe it doesn’t actually matter if they saw Mordo or not, the event itself is still there, still traumatizing, still—

“Hey.”

The Scarlet Witch turns to the girl next to her.

Kate’s eyes are wide. She isn’t really even looking at her at all; she’s focused on her fingertips. Her head tilts to one side. She licks her lips, grimaces, and then spits. Mordo. “Okay, that’s gross, but also, um.” She blinks a couple of times and then looks up at her, uncertain. “I think I used the wrong arrow.”

The Scarlet Witch stares at her. It’s a joke, isn’t it? This has to be a joke. It has to be a joke.

But Kate says it with such a straight face and such a sense of weight that she can’t be joking.

Something in Wanda snaps, then. She laughs. She starts to laugh, and she can’t stop laughing, and it wracks through her, just like she’d laughed when America visited and she’d stolen her mouth, only it feels a little less like something breaking and a little more like something’s already broken. It isn’t nearly as maniacal, but she still bends with the weight of it, halves over, hides her face with black-stained fingertips, and finds that she can’t straighten herself up under the exhaustion of what has happened, so she falls to her knees on the grass instead, unable to stop laughing.

Kate stares at her with eyes growing wider, and then she kneels down next to her, placing a hand tentatively, gingerly on her shoulder. “You okay?”

“Me?” Wanda wipes a tear from under her eyes that is neither mirth or grief but is something she can’t name. “I’m fine.” She takes a deep breath, trying to still herself, and at least stops the laughter. “I’m fine. I’m fine.” When she stands, she shrugs off Kate’s hand and brushes her own together as though there is just dirt on them that she can just brush off and not bits and pieces of a madman who’d just tried to kill—

She glances back.

America’s chest lifts.

That means she’s breathing. She’s okay then. Or. She isn’t okay, as Wanda well knows, but she’s alive.

She doesn’t know why that should be so important. Only that, somehow, it is.

It takes a moment before Wanda turns back to Kate. She looks up – how is this child taller than her – and when Kate just looks at her own fingertips, she gently – gently, gently – reaches out to lift her chin so that their eyes can meet. “You picked the right arrow.”

“I didn’t want to kill him.” Kate’s voice is weak. Her head lilts to one side as Wanda removes her touch, so that she can focus on the trees beyond them, the bridges and hammocks hidden in their branches, something that isn’t them or what they’ve brought with them. “It isn’t that I haven’t fought people before. I just…. I didn’t want to kill him.”

“Sometimes people have to die.” Wanda hears the words come out of her mouth and hates the sound of them. “You get used to it,” she lies, turning to the trees, too. Then she reconsiders, “Eventually, you decide that there are things more important than sparing a villain’s life.”

Most of the time, the thing more important is someone else’s life. Sometimes multiple someones. Certainly Stephen Strange had decided to kill her, if he’d had the opportunity, just like she easily would have killed him. He’d been in her way. She had something more important to fight for.

She still does.

Ironically, she had spared Agatha’s life, but what she had done to her was, questionably, worse. But that’s beside the point.

Wanda hesitates before patting Kate’s back. She’s certain that it feels wooden because she’s not the sort of person to do this. She doesn’t touch people. It makes her uncomfortable. But Clint is Kate’s mentor. They’ve spent a lot of time together. He’d be the sort of person to do this. So she pushes through her discomfort and pats Kate’s back anyway. “You did well.”

“Thanks,” Kate mumbles. Her gaze shifts away and then lands on America. “She’ll be okay, right? She’s not…she’s not dead, is she? The arrow didn’t hit her, so—”

“She’s still breathing,” Wanda answers. She glances at America, then at Wong (also still breathing), and then over to the other Wanda, who is now looking at her curiously. “Keep an eye on her. I will be right back.”

“Um. Okay?”

As Wanda moves closer to her other self, her boys – and they are always and will always be her boys, no matter what universe they are from, because she will always see them as such, even if they are the other Wanda’s as well - turn and stand protectively between the two of them. It reminds her so much of the last time she saw them that her heart burns. She holds her hand out the way someone else might with a stray dog or cat. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Yeah, right.” Tommy glares at her. He’s trying to be strong, but his eyes are so wide.

Billy doesn’t say anything, but Wanda can see that he’s shaking. Her throat grows tight.

“Boys.” The other Wanda wraps her arms around their shoulders and gives them each a little squeeze. “You don’t have to be afraid. She came to help us.” She looks up and meets Wanda’s eyes, as though questioning if that is even still true.

Wanda presses her lips together. She stays just where she is, and she nods, unable to speak around the lump in her throat. It takes a moment’s hesitation, but she shifts her outfit from that of the Scarlet Witch to something more…comfortable, if not something that will likely help her blend into this new universe a little better. (She still has not taken the time to notice her surroundings; there is too much else that she needs to see, needs to understand. Wanda was trained as an Avenger. She has an order to which she needs to assess situations: the state of her group, possible threats to her group, and then everything else. This universe does not seem to be a threat, and so truly noticing her surroundings has dropped into the everything else category.)

Jeans are easy. Every world has jeans. (Every world does not have jeans. Some have pants that are much more comfortable. Some don’t have pants at all. Intuitively, Wanda knows this, but it’s easier to pretend that every world has jeans.) Jeans and a suitable blouse and the slightest bit of something plaid. Just like when she’d pretended to be keeping the orchard, but without the jacket. It’s too hot here for that many layers. Her hair weaves into a loose braid that hangs over her shoulder.

And no more black-stained fingers, if she can hide them.

Then Wanda kneels so that she is on their level, and she meets her boys’ eyes as best as she can. “You’re safe here. I won’t—” She swallows past the lump in her throat and glances up, meeting the other Wanda’s eyes. “We won’t let anything hurt you.”

The other Wanda nods once, slow, acknowledging and accepting. “That’s right. You’re safe here with me – with us.” She hesitates a little longer before correcting herself, but the correction is there all the same. There’s comfort in that.

Billy looks up at his mom and snuggles closer to her, still unsure, but Tommy crosses his arms. and stands his ground. “Where did you bring us? How do you know we’re going to be safe?” He’s cynical. Somehow, that warms her heart. He’s at least talking to her. That should count for something. (Even if it isn’t much, it’s a step.)

“I….”

How can Wanda tell Tommy that she doesn’t have an answer for them? She has no idea where they are, other than another universe (and not her universe either, or they would be at the Bartons’ farmstead – or Kamar-Taj, maybe, if America had reached for it in her greatest moment of need). What Wanda wants is to reach across and take his hands in hers, to hold him as she speaks, even though she knows he’ll squirm to get out of a hug. Tommy’s not like Billy, who always wants to snuggle. He’s much more independent (or, at least, he tries to be).

Wanda tries her best to meet her son’s eyes and to hold his gaze. “I know you don’t trust me, Tommy—”

“How do you know my name—”

“—but you trust your mom, don’t you?” Wanda’s gaze sweeps to Billy as well. He’s moved just enough to stare out at her, but as soon as she turns to him, he starts to hide his face against the other Wanda’s neck again. The knife twists just a little further. This is her fault, all of it. She can’t think about that. No, she won’t think about it. She keeps her eyes on Billy, and he turns just enough to give her a nod of agreement. “She’s the one who asked for my help. If she trusts me to take care of you, then you can trust me to take care of you.”

Tommy starts to nod, but Billy’s gaze sharpens. “What about Mom?” he asks. “Are you going to take care of her, too?”

“We brought her here with us, didn’t we?” Wanda asks, keeping her voice as gentle and soft as she knows how. It’s hard to not reach across and touch either of them – to tweak Billy’s nose as she speaks, to smile in that familiar way with him that she’d always had. He doesn’t remember any of that. Not with her. She doesn’t want to think about that either. “I protected her, too, didn’t I? When I fell?”

She still isn’t sure that’s the case. She was protecting her boys. But whether it’s true or not, she needs her boys to believe it.

Billy nods, thinking. “So you won’t hurt her again?”

Wanda opens her mouth to answer, but before she can, Kate interrupts her. “Hey, um, Wanda?” There’s a slight hesitation before she says, “Scarlet Witch? Can you come here? I, uh. Can you just come look?”

“Wanda is fine.” She doesn’t want to turn. She doesn’t want to look away from her boys. But something in Kate’s voice is insistent. Her first thought is that something is wrong with America, and she is oddly more concerned about that than she believed that she would be. She takes a deep breath and meets Billy’s eyes again. “I’ll be right back, dear.”

Dear. Not sweetheart. She chokes on the word as she changes it.

Wanda leaves her boys and walks over to Kate and sees that the concern isn’t America or even Wong, but the man with shockingly bright silver-white hair standing just beyond them. Kate looks over to Wanda with eyes that plead. “Um. This is—”

“Erik,” the man interrupts. He meets Wanda’s eyes with his steel blue ones, gaze dark and harsh. Then he gestures to America with one hand. “I believe that you have found our wanderer.”

Chapter 32: Part Three: Chapter Twelve

Chapter Text

Wanderer.

The word whirls about in Wanda’s mind before she realizes where she’d heard it only maybe hours before – America mentioned it, before offering her food. Wanderers are supposed to share with each other. She’d offered her a lime. Do they give limes as formal introductions in this verse? She hopes not.

“I wondered where she went.” Wanda kneels down next to America and brushes hair back out of her face. Then she glances up and meets Erik’s eyes. “My daughter was missing earlier. I’m sorry if she disturbed you. She has a bit of wanderlust.”

“America Chavez is your daughter,” Erik echoes in a disbelieving tone at the same moment that Kate gives Wanda a sharp look that she ignores.

Wanda doesn’t nod. She just stares at Erik, meets his eyes, her own growing dark. “Yes,” she almost growls. “My daughter. America Chavez. Came here a little while ago. Gave me a lime and told me that wanderers are supposed to share with each other. I suspect she got that lime – and that bag – from you.” She lies through her teeth, but she holds onto it.

Erik doesn’t look away from her. His gaze is just as steely as her own, but Wanda is stubborn. She doesn’t look away. He doesn’t say anything.

“So, um….” Kate interrupts their gaze. She holds out one hand to Erik. “I’m Kate.” She gestures to Wong. “This is—”

“William,” Wanda interrupts before Kate can say anything else. Something in her doesn’t trust giving Erik their real names, even though she’d just given him America’s and Kate had…just given him hers. Besides, she doesn’t want to explain to this utter stranger why there are two of her with the exact same name.

Luckily for her, Kate catches on easily enough. She shoots Wanda another questioning look, then mouths oh, and grins. “Yes. This is William. I’m Kate. This is my older sister Mary, and her twin sister Ashley and her sons are just over there.” She gestures to the other Wanda and her boys; as she does so, the other Wanda stands, one hand protectively on each boy, as she keeps an eye on what is happening.

Wanda can’t ask now where Kate got those names, and she can’t pretend that isn’t her name, no matter whether she likes it or not. It at least means she doesn’t have to try and think of her own name.

Then Kate grins. “I know, I know, it’s weird that we’re Mary, Kate, and Ashley, but it was the early eighties when they were born, and Mom just didn’t know.” She rolls her eyes. “We grew up on their old movies. Some of them weren’t bad.”

Oh. Oh. Annoyance bubbles up within Wanda, but she pushes it beneath the surface. If any of it is visible, she hopes that Erik believes it is directed more to their parents than to Kate herself. “I…saw a lot of Full House,” she hesitates to say, even though this isn’t a lie. “Mom used to say that—”

Her throat grows tight. She doesn’t want to talk about her mom – she doesn’t want to lie about her mom. Not to a stranger. She shakes her head. They don’t even know if those people or that show were important in this universe. They might not have even existed. Whatever joke Kate is telling might be falling flat.

“I don’t think you care what Mom used to say,” Wanda completely finally, looking back up at Erik. Her lips press together in a thin line.

At first, Erik’s stance doesn’t change. “You’re right,” he says, voice rough. “I don’t care.” He kneels down next to America and looks her over while Wanda resists the urge to slap him away. He might be a stranger to her, but he knows America, knows her by name. “Did you do this to her?”

“No.” Kate answers for the both of them. “She was really, really anxious,” she says, and her eyes move to Wanda, as though asking her for information on the best way to lie about all of this. “Then this.” It’s not enough, but it’s…it’s something.

And it’s something that Wanda hadn’t known. Of course, America hadn’t wanted to return to Earth-838, and she believes that was for good reason. But with everything that happened in the Illuminati interrogation room, she hadn’t been able to keep track of America’s mental state or any sort of panic or anxiety she might have been feeling. Even if she had, would she have known to look for it? And knowing, would she have chosen to do so?

Probably not.

Erik nods once. “She had a panic attack earlier. Something must have set her off.”

For a moment, just a moment, Wanda’s chest tightens. America had a panic attack. She had a panic attack in a strange universe and strangers had helped her. How long has this been happening? Her gaze flicks down to the child. She can only think of one cause.

Kate would say that she f*cked up a perfectly good super; look, she gave her anxiety.

She hates that she knows that, too.

Then, Erik glances over to Wong. “And William? I hope he didn’t have a panic attack, too.” His words cut through Wanda’s thoughts, but she doesn’t have time to speak or think through a reply before Kate says something instead.

“No, he got hit in the head. Really hard.” Kate says it all at once and then winces at her honesty. “We were, um.” She gazes over to Wanda. “Playing baseball. With a rock. A really sharp rock.”

Okay, Kate doesn’t get to do any more of the lying.

Wanda feigns a smile. “My sister – such a practical joker.” She fakes a laugh. It doesn’t go over well. Erik looks at her in disbelief. She would, too. One hand moves behind her back, and her fingers twist, shooting magic around behind Erik and creating some heavy metal balls near Wong’s body. “He’s actually been practicing his juggling and slipped on the grass. One of them landed on his head a little too hard. But he’ll be fine.”

Yeah, okay, maybe she shouldn’t be lying either. This was a lot easier when she was making up excuses for Vision’s abilities. That was just putting physical explanations that people would expect. She doesn’t know what Erik expects or what he would believe, so she can’t just make it so, no matter how much she wants that.

As her fingers twist, the other Wanda begins to move over to them. Billy holds onto her leg, not quite hiding, but certainly not feeling safe enough to meet with anyone. Tommy walks in front of them a little bit, but not so far that he gets out from under his mother’s touch. And, much to her relief, he kicks one of the metal balls as they walk over. That should feel like truth.

But Erik continues to stare at her in disbelief. He opens his mouth as though to say something, but then something – someone – zooms up next to him. At first, Wanda thinks it’s going to be Tommy (and hopes that it isn’t), but as soon as the blur comes to a standstill beside Erik, her heart skips a beat.

Pietro was older when he died. He was so much older. And he’d never been able to run this fast when they were small. They hadn’t come into their powers until later. If it had been sooner, maybe he could have saved them from those endless days of waiting for the Stark bomb to explode. He could have rushed them out of there while it flashed. Maybe she would have been able to craft a shield around them while he ran, so if it hadn’t been a dud, they still would have been safe. They could have protected themselves. They never would have needed to join Hydra for experimentation (although they likely would have anyway, lending their powers to the destruction of a man they had never met but who had cost them their entire lives – or so they thought).

But here – here, he could always run. Always. And somehow, somehow, he is so young.

Wanda swallows around a lump in her throat, but her eyes can’t move away from her brother.

“Dad.” Pietro tugs on the edge of Erik’s shirt. “Wanda told me to come get you. Said if you didn’t come read her a story, she would have a nightmare again. It’s not even time for bed, I don’t know why she wants a—” He cuts off and looks up at Wanda, eyes narrowing. “Take a picture. It lasts longer.”

But then, seeing Wanda, being distracted from his singular pursuit, Pietro can take in the others with her. He’s not particularly interested until he sees America, still spattered with the remains of Mordo that Wanda dispelled from herself when she shifted clothes, and then grows even more interested when he sees Wong, spattered a little less with the same. “Woah.” His eyes grow wide, and he grins. “What happened to them?” He kneels down next to Erik and runs a finger through some of the blood spatter. “This is so cool.”

“Pietro, go back to the house. Tell your mother we will have some unexpected guests. Again.” Erik looks up at Wanda. “I think you better call your sister and her sons over here. America and this....” His nose scrunches up as he says the name, and it sounds like he doesn’t believe it just as much as he doesn’t believe anything Wanda and Kate have said so far. “This William fellow. They need rest. He needs a medic. The trees can help with that.” He stands, brushes his hands, and then twists his fingers in a way that Wanda recognizes in herself, which only makes her shiver once. America lifts effortlessly into the air, and Wong soon follows. Then he gestures, and their bodies move alongside him. “I can take care of them.”

As Erik walks into the forest, Wanda follows him. Kate stays with her. She opens her mouth to ask something (and Wanda seriously resists the urge to remove her mouth, as that might be more useful right now), but before she can, the other Wanda and the boys catch up with them. She nods towards Erik. “You don’t know him.” Her words seem tight, uncertain.

Wanda lets her gaze move from America’s floating body over to her other self. “I don’t,” she says. “He isn’t in our world, or if he has, he hasn’t shown up yet.” She feels the weight in that yet. It’s its own special form of torture.

“One of the men you killed – Charles Xavier – the one who tried to save me and whose mental neck you snapped,” the other Wanda begins. There’s no anger or bitterness in her tone, as there might have been in Wanda’s herself if she was talking about someone her other self had used her body to murder. Instead, this Wanda speaks very matter-of-factly, as though to let her anger brim over into her words would do no one any good – not just right now, but not ever. She gestures towards the stranger. “Erik was his best friend, once.”

“Then maybe don’t mention the killing thing.” Wanda’s eyes narrow. She’s still puzzling over Pietro calling him dad. She’s never seen this man a day in her life, and he certainly wasn’t her father. Universes couldn’t be that dissimilar. They had to have the same parents. It’s possible that he just adopted them. Maybe her own parents met their tragic end much earlier in this world.

“No, it’s more than that.” The other Wanda presses her lips together, licks them once. “You’re sure he isn’t in your world?”

“I’ve never met him if he is,” Wanda says. She raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

The other Wanda glances over to Erik and Pietro and then back again. She licks her lips again, struggling to say whatever it is she wants to say. It’s infuriating, but Wanda refuses to push her. She’ll say it when she’s ready.

Wanda wants to push ahead, but she doesn’t. That wouldn’t be helpful. Her gaze flicks back to first America and then to Pietro. Nothing about this feels right to her.

“Wanda,” the other Wanda starts to say, and she stops, cringing the same way that Wanda thinks she might, if she ever had to refer to this Wanda by her own name. Then she forces herself to continue, “In my universe, Erik is our – my – dad.”

Chapter 33: Part Three: Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Text

In all of the dreams that Wanda has had, in all of the universes she has seen, in all the multiple variations of parents she has had, Erik has never once shown up. She’s never seen him before. How can he be her father in two universes – one that she has actively dreamwalked into – and she hasn’t seen or heard of him? In one of her dreams, she’d had two moms who were completely different from every other dream, but this guy – nothing. At least, nothing she can remember.

And there is nothing she can say to the other Wanda about that. It’s information that she can file away, maybe, if she wanted to search for this Erik figure back in her own world, but if he is her father there, then he gave her and Pietro up when they were very small. He’d never seemed interested in looking for them; it isn’t like they were hard to find. If he’s real, he’s just someone else she’s lost, someone else who’s left her behind. She’d rather pretend that he doesn’t exist.

Instead, Wanda takes the time to relay the new names Kate has given them to the other Wanda. Her reaction is similar to Wanda’s own. She scowls. “I take it he mentioned you?”

“No.” Wanda catches her lie and then shakes her head. “I mean, yes, he did, but no, that’s not why I gave him different names. I wasn’t sure we could trust him.” She keeps her voice soft, hoping that he can’t hear them where they walk this far behind.

Kate keeps between them and Erik, and the boys hover next to her. It takes a moment before Pietro glances over his shoulder at them, and when he does, his eyes gleam with mischief. He doesn’t even wait; he zooms over the boys immediately and begins chatting with them. Wanda leans closer to her other self. “Are you sure that’s okay?”

“I don’t see any reason to stop them.” Her eyes don’t move from her boys. “The worst they can do is mention their uncle, and he’ll probably see that as a crazy random happenstance and promptly forget all about it.” She smiles. “You know our brother.” Her eyes widen, and she glances over to Wanda. “You do know our brother, don’t you?”

Wanda nods slow. “I did.”

The weight of her words hits her other self, and she simply says, “Oh.”

Then there is nothing else. What else could there be? It doesn’t matter. Erik comes to a stop outside of a lime tree and holds up a hand. “Stay out here. I don’t want my daughter to meet you.” Then he opens the door and begins to guide the hovering bodies of America and Wong inside. Pietro zooms in ahead of them.

Wanda steps forward, but as she does, one of the tree branches moves between her and Erik. Others huddle around him like wings, trying to separate the two of them. Still, she pushes forward. “Erik, I don’t trust my daughter with you and your family. Not without me.”

Erik turns back to her and raises one sculpted white eyebrow. “You don’t.” It isn’t even a question.

“No.” Wanda stands her ground and tilts her head back so that she can meet his eyes. “I don’t care if she did before, but she will not be going in there again without her mother by her side.”

You’re not my mom, Wanda imagines America saying, and the child is quite right. She isn’t. But in a world where they are strangers, someone needs to pretend to be her parent, Wong is out for the count, and the other Wanda has her boys to look after. (She has her boys to look after, too, but they can’t pass Kate off as America’s mom. So she’ll have to do.)

“Look, you want to protect your daughter, and I want to protect mine.” Wanda steps forward. “You don’t have to—”

“I know who you are, Wanda,” Erik says, his voice dark and hushed. His gaze shifts over to the other Wanda. “You, too. My daughter is not the only one who has dreamed of the two of you, and it is you who have plagued her dreams for the past few months. I went to find you because she mentioned you were coming. She spoke in her sleep of you. She doesn’t remember it.” His brows furrow together, and he glares at Wanda. As he speaks, the tree branches grow tighter around him, around the tree itself, barricading it off even more from those outside of it. “Use whatever name you want while you are here, but do not let my daughter believe she will become the stuff of her nightmares. Not in this world. Not wherever you came from. Now quit lying to me about—”

“Daddy?”

Erik’s words stop abruptly, and his face falls.

A little girl stands just inside the door, one hand holding tight to its frame. Her dark brown hair falls in waves past her shoulders, and her green eyes sparkle with scarlet red flecks. Her white gown is stained. She peers through the tree branches out at him. “Pietro said you came back. Where were you? He said you were with America. Did she come back?”

“Wanda—”

The little Wanda’s peering eyes suddenly seem to take in the others with him. She blinks twice at Kate, but her eyes widen as she takes in the other two Wandas. She stares at them, and her mouth makes a little oh with no sound. “You’re…you’re me,” she says, her tone a question of belief, her words a statement of fact, as she steps barefoot out of the lime tree. “I dreamed you. You’re real? You’re real.” Her face grows white, almost as white as her stained gown, and she bites her lower lip. “I’m me. You can’t be me. You’re not real.” She glances up at her father. “Am I still dreaming?”

Erik gathers her up in his arms. “You are okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to hers so that he can meet her wide eyes. “That’s Mary,” he nods to Wanda, “and Ashley.” He nods to the other Wanda. “Does that sound like Wanda to you?”

Wanda looks over to them and then back to her father. “No?” she asks. Then she shakes her head, dark hair twisting behind her. “No.” She tucks her face against his neck and peers back out at them, confused. “Can you read me a story, Daddy? Anya wants to hear The Little Match Girl, but I want to hear about Koschei and Baba Yaga.” Her brows furrow, and she meets his eyes again. “You’ll read us Koschei, won’t you? And Marya Morevna?”

“Perhaps.” Erik brushes a hand through his daughter’s wild hair. “Perhaps I will read both. You know Anya doesn’t make it through the whole story like you do.”

Wanda grins and giggles, and the sound is like a blue-green bottle of beer shattering on cold concrete. Her freckles stand out sharp against her still pale face. “Carry me in!”

Erik presses a kiss to her forehead. “Of course, my love.” He turns away just enough to meet Wanda’s eyes. “Your mother will address these visitors.” Then he strides into their tree home, leaving the door open for them to follow. At his words, the branches relax and return to their previous position. A lime falls from one of them, and Kate bends to pick it up as they walk inside.

Wanda’s eyes alight first on Wong and America. Wong lay flat on a dining table that seems to sprout directly from the base of the tree itself, and America lay on a couch of the same soft forest green as the tree’s leaves. Everything about this world is plants and green and life, and it settles uncomfortably in the center of her chest. She is used to apartments so old that they are falling apart, to rubble lying in alleyways because there aren’t enough people who care enough to move it, to dirt and shadows and trying to blend into a crowd with soft, muted colors; she is used to shiny buildings cleaned by artificial intelligences not powered by an Infinity Stone, to stainless steel and high rises, to the one sharp bit of scarlet her brother found and that she still drapes around herself as a memento of him (even if it isn’t the same scrap), to harshly clean rooms that don’t warm up no matter how much she puts into them; she is used to a home in the suburbs that doesn’t exist, to separate beds pushed together when the world grows loud and terrifying but there is nothing truly to fear except each other and the nosy neighbor next door, to a fake HOA and roses that have to be meticulously cared for to keep them alive, to twins in beds in one room, to curling up in bed with a book or a pint of ice cream on the harder days, to gathering the family together for their favorite sit-com; she is used to a world painted scarlet, to barren, burnt out trees piercing the sky with sharp and broken branches, to a log cabin painted rotten when the truth is it is nothing but cozy remembrances snatched from grieving memories and quilted together to make—

Not. This.

Sterile and clean and forgotten fragments decaying in a sculpted suburb is nothing compared to this green warmth. She is uncomfortable. She can’t make herself comfortable.

So she doesn’t try.

Wanda allows herself to focus instead on the woman in the billowing rosy skirt gently tending to Wong’s wounds. She clears her throat.

The woman looks up, and her eyes light up. “You must be Mary,” she says with a smile. She stretches her arms open as for a hug, but lowers them when Wanda shows little interest. “I’m Magda. Pietro told me everything. What there was to tell, anyway.” Her smile softens. “America should be fine. She just needs some rest. Your husband, though—”

Wanda’s brows shoot up. “He’s not my husband.”

“Oh.” Magda blinks. “Your sister’s...?”

“He’s our brother.”

The lie is easy. Extremely easy. It slips through her lips without a second thought, just like lying about being America’s mother, just like lying about being the other Wanda’s sister (although that is not so far from the truth. They might as well be sisters). Pretending that they are all family seems like the easiest way to deal with all of this, even if Erik knows better.

She wonders, briefly, if Magda knows better, too.

For a moment, Wanda expects a raised eyebrow. Some sort of skeptical reaction, the way Erik likely would have if she’d tried to tell him that Wong was their brother. But Magda does nothing of the sort. Her eyes only widen the slightest bit in acknowledgement. “Oh,” she says, but the smile never slips from her face. “Your brother needs a little more than just rest. I can stitch up his wounds, but he’ll need a proper doctor soon. I’d say we know someone, but….” Her voice trails off.

“I know someone.”

It isn’t exactly a lie. Wanda knows all sorts of doctors. Just not necessarily medical doctors. The one shedoes know isn't exactly available and certainly wouldn't like a visit from her.

“Dr. Black would have been a fantastic doctor,” the other Wanda mutters under her breath, entering the room from behind.

When Wanda turns back, eyes narrowed, she finds only a sparkle of mischief in her twin self’s eyes. “Good to know you can joke at a time like this.” Her eyes sweep around her. “Where are the boys?”

“Outside with Kate. I wanted to see….” She stops. Her gaze lingers behind Wanda, resting on Magda, and her entire expression shifts. She grows reverent, almost, and takes one deep, deep breath in. “I wanted to see her.”

Wanda wants to ask what happened to their mother – to her mother – in the other Wanda’s universe, but now isn’t the time for that. She glances over to Magda, who, like Erik, she has never seen before. But she can see bits of her brother in the woman’s expressions – in the light of her eyes, in her broad shoulders, in her thin, spindly fingers. It is harder to see anything of herself in the woman, since she is so used to seeing any of those similarities mirrored, but Pietro…. Him she can see.

The other Wanda moves past her and over to Magda, who turns to her with a bright smile. “You must be Ashley!” When she spreads her arms out to her, the other Wanda moves into her, wraps her arms around her, and leans her head against her chest. Magda brushes a hand soothingly through her hair. “You must have had a long, hard day.” Her attention remains focused on her. “Don’t worry. Your brother will be just fine.”

There’s a brief moment where the other Wanda shoots her a look, but Wanda decides it would be best to let her other self have this time alone with her – not – mother. She turns and heads back to the room where America lies on the soft green couch. It isn’t like she doesn’t understand. She knows exactly what it is to long for someone who is no longer around – whether due to death or simply abandonment – and wish to take solace in the version of them in another universe, even if they don’t know exactly who she is or why she wants them. That is, in fact, why they are here, isn’t it?

So Wanda leaves her other self with Magda and the unconscious Wong and settles herself next to the couch. From here, she can keep an eye on everything – through the door, to where Kate and her boys play; behind her, where Magda, Wong, and her other self remain; and just next to her, where America still lies unconscious.

She’s so tired.

So tired.

Wanda leans forward, rests her head in her hands, but doesn’t relax. She can’t relax. Not until they’re safely—

Well.

She hesitates to use the word home. She can’t be sure that it applies. But something like it maybe.

Something like home.

Chapter 34: Part Three: Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Text

The last thing America sees before everything goes black is the Scarlet Witch coming for her.

She screams, but there is no sound. Her throat is too raw.

She doesn’t want to die, and the blackness does not help.

Fainting – passing out – is often not the same as sleeping or taking a nap. There aren’t dreams. There is only that blackness and then suddenly, you are back in yourself again. You might be confused or disoriented. You might still feel sick or tired. But it doesn’t last very long. And you certainly don’t dream.

America Chavez, however, doesn’t dream anyway. Up until the nightmare that caused her first panic attack, she believed that all dreams were simply windows into the multiverse, and that the reason she did not dream had to do with her singularity in that infinity.

But this prevents America’s subconscious from processing through things, from trying to tell her things. And, finding an opportunity to do so again, it throws her yet another curveball.

Having just fainted from her fear and panic, it decides the best way to help would be to provide her with yet another nightmare. Surely, surely that will help things.

Brains are funny things, aren’t they?

The blackness fades slowly, and America finds herself in another decontamination cube. She raises her hands to the glass. It vibrates beneath her touch. She pushes against it, and it does not move. Then she shivers. She shouldn’t be here anymore. She doesn’t want to be here anymore.

Without another thought, America punches the air just next to her, trying to open one of her star-shaped portals from this universe into another one.

Nothing happens.

Her stomach clenches tight. America looks out at the rest of the room. Christine should be here. She should be right at that computer, looking over whatever it is she looks at on that screen. But she’s nowhere to be seen, and the screen is black. Blank.

As she stares at it, the lights overhead begin to flicker and stutter. The ones in the corners glow a bright, blinding red. Sirens begin to blare so loud that her ears might as well be splitting.

She needs to get out of here.

She needs to get out of here right now.

Just like the first time, America punches the glass cube. It cracks, but it does not shatter. She gives it another punch and another. The sound of the splitting almost seems louder than the sirens, and as she punches, louder than everything else, she hears the sound of a fight in the room behind her. There’s yelling, words being shouted from one person to another, and there are responses she can’t here, spoken so softly that only those meant to hear them do.

A man yells out in pain, and a puddle of blood begins to trickle towards her room.

America punches harder – she didn’t even realize that was possible – and the glass cracks just enough for her to push through. It isn’t really big enough for her, and its shards scratch along her skin, pull at her hair. She’s certain that there are cracks all along her knuckles for punching through it. They sting.

But she can’t think about that right now. The witch is after her. The witch is after her, and she has to run.

Some people have recurring nightmares of getting to school and realizing they don’t have their pants on.
America Chavez has this.

For a moment, however brief, America thinks she can hear her moms’ voices back behind her, deep within the scarlet smoke that is beginning to swirl. She turns back.

This is her mistake.

America turns to see Wanda – not the Scarlet Witch, but Wanda – not in the guise of the Wanda from Earth-838 who had been possessed, who had been covered with blood, who had chased her through these halls until— Until—

America turns and sees the Wanda that she’d found back on the lawn of the Bartons’ farmstead. Wanda is turned away from her, but her posture is the same, she wears the same plaid flannel and jeans, and her hair is in that loose braid that drips down her back. She shudders with the weight of something, and it sounds like she’s crying.

Despite the fact that her heart is still beating like a drum, America reaches out – just as she had then – and lightly touches her back, just between the shoulder blades. She can’t help herself.

Wanda turns around, and she shifts as she does, and she isn’t Wanda, she’s the Scarlet Witch, with her eyes glowing – blazing – scarlet fire and the black stains on her fingertips as she reaches deep into America’s chest, lips curved into a dark, smug sneer, ignoring the screaming, screaming, screaming that America tries to make, tries to make someone hear her—

And then she’s conscious.

But not quite.

America’s eyes won’t open. Her body is frozen. She tries to move her fingers, but she can’t get her body to move. A weight sinks into her chest. What happened to her? What did they do to her? She can’t breathe—

“It looks like she’s coming back to us.”

America knows that voice, but she has a hard time placing it. Her eyes shift between her shut lids. Who—?

Magda?

She must have thrown them into the plant universe. She hates herself for that. This is a safe, comforting place for her. She doesn’t want Wanda here. Any more than she already is, anyway.

“Here. Take your daughter’s hand in your own. Let her know it’s going to be okay and that she’s safe with us.”

Daughter. America stills at the thought. Had she, somehow, found the universe where her moms were? Had she thrown them to her moms? Is one of them with her now? She feels someone take one of her hands in their own, much warmer one.

“Here.”

There’s nothing, at first, and then the sound of a chair being scooted back and away from her.

“Where are you going?”

The voice comes so soft that America almost doesn’t hear it. “I don’t think she’ll want to see me.” She knows that voice, and in a moment all of her hopes are not just dashed and turned to ash in her mouth, but they become bitter with a fervent sort of rage.

That rage bleeds into her bones, torches beneath her skin, and the first thing America feels herself able to move is her jaw, gritting and grinding her teeth against each other. She opens her eyes and stares up at Magda, who stares up at her with bright green eyes.

“It’s okay,” Magda murmurs, her voice soothing, as she sits in the abandoned seat next to her. She brushes America’s hair back out of her face. “You’re safe here with us. You’ve just had another panic attack. Are you practicing your breathing?”

America wants to tell her that she’s having trouble breathing because she’s having trouble moving, but all that comes out is the same sort of groan that the Tin Man made when he needed Dorothy to oil his joints. She meets Magda’s eyes and tries to communicate all of this with her mind. She isn’t a telepath. It won’t work.

But somehow, Magda understands. She rubs her thumb in circles on the back of America’s hand. “It’s okay,” she murmurs again. “When you rest, your body likes to freeze itself. Most of the time – with most people – this stops before you wake up. But every so often, it doesn’t unfreeze before you wake. You’re still frozen. It’s just going to take a few minutes before things are back to normal. You’re okay. Just use your breathing skills.”

It’s easy to say that, America thinks, staring up at Magda, but it’s harder to do it. She tries to steady her breathing, to ease her heart. It isn’t easy. But as she does, she can feel her fingers just beginning to move in Magda’s hand.

“There you go.”

It takes longer than a matter of minutes before America can fully move again, and when she does, she’s up – up – trying to still her breathing, trying to keep from the shallow breaths that she knows will make her lightheaded. She meets Magda’s eyes and wraps her arms around her, holding her tight. “Thank you,” she says, her voice still rasping and rough. “I was so scared, I didn’t—” She pulls back and feels the tears in the corners of her eyes. “Thank you.”

“It’s alright, dear.” Magda brushes a hand through her hair again. Then she looks up and away, towards the front door. “I’m surprised your mother didn’t want to stay with you. It’s important for her to learn these skills, in case you have another panic attack, in case something like this happens again.”

She’s not my mother.

America’s teeth grit together, and she clenches her jaw tight shut. Some logical part of her brain tells her that there’s a reason Wanda lied to Magda about that, but she doesn’t care. Wanda isn’t her mother. Wanda will never be her mother. And if she had a choice about who her mother would be, it certainly wouldn’t be the woman who pursued her across the multiverse to kill her and absorb her power.

But she can’t – she won’t – say any of that to Magda. One of the first rules of being in a new universe is to blend in, and another is to make sure that your average person doesn’t find out about the multiverse or try to follow her from their universe into whatever the next one she happens to land in is.

Besides. She’s not mad at Magda.

The entire force of her fury is aimed at none other than Wanda.

America grits her teeth and slowly pushes herself off of the couch. “Thank you,” she says for a third time, “but I think I had better have a talk with my—”

Her throat chokes on the word. She can’t say it. She won’t.

“Of course, dear.” Magda gives America’s hand a gentle squeeze. “I’m sure she’ll want to see that you are alright.”

“Yeah. You’re right.”

America says it, but in her heart, she knows otherwise. Wanda won’t care if she’s alright or not. She just wants to use her to get back to her own universe. She’s never been anything more than a—

Now is not the time for this.

The words bristle under her skin and prickle with her fury.

Fine. Fine.

America keeps herself from storming outside, but she feels like she’s carrying the storm with her nevertheless.

Chapter 35: Part Three: Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Text

Wanda is uncomfortable.

Sometimes she isn’t sure that she’s ever really been comfortable. Then she remembers Vison. She remembers Pietro. She remembers her boys. All of them had provided her comfort in some of her most uncomfortable situations – Vision during her house arrest and while she was on the run; Pietro when they were orphans living on the streets of Sokovia and trying to still somehow survive; Pietro again when they volunteered for the experiments which ended up giving them their powers (or enhancing and unlocking powers that had already been there and they had never known – certainly the Pietro of this universe had never been experimented on in such a way, and he still had his super speed; she cannot say the same for her own variant); and her boys—

She wants to say that it was impossible to be uncomfortable around her boys, but that isn’t true. When America had thrown her into Wanda of the other Earth’s house, when her boys had been terrified of her, when her boys had thrown things at her in an effort to protect her from her, she had been uncomfortable. That hadn’t been their fault; it had been entirely her own; but she’d still been uncomfortable.

And, again, Wanda is uncomfortable now, standing out in front of Erik and Magda’s house, staring at her boys running around, in, and through the various different trees, seeing how the trees play with them, too – lending branches to them, shifting themselves so that the boys can climb up and in and around them, catching them in beautiful spreads of leaves when one of the boys starts to fall from a misstep that makes her heart skip a beat.

They will not listen to her. They do not know her. They do not trust her.

And she doesn’t blame them. She wouldn’t trust herself either. (She doesn’t trust herself either.) But they seem to trust Kate, and for now, that’s….

Wanda won’t lie to herself. She won’t tell herself that’s good enough. It isn’t. It’s just something.

The sky grows darker overhead, and if she tries, Wanda can just make out the North Star through the tree branches. She shoves her hands into her pockets, stares up at the sky, and lets out a sigh. She’s tired. So tired. This is more than she’s done in a very, very long time, and her body – her mind – isn’t quite used to it. The danger is past. The need to go, go, go is past. But they’re still stuck in that space between the mission and the resting up afterward, and something tells her that this is actually the most dangerous part of all.

It is always the most dangerous when she feels safe. The worst pain doesn’t come from the fights or the fighters; it’s never physical in nature. It’s emotional. Her guilt while she was locked up hurt more than any punch that landed in her face, and it was only made worse by knowing that Tony thought she was just as guilty as she did. He held her just as accountable as she held him. An interesting thing, that.

Wanda takes another deep breath, waits to see if her exhale will cause any sort of cloud as it does in the cold (it doesn’t; it’s nowhere near cold enough here), and then she steps forward, putting more distance between herself and the child she has called her daughter.

The boys continue to play, and Kate sits sprawled out on a picnic table that seems grown from the ground – no, not seems, most buildings and furniture in this world are grown, still connected to the earth beneath them, and there must be some sort of magic to it, or some sentience to the plants themselves, some sort of parasitical relationship between the people who care for the plants and the plants who care for the people, but Wanda does not plan to be here long enough to figure it out. Kate’s eyes follow the boys as they scamper around the trees just as Wanda’s do, and she smiles when she hears their laughter. She fiddles with one of her arrows, balancing it on one of her fingertips without looking at it, giving herself something else to occupy her time. But when Wanda approaches her, she hastily puts the arrow back in her quiver.

“It’s not one of the explodey ones, don’t worry!”

“I wasn’t worried until you said something, but now that you have….” Wanda lets her voice trail off and sits next to the younger girl. Then she pauses. She has no idea how old Kate actually is. It’s never really been a concern of hers before, but now she’s curious. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.” Kate leans back against the picnic table, but she doesn’t seem relaxed. “Just graduated college. Doing that during the Snap didn’t suck as having to learn my way around now everyone else is here, so that was—” She cuts herself off. “Sorry, that’s rude. I’m glad everyone is back! Just suddenly college was overpopulated. A lot of my friends got told they didn’t have room for them anymore. It was hard to find on-campus housing. I’m rambling about college, and you just asked for my age. Sorry.”

“You’re fine.” Wanda keeps her hands in her pockets, keeps her eyes on her boys. “I wasn’t here. I didn’t know.” And wouldn’t have known even if she had been here. College was a long time ago, in a small city in Sokovia – small in comparison to the cities she had been in since then, large in comparison to other cities in Sokovia. She’d never graduated; she’d barely had the money to go. But there were scholarships for orphans left behind by…everything. War. Superheroes. Everything. They must have had more during the Snap, for all those left behind by Snapped parents. Or they would have, if not for….

She’d never graduated. Hydra infested the city, the college, the surrounding coffee shops, restaurants, libraries; she never could have known where all of their seeds were until she joined, and even then, she still didn’t – and doesn’t – know. They officially got to her in the summer between sophom*ore and junior year, but they’d had their hooks in her since she met her first roommate freshman year.

She doesn’t say any of this.

“I’m not much older than you anymore,” Wanda says instead, “since you had the Snap.” Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Kate turn to her, but she remains focused on her boys. Tommy is showing Billy how the tree branches catch him when he jumps; he’s trying to get Billy to do the same. The longer it takes Billy to jump, the easier it is for Tommy to laugh at him. She won’t tell them to stop; Billy isn’t high enough into the tree to take much damage. They’ll be fine. “I lost those years.”

I could do nothing.

Kate still looks at her, curious. “How old are you?” As soon as the words come out, her eyes widen, and she looks away. “Sorry.” Her hands clench the wooden bench beneath her. “It’s impolite to ask someone their age. I mean, you asked mine, but you probably think I’m a kid, so it’s not a big deal, but I shouldn’t be asking yours, and a lady never tells, so—”

“Thirty-one.” Wanda cuts Kate’s rambling off easily enough. She takes a deep breath and forces herself to relax, to lean back against the table the way that Kate is, instead of sitting straight-backed, on edge, appearing to be settled but really waiting for something to go wrong. Nothing’s going to go wrong. Not more than it already has.

Kate looks out over the boys. Her brow furrows. “So you were…you were my age? When you had them?” Her brow furrows even further. “Wait, that doesn’t make sense. That’s bad math. Ultron was when I was thirteen; we studied the Sokovian Accords in class; you would’ve—”

“You know a lot about the Avengers.” Wanda warms to her, despite the frankly creepy turn this conversation was taking. She doesn’t think about the impact they have on everyone else very often at all; she does when it’s the death and destruction that seem to follow them everywhere, but she doesn’t think about this side of things.

Kate just shrugs. “I was a huge fan of Clint. Hawkeye. Whatever.” Her fingers drum on the bench. “He’s the reason I got into all of this in the first place. I thought…. I thought I could be just like him. Or better.” She grins, but it fades quickly. “Never thought I would actually be better, but I wanted to be good enough to…to do what he did. Not be an Avenger. Maybe be an Avenger, if I was good enough. But, yeah. I knew all about all of you. There were a bunch of us, before the Snap, who followed everything you did. And every single one of you had your fans. Even you.” She rests back and glances up at the sky. “Scarlet loved you. She said that you were the most powerful of all of them, except maybe Vision. We all wanted to know what that stone was in his head. Sienna thought it was something Iron Man made, like the Arc Reactor, only better. We couldn’t have known—” She shakes her head.

“After the Accords and the fight, we argued a lot. Who was right, who was wrong. We argued about the Accords. Mostly we were all still fans of the Avengers, but there wasn’t really an Avengers anymore. Scarlet and I hung out a lot, then. She used to follow potential sightings of you. Half of them were wrong, probably. A lot of zoomed in half-shots that maybe might have showed you. We knew Clint was with his family, but we didn’t know where that was. There were so many articles about The Potential Rehabilitation of Clint Barton, as if he’d done something wrong.” Kate scoffs and kicks her foot at the ground. She stirs up some of the plants, and they waggle unhappily at her. “Scarlet died just before the Snap. There was an Ant-Man sighting or another super or something, and she raced over there and….” She smiles, wistful. “Scarlet died, but she told me a lot about you, so I know you didn’t have kids during all of that.” Her eyes narrow, and she looks up at Wanda. “We would have known.”

“Maybe.” Wanda feels the weight of Kate’s stare on her, but she doesn’t turn to her. “Your math isn’t wrong, but there are a few things you’ve missed.” She doesn’t bring up Westview. She won’t bring up Westview. “Besides, they are from another universe,” she continues, nodding to her boys. “Things happened differently there.”

“But—”

America stomps out of the tree’s front door, her hands clenched into fists so tight that her knuckles shine white, teeth gritted together, jaw clenched just as tight as her fists. She glances around furiously, and when her eyes find Wanda, she glares at her. Her footsteps leave treads in the earth, but the plants don’t scold her for this the way they scolded Kate just for kicking at them. She eventually stops in front of Wanda, but she doesn’t sit. She stands, and she looks down on her.

How dare you.

She doesn’t say it. Wanda hears it anyway. She hears a lot of things that she shouldn’t.

“Where’s Wong?” America asks instead, voice rough and full of rage. Not at Wong. It’s pretty clear where her rage is focused.

Wanda nods back to the door. “Inside. He hasn’t woken up yet. Magda says he needs a good doctor.” She glances up, then, and meets America’s eyes. “Do you know any?”

It’s a barb at someone who isn’t there to defend himself. Wanda doesn’t care. She sees America’s eyes flash darkly and thinks she deserves it. It’s taken long enough.

She’s just so tired.

“We need to go back,” America says, and her tone suggests that it is somehow both a statement and a question all at once. Her jaw works against itself, and she turns back to the house, where the other Wanda is still inside. “What are we going to do about them?” Her gaze flicks to Wanda’s boys and narrows. “Are we just leaving them here?”

No.

The response builds in Wanda immediately, loud and yelling and screaming so loud that she almost can’t hear anything else. No, they are not going to leave her sons here. They are coming back with her. They are hers, and she is not going to leave them here. She’s certain that her eyes glow the faintest hint of scarlet, and she feels Kate recoil away from her. They are afraid of her. They have always been afraid of her. She used to be so insistent that she could control her own fear, but now? Sometimes, she’s afraid of herself, too. Of what she can do. Of what she has done. Intentionally done.

But Wanda doesn’t say any of that. She doesn’t tell America no. She’s certain she can read it on her face. Instead, she stands and takes a deep breath of the crisp air. It feels like autumn. It feels like the season where things go to die, even though nothing looks dead. Not yet. “I’ll ask.” She starts to the house.

“Bring Wong out when you come back!” America growls. “If he needs a doctor, we need to go!”

Wanda raises a hand and waves it in silent acknowledgment. America’s heated eyes follow her as she goes.

It doesn’t take long to find her other self. She sits on the couch America only just left, her hands in her lap, staring out into the rest of the world. Surprisingly, Magda is nowhere to be seen.

Wanda raises an eyebrow as she sits down next to her other self. “Where’s your mom?”

“Our mom,” the other Wanda corrects, then shakes her head. “Not our mom. Not my mom. She belongs to the Wanda upstairs.” Her gaze flicks briefly upwards, where Erik still is, where the third of them is with her brother and another named Anya – a potential other sister that Wanda has never heard of and wonders, briefly, if this Wanda has. “She’s keeping an eye on Wong. William. Wong.” She presses her fingertips to her forehead, and they wander along her thin, white scar. “All of these names are confusing. I don’t even know what to call you. If I’m Wanda and you’re Wanda…we need something better than this.”

“I thought you were Ashley, and I was Mary,” Wanda says with the hint of a smile. “Or do those names not suit you?”

The other Wanda waves a hand dismissively. “They’re fine for now, and if you want to call me Ashley—” She shudders. “Not Ashley. Use Ash. I can be Ash.”

What remains when everything else has been burned away, Wanda thinks but doesn’t say. “Don’t call me Mary. It doesn’t sit right. I’ll think of something else.” She presses her lips together. “We need to leave,” she says frankly. “Wong needs attention that they can’t provide here. We’re going to be taking him back to our – my – universe. You can come with us, if you want.” Something in her suspects this is unlikely. Why would this Wanda want to go with the one who had possessed her, who had ruined her life, who had caused her to need to flee her universe in the first place? She can’t imagine that she will. “Or you can stay here. It’s up to you.”

The other Wanda – Ash, as she is trying to restructure her mind to refer to her, although that will take a little longer – glances to where Wong rests in the other room, where Magda stands with him. She takes a deep breath and lets it out. “I will go with you.”

Wanda’s eyes widen. Then they narrow with suspicion. “Why?”

“Magda is not my mother,” Ash says again, although she doesn’t seem to find any comfort in it, “and I don’t want to prove a distraction from her actual children. Besides, I can’t just stay with them the entire time and expect them to take care of me. At least in your world….” She hesitates, but it doesn’t need to be said.

In Wanda’s world, Ash will know that her boys will always have someone else to protect them, if she fails.

Ash takes another deep breath. “If I did stay with them, there’s always the chance that one of our boys will fall for…for us. Or Anya. They’re almost the same age here. I don’t think that would be good, do you?”

Wanda shudders at the thought of it. “No, no.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “I didn’t need to think about that. Why is that…. Why.”

“I wanted to give you some of the same pain you have given me.” Ash says it easily enough, but it lingers, heavy, in the air between them. Then she stands, dusts her hands against her jeans, and glances back outside. “I will gather my boys, if we need to leave. We will be waiting outside.”

As Ash starts off, Wanda, too, stands, and she reaches out, just touching her other self’s arm. “Scarlet,” she says, as the other turns to face her. “I’m the Scarlet Witch, after all. You can call me Scarlet.”

Ash gives her a look, and she almost – almost – begins to smile. “Scarlet, then. It suits you.”

“It suits us,” Wanda corrects, meeting Ash’s eyes. For a moment, she sees the scarlet deep within them, too, and then it is gone.

America glares at the door as Wanda carries Wong out. He hovers in the air in front of her, carefully maneuvered through the door and the branches without hitting his head once. Magda follows them, says something she cannot hear, and then hands Wanda the bag she’d given to America the last time that she was here. For a moment, she feels a sense of annoyance; she’d forgotten the bag at all and left it inside when she stormed out here. She doesn’t like to lose things that are hers.

When Wanda comes up to her, the bag in one outstretched hand, America snatches it from her grasp. She slings it over her back and doesn’t say thank you. She doesn’t have anything to thank Wanda for, other than her nightmares, other than her panic, other than everything bad that has happened to her over these past several months.

Rage boils inside her, and while rage can help in some instances, here it is making her blind, no matter how reasonable her anger might be.

America waits until Magda is safely inside, and then she turns away from the tree, one hand clenched, and punches a hole in the universe. She stares out at the Barton homestead and feels nothing. That isn’t her home, and this isn’t her family. They never have been. She’s never wanted them to be.

Then she steps through the star-shaped portal and gestures for the others to follow her.

Chapter 36: Part Three: Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Text

Wanda is tired.

She’s so tired.

The exhaustion feels thick in her bones, pulls at the bags under her eyes, causes her eyes to droop. She wants nothing more than to disappear, to hole up in her log cabin, to cover herself with blankets, and to be lost, lost, lost for a few hours. It isn’t anything wrong with them. It’s just that this is so much – too much for someone who hasn’t been around people much at all for the past several months, who has been dealing with her own depression by doing much of nothing for that same amount of time – and she just….

She can’t leave yet. She needs to introduce Ash and her boys to Clint and his family. She needs to see if they can stay here for a little while until they figure out where they should go.

She can’t keep them in her cabin. That isn’t helpful for anyone. She wants her boys there, she wants her boys with her, but she’s so tired all of the time now, and that won’t be fair for them. Besides, they need school, they need friends, they need to not be holed up in a log cabin in the middle of a deserted and desiccated woodland (she could change that, at least) with no one else but her around – which Ash likely would not appreciate—

Here, while they figure things out, if Clint will….

Wanda is so tired that she can’t quite think straight. She doesn’t lead the charge to the Bartons’ house – Kate does that well enough, such that Clint himself comes out onto the front porch before she can get Wong to them. He looks out over them, over all of them, and his face is unreadable. She’s too tired to try and peek deeper.

Clint places a hand gingerly on her shoulder. “You can let go now. I’ve got him.”

Wanda doesn’t say anything. She only nods, shrugs her shoulder out from under Clint’s touch, and allows the magic holding Wong up to fade. It’s only when Clint catches Wong’s unconscious body in his arms that she realizes who hasn’t come to the house with them. She glances over her shoulder towards America Chavez, who stands facing away from them into the forest farther out.

“I’ll take care of her,” Clint says, grunting beneath Wong’s weight. “Just let me—”

“No,” Wanda interrupts. She doesn’t turn back to him. “It needs to be me.” Her heart grows cold within her. She’s too tired for this, too tired for the fight, the anger, the rage that she knows is coming, that she has felt hot on her back since America woke up.

But sometimes rage cannot be postponed. Doing so only makes it – and its consequences – worse. Wanda knows this from personal, firsthand experience. She hasn’t lived the sort of rage that America feels now, but she has lived her own and let it consume her – and she has seen what it has done to others. Best to get it out now, before it gets any worse.

She deserves this.

She’s just so tired.

America Chavez is not the Hulk. She has never met the Hulk. She doesn’t even know who the Hulk is, other than Clint including him in his description of the Avengers - a sweet guy, on the whole, whose rage could trigger a transformation into a huge, hulking beast…a beast who wasn’t really him, but wasn’t really not him either. He’d apparently gotten the two parts of himself to get along over the Snap, but until then—

America Chavez is not the Hulk, but she feels like she imagines he once felt, right before his rage would prompt a change. It courses through her veins, sets fire to her skin, causes her palms to sweat so much that she doesn’t want to keep her hands in fists, but she needs to keep her hands in fists, she needs to keep her jaw clenched shut, she needs to stand tense, keeping everything tight and pinched together, because relaxing seems impossible right now.

She doesn’t wonder if the Hulk relaxes as his rage is released because she isn’t thinking about him. Mostly, she isn’t thinking about anything at all, except for the anger that cycles and circles through a mind focusing on that instead of what brings her anxiety. (This is not true. She’s still focusing on the source of her anxiety, but she is too angry to be anxious. In some cases, this is not a bad thing; in this one, it is.)

Her teeth grit together. She stares out into the woods. Something in her wants to stalk among the trees, find something she can destroy, and tear it apart with her bare hands, but something else tells her that wouldn’t exactly help. She’s certain it would feel better than this standing still, letting her heart grow as tight within her as her sweaty clenched fists are.

Then she hears the sound of footsteps behind her, footsteps approaching her, and she whirls around, ready to bark at whoever it is to leave her alone, if need be. Seeing Wanda only makes everything worse.

“Go. Away.” America growls, and she glares, and everything feels guttural and intended and unintended all at the same time.

Wanda stops a few feet away from her, but she does not turn and leave. Instead, she sticks her hands into her pockets and waits. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I told you to go away!” America crosses the distance between them easily enough and shoves the older, slightly taller woman. She wants Wanda to stumble. She wants her to fall.

Wanda does neither. She takes a half-step back to steady herself, but otherwise, she holds her ground. “I don’t think that’s what you want.”

Her calm tone stings. It hurts. America wants Wanda to be mad. She wants her to react. She wants to fight. “How do you know what I want?” She reaches forward and shoves Wanda again.

And, again, Wanda doesn’t move. She doesn’t even take the extra half-step back; she’s too stable standing where she is, with her hands still stuck in her pockets, hiding the black-stained fingers that America knows so well. Their corruption probably doesn’t even show right now. She’s probably hidden it with the same illusion she used to make herself look like this. All cleaned up.

Well, America isn’t cleaned up. America can’t make any fancy illusions. America is still covered with the blood and refuse of the man who had tried to take her power. The latest person to try and take her power. None of that had happened before Wanda decided that what belonged to America should have belonged to her.

“I don’t,” Wanda says, her voice gentle but not soft. “Why don’t you tell me?”

America’s eyes narrow. “I want you to go away. I told you to go away. Multiple times. And you’re still here. Why can’t you just leave me alone?” She pushes Wanda with each sentence, sometimes with each word, but the witch doesn’t move. Her voice cracks on the last sentence, and she hates it for doing that. It makes her sound like a child. She’s not a child.

Still, Wanda doesn’t listen. “You started having panic attacks,” she says instead, staring down on America like she’s so much better than she is. “What are those about?”

“Wouldn’t you love to know,” America mutters, glaring at Wanda. She keeps her hands clenched, but she doesn’t shove her again. It doesn’t do any good. It just makes her feel powerless, and she isn’t powerless, either. She could punch Wanda into an entire other universe.

But she doesn’t.

“I would like to know.” One corner of Wanda’s lips curves, as though she’s smiling. Laughing. Amused. She isn’t taking this seriously. “That’s why I asked.”

America knows the best way to hurt her. Maybe. “They’re about you,” she spits out, continuing to glare at Wanda. “You in your,” she gestures with one hand, “scarlet and headpiece and all that stuff. Your eyes glowing. Chasing after me. And I can’t get away from you. No matter how hard I try, I can’t get away. You catch me, and you rip my heart out.” She looks up at Wanda and meets her eyes. “I never had dreams before you, and now I only have nightmares about you. It’s the worst. And it’s all your fault!”

It is. She knows Wanda won’t question that. She even sees the little flicker of pain in Wanda’s green eyes. It sparks scarlet.

Good.

“And now,” America continues, shoving her again, “now you’re pretending to be my mom! You’re not my mom! You’re not either of my moms!” She shoves her again, and this time, Wanda steps back. It isn’t a stumble, it isn’t a half-step, it’s a moment that she’s taken off guard, and she. steps. back. “How dare you? How dare you pretend to be my mom? My moms would never hurt me.” She shoves Wanda back, and Wanda takes another step back. “My moms would never have tried to take my powers.” Another shove, and another step back. “My moms would never have tried to kill me. How dare you?” A third shove, and a third step back.

Wanda still doesn’t stumble.

America feels the rage bubbling beneath her skin. She wants her to stumble. She wants her to fall. She wants to stand over the Scarlet Witch and feel like— Feel like—

She’s not sure what it’ll feel like, but she thinks it’ll be something good.

“You don’t even like me!” America says it, and it feels petty in light of everything else, but it’s still there nevertheless. “Half of the time, you don’t answer the door! You threw me away like I’m trash! Multiple times! I’m not trash!” She shoves her again. “I’m a human! being!” She grits her teeth together and gives another shove. It feels final. She doesn’t want it to be final. She wants to keep going. She hasn’t won yet. “You only want me when you can use me for something.” Her voice is quieter now. Then she glares up at her. “And no matter how many times I go to other universes, you’re always there. Waiting for me. No matter where I go, I can’t get away from you. And you hate me!”

When she shoves her again, Wanda stumbles. She moves enough to right herself but stares at the ground. She doesn’t say anything. America doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have anything else left to say. She waits.

And waits.

“You’re right.”

Wanda still speaks soft. The words cut gentle through America’s rage, but they don’t comfort. They don’t help. If anything, they make things worse.

And she keeps going.

“I don’t like you,” Wanda says, keeping her hands still shoved in her pockets. She’s stumbled, but not enough. “I don’t want you. I never wanted you to come around, America. I wanted you to leave me alone. To go away.” She doesn’t meet America’s eyes because America refuses to meet hers, but she stares at her without anger, without menace, speaking with the weight of truth. “You are the one who came to me. Who kept coming, even though I clearly did not want you there. You cannot pin that on me. You knew. You knew.”

Like you were some project I needed to fix. Because it’s what my moms would have wanted me to do. Because it is the right thing to do.

But America isn’t so self-assured of her rightness that she isn’t also confused. Was it right to push through when someone clearly wanted her gone? Hadn’t she done exactly what Wanda is doing to her now? Somehow, the very idea of that just stokes the rage within her. She had been right to go after Wanda. Hadn’t she? And Wanda is wrong to keep bothering her now. That’s clear to her. Why wouldn’t that be clear?

America’s fingers stretch, twist once – not unlike Wanda’s, when she uses her powers – and then clench it two fists. When she steps forward and punches Wanda in the face, it is with the full force of a punch that can rip holes in the universe. She hears a sickening crack, and at once, she feels ashamed.

But Wanda falls.

She expected to feel a sense of glee. Of power. Of rightness. But America feels none of that. Just shame and a still continuing rage. She pushes away the shame. She’s right. Wanda deserves this.

And she straddles Wanda’s fallen body and keeps punching.

Wanda doesn’t move her hands from her pockets.

There’s a moment.

Wanda – Ash, she really should think of herself as Ash, but it’s hard when she’s always been Wanda – stands in Clint Barton’s living room – not her Clint, but a living one – while her boys play with his children – one of them is named for Natasha and Pietro, and something about that tears at her heart – with a hot mug held in her hands – hot chocolate with a hint of lime – and notices that the other Wanda – Scarlet – isn’t there. At least, she hasn’t seen her in a while, but she could just be somewhere else in the house.

It doesn’t take long to look around the family rooms, the open spaces, and see that Scarlet is nowhere to be seen. More perplexing is that America Chavez is also missing. Considering everything, that doesn’t seem like a great idea.

Wanda takes a sip of her hot chocolate, nods at something Laura Barton says, and glances out the window. That looks like America and….

She blinks twice, unsure of what exactly she’s seeing.

No, Wanda knows what she’s seeing, but she can’t believe it. For a moment, she just stares in disbelief. She takes another sip of her hot chocolate. Then it hits her. She still doesn’t believe it, but if it is real, then she can’t just—

Wanda places her hot chocolate on one of the side tables. She turns back to Laura and pats her shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

Laura seems surprised that she did that. Is Scarlet that obtuse? Not important.

Wanda slips through the front door and shuts it softly behind her. She peers at the scene before her. It hasn’t changed. Which, somehow, makes it even more odd.

She’s calm as she walks towards the two of them. Half of her says she should run – she should, after all, feel protective of herself – but the other half of her remembers that this is the person who locked her in her own mind while she killed…. Well, Peggy had been a friend. Xavier had been a very nice acquaintance who could have been a friend if not for…everything.

If she’s completely honest with herself, Wanda really wants to be doing the exact same thing that America is doing now, but wanting to do it doesn’t mean that it’s right. Justified, maybe, but not right.

America is so caught up in punching the ever-loving sh*t out of Scarlet that she doesn’t even notice when Wanda approaches. There’s blood on her knuckles, but at this point, Wanda has seen her fair share of blood. Been covered in it, actually.

Wanda places a hand on America’s shoulder. “That’s enough.”

America doesn’t stop.

Wanda sighs, takes another deep breath, and then grips America’s shoulder. “I said, that’s enough.”

When America looks up, there are tears in her eyes, but that doesn’t keep her from glaring – glaring – up at her. “Why are you stopping me? Don’t you want this?”

For a moment, at least, there is silence. Not much of it; the wind rustles through the trees behind them, and their branches whisper against each other. It’s cooler here than it was in the plant universe, but not so cool as it was in her own. The multiverse is weird that way.

Wanda glances down at Scarlet. Her nose is broken. One of her eyes is already swelling up. It’s quite likely that her cheekbone is broken, too. America hasn’t been pulling her punches. She isn’t really surprised.

“She’s had enough.”

America sits back. She stares down at what she’s done. Her eyes flicker with something, perhaps rage itself, slipping away. She doesn’t say anything.

Wanda reaches over and pats her back. “You’ve had enough.”

But America doesn’t say anything. She glances up, focuses on the Barton household, and then nods. “You’re right,” she finally says. “I have.” She slowly gets to her feet and dusts her hands off. The blood on her knuckles smears across her fingertips. She glances up. There’s a smattering of blood like freckles across her cheeks. “Thank you for stopping me.”

I don’t know why she didn’t.

Then America turns, hits the universe with a punch strong enough to break it, and calmly steps through.

Wanda kneels down next to Scarlet and slowly sits her upright. Her lip is cracked. The eye that isn’t swollen is already starting to blacken at the seams. She knows broken bones when she sees them, but she can’t see all of them now. “It’s a good thing,” she starts to say, letting Scarlet rest against her, “that we already have a doctor coming for Wong. They’ll do a better job than I would.”

“Clint will do just fine,” Scarlet rasps out. She coughs twice and pulls her hand away bloody. “I don’t need it.”

“My Clint couldn’t fix broken bones, and I don’t think yours can either.”

Scarlet doesn’t say anything to that. She glances up. Her eyes scan around them, but she’s careful not to move her head too much. “Where is she?”

“She left,” Wanda answers, staring at the place where the portal has already disappeared. “She’s probably three universes away by now.”

“Good.” Scarlet stands. It’s a slow process, but she does it. She wipes her hands against her jeans and leaves blood stains behind. “She never should have stayed here in the first place.” She wipes her hand against her mouth, and it comes away bloody again. She stares at the blood. “Huh.” Then she starts towards the farmhouse.

Wanda doesn’t. Not just yet. She stares at the space where the star-shaped portal stood. “You weren’t supposed to leave yet,” she says, finally, although she knows no one can hear it. She steps forward and holds her hand up in the air, as though she could find the edges of the star if she tries hard enough. “I don’t think she’s told you, but we’ve all seen your star before.”

There’s nothing there. No matter how hard Wanda searches, there won’t be anything there. She knows that.

But she still stands there and searches, as if doing so will bring the wanderer back to them.

Chapter 37: Part Three: Epilogue

Chapter Text

America runs for a very long time.

Chapter 38: Part Four: Prologue

Chapter Text

There are many stories hidden in the library at Kamar-Taj.

Wong knows most of them by heart, and the ones he doesn’t, he has enough passing remembrances of to follow along if someone else brings them up. The stories of the Scarlet Witch are few and far between, primarily because they’re based in hearsay and theories, in myths and legends, not in quantifiable fact. The closest they had was the book Wanda destroyed, and it had been lost for so long that there were no longer any primary sources dealing with her. Only possibilities. Only potentials. Only unknowns.

By comparison, the multiverse is mentioned significantly more than the Scarlet Witch is, although still in passingly rare amounts. But Wong had been interested in the multiverse when he first learned about it, and he’d spent enough time studying it that, at the time, he could have written a thesis on it. But that was a long, long time ago, and he’d forgotten most of it over time. He’s learned so much more since then, had so many more things that needed his full focus, that he really only remembers some fairly cool tidbits.

But something has been niggling at the back of his mind over the past few months. Something Wong remembers reading a very long, long time ago but can’t remember exactly. Something to do with the multiverse and the Scarlet Witch.

Now, it takes a while before Wong recovers from his head trauma enough to be able to read again without feeling something pressing at the back of his head, and it takes even longer to be able to read for long enough periods of time that he can search through the library to find precisely what he is looking for. He remembers most of the texts on the multiverse and where they can be found, but he was never particularly interested in the Scarlet Witch – wasn’t even after their fight so many months ago – so trying to find the very specific book where the two intersected takes a fair bit of time. Or – it would have taken a fair bit of time without his recovering from a concussion, and it takes a fair bit more due to the same.

Wong does, eventually, find it, and when he does, he reads:

“It is the theory of this researcher that just as there are certain Fixed Points in our own universe which cannot be rewritten without unraveling it, there are also Fixed Points – or, rather, Fixed Persons – in the multiverse. These persons, which I will further refer to as Nexus Beings, exist in every universe across the multiverse. They may not exist in the same way or the same form, and they may not even have the same name or lineage, but in every universe, you will find a version – or variant – of a Nexus Being. Like Fixed Points, Nexus Beings are few and far between. Most of us will have no occasion to meet one, and even if we did, how would we know it? We would need to traverse the multiverse ourselves, making note of every being on every world and beyond, and then begin to compare notes.

“However, it is also the theory of this researcher that certain beings may be identified as Nexus Beings due to the impact they have – or may yet have – to our universe. Given the prophesies and theories surrounding her, it is likely that the Scarlet Witch is one such being.”

Wong stares at the book for a moment longer. It’s a throwaway line – or not, depending on where someone stands in their research – and beyond that, the writer gives a list of other potential Nexus Beings with various reasons. His head aches – a bit of pressure building in the back of his skull – and he can’t be sure if that’s a lingering effect of his concussion or if it’s from trying to understand the implications of what is being theorized.

There is, of course, no proof that Nexus Beings exist in the way that this writer suggests, nor is there any proof that the Scarlet Witch might be one of them.

But the thought of it settles uncomfortably in the center of his chest.

Wong determines not to say anything about this to anyone. He can’t see it doing any good.

Chapter 39: Part Four: Chapter One

Chapter Text

Ten years ago – although it feels like less to Scarlet, given the five years she lost to the Snap – every Scarlet Witch in every universe who was living (and dreaming) at that time had the same exact dream Not all of them would have called themselves Wanda Maximoff. Not all of them would have called themselves Wanda. They have different names, different ages, different accents, different experiences. Some of them still live with their parents, hiding in the basem*nt while they figure out what to do with their lives; some of them have started to see the manifestation of their powers, while others have not; some of them have never known a life without their powers. Some of them have a twin brother; some of them have a twin sister; some of them have no siblings at all. Some of them are children. Some of them are adults. Some of them are so old that even their wrinkles have wrinkles. Some of them are orphans. Some of them are completely alone.

But every single one of them who can dream, every single one of them who isn’t awake at the time, has the same exact dream.

And every single one of them who has the dream remembers it, stark in their memory. For some, it starts off as a nightmare; for others, it starts as a memory; and for a few, it is a vision of their future, but only in part.

For Scarlet, it happens on the eve of the Avengers’ invasion of Sokovia, and it stokes the fires of her anger and hatred of Tony Stark. It prompts her to play a little more harshly with his mind, not that she’d meant to ever play it easy with him. It burns at the core of her.

So, so long ago, the Scarlet Witches dream.

Wanda Maximoff – and she is Wanda in this universe – huddles in the wreckage of an apartment she once shared with her family. Her brother huddles together with her. Their parents are nowhere to be seen.

(This is not true. Bits and pieces of her parents are scattered in the wreckage. She knows better than to look where the television once stood, where it now plays only static, knocked to one side, because the last time she looked, she thought she saw her mother’s head staring open-eyed at them, separated from the body that is mostly – mostly – on the other side of the room. Wanda tells herself that her parents are nowhere to be seen because that’s easier for her to tolerate, but her dreams – the memories more than the experiences of her other selves across the multiverse, although she cannot know that yet – will play this image again, enhancing the pieces of her parents where they lay, all staring at her, all accusing her for not being able to save them, for not knowing that this would happen before it does. Hadn’t she dreamed this? She can’t remember. She can’t remember. And even if she had, how would she have known? What would she have done? There is nothing.)

Her entire world is huddling under the wreckage, staring at a bomb crafted by Stark Industries, watching the red light flicker and listening to the beep of a bomb that has yet to go off.

It should have gone off when it landed. Wanda is grateful that it hasn’t, but there’s only so much constant anxiety her heart can take. She thinks, surely, that she and her brother could get out of their hiding places and walk away, but what if their movements disturb things enough that the bomb goes off and kills them just as it killed their parents? She can’t risk it. They can’t risk it.

This is the second night. Wanda can look up and see the stars, if she wants, but she doesn’t. She looks at the bomb and the flashing light for any indication that the worst is coming. Sometimes – and she hates herself for this – she thinks it would be better for the bomb to just go off and kill them already. She’s accepted that it will. She’s accepted that she will die and that her brother will die and sometimes…sometimes she just wants it to hurry up and get it over with already.

Wanda stares at the bomb, and she hates the bomb, and she waits for the bomb, and….

Is the light flickering faster?

It is. Faster and faster. That means it’s coming. That means she’s about to die. She’s only ten years old. She doesn’t want to die. She doesn’t want to—

The next several things happen so quickly that it takes a little while for Wanda to straighten them all out.

A star shape opens up between her and the bomb. It is bright and sparkling, the way a real star would be, all white and light blue against the stark blackness of the night.

Two women, dressed in blue robes and with their hair piled on top of their head, tumble out.

A child follows them, just as the star shape begins to close, but she seems to phase through that shape into another one and disappears before either of the women can grab her.

The bomb goes off.

Wanda pushes Pietro behind her and holds up her hand between them and the explosion. Consciously, she knows this won’t actually do anything at all, the explosion will still sever her arm from the rest of the body and reduce her to even smaller parts than the ones of her parents that are scattered around the wreckage of their apartment, but subconsciously, she does so anyway, as if she could put up a shield between the two of them, as if she could do anything—

They don’t die.

Wanda opens her eyes to see a thin bubble-like substance surrounding the four of them – Pietro, the two women, and herself. Both of the women hold their hands aloft. The bubble wavers around them. There’s no oil in whatever makes this bubble – it’s not soap and water, but something pulled from the ether – and yet, somehow, there are still spirals of rainbow throughout its translucent, neatly blue form.

Outside of the bubble is fire and fire and then smoke and ash and then the wreckage of the apartment isn’t even that anymore, just dust. Thick dust.

Wanda can’t breathe it in, but she coughs anyway.

One of the women glances over her shoulder, and she offers her a warm smile. “Are you okay?” Her voice sounds like honey, smooth and comforting.

Those aren’t the right words. Wanda hears something else beneath that, some other language that she doesn’t know and doesn’t speak, but the meaning of it comes across clearly to her. She can’t respond in the same way the woman does, and she’s so thirsty and tired that she doesn’t know if she can speak anyway. Instead, she nods, slow.

It’s a lie – Wanda isn’t okay, and she isn’t sure that she will be quite okay again, not like she was before the bomb – but it’s the closest thing to the truth she can communicate right now.

The woman continues to smile, although there is something sad in it, and she turns to the other woman next to her. She says something in that other language again, but this time, Wanda can’t understand what she says. She doesn’t know why she can’t now when she could before. Maybe they will explain that to her. Maybe they won’t. Maybe it’s just something that she will understand when she is older.

Then the women slowly lower their hands. The bubble dissipates around them until it’s so thin that it just pops. The one who didn’t turn to smile at them collapses to her knees. She cries and punches the ground. The first woman seems to try and comfort her, saying more to her in that language that Wanda can’t understand, and eventually, the second one turns, her eyes red with crying, and looks at Wanda and Pietro.

There is nothing harsh in her stare. Only loss and anguish.

The first woman crosses to Wanda and kneels so that she is at face height with her. “Where are your parents?” she asks, the other language just beneath the words that Wanda somehow comprehends.

Wanda doesn’t meet her eyes. “Dead,” she says, and it is the first time that she has said it, even to herself, and the words feel wrong on her lips and sound wrong in her ears, and her throat chokes up, and she feels the tears trekking through the ash and dust on her face, and her lips are chapped, and her voice is rough from disuse, and she reaches over and pulls her brother to her, and she cries.

The woman reaches out as though to touch her, hesitates, and then does so anyway. Her fingertips are warm and light. “If you will have us,” she murmurs, glancing back to her partner, “we will be your parents now.”

Something in Wanda recoils at the idea of replacing her parents, but something equally strong opens and unfolds to the other woman. She glances up and meets her eyes; they’re dark, but with sparks of blue and white hidden in the depths of them. Unnatural. Inhuman. Beautiful. Her head tilts to one side as she examines the woman in front of her. “Who are you?”

“Amalia,” the woman says, and she gestures to the other young woman, who is keeping a curious and careful eye on everything that is happening, “and this is my wife, Elena.”

Wanda isn’t so young that she notices they do not give her a last name, but she is too young to question it. Or perhaps it is not her age that keeps her from questioning and more the overwhelming nature of the past 48 hours and especially of the past several minutes, which she still hasn’t quite straightened out. She only knows that these women stumbled through a portal and protected her and her brother from certain, absolute death. If they don’t want to give her a last name, maybe they don’t have one.

Amalia reaches her hand out to help Wanda from the rubble, and Wanda takes it willingly. She brushes dust and dirt from her clothes and then reaches to help her brother up as well. Pietro looks from Amalia to Elena and then back again, and he says what Wanda has completely forgotten to say in his own thick, Sokovian accent, “Thank you.”

For some of them, the dream ends here, but for Scarlet – and for Ash – the dream continued a little farther. They see the foursome leave the wreckage, and they see the two women talk fervently back and forth while they – while the Wanda there with them – can only stand and stare. Then one of the women – Elena, not Amalia – meets Wanda’s eyes and says, so soft that it’s likely no one else hears them, “Tell the others that if they need us, we will be here.”

The Wanda of the dream doesn’t know what that means, and the Scarlet Witches who hear the comment and awaken often don’t understand it either.

Ash understands it the moment that Scarlet frees her from her control, but without the ability to dreamwalk, she has no way to contact them – and, honestly, no way to bring them to her aid even if she could. She is the others, every Scarlet Witch who saw the dream is the others, but why should it matter if the rest of them know of their existence?

It takes Scarlet longer. She remembers the dream only faintly and very rarely lingers on it. There has never been any real reason to return to it, although it is one of the few dreams she has never been able to quite forget. It stings her, the possibility of someone coming to save her from the wreckage, of someone saving her and Pietro from the years that followed. It’s a loss that it’s better she doesn’t focus on.

But as Christine Palmer conducts a quite necessary facial surgery on her that Scarlet could not quite talk her out of, Scarlet’s mind wanders, and Scarlet remembers, and deep within the anesthesia, things begin to connect. It’s too late, but they connect regardless.

And when she wakes, Scarlet has an additional weight of guilt that she’d never wanted and never asked for and shoves out of mind.

Chapter 40: Part Four: Chapter Two

Chapter Text

A few days earlier….

“Okay, you guys can’t just fly me out whenever you need a doctor.” Christine walks into the Barton house like she owns the place – not in an arrogant sort of way, but certainly a frustratedly competent sort of way. She sets a case full of supplies on the nearest table and then looks around before meeting Clint’s eyes. “Where’s my patient?” Then she glances back to Scarlet and Ash. “And why are there two Wandas?”

Clint sighs. “It’s a long story.”

“Does it involve Stephen?”

“Yes,” Scarlet says at the exact moment that Ash says, “No.” Scarlet gives Ash a questioning look before deciding it isn’t worth the discussion. Her jaw still aches from the pummeling America gave her earlier, an ache that is nothing compared to the pain the rest of her face feels. One of her eyes is swollen shut, and she’ll have a black eye by tomorrow, if it even takes that long. Her hands are still shoved into her pockets, but she knows if she pulls them out she will have four bloody half-moons on each of her palms from clenching her hands so tight.

She’d wanted to fight back. She couldn’t fight back.

“You’ll need to see Wanda, too, after Wong,” Clint says apologetically. “She looked fine when they got back, but….” His voice trails off.

How could they tell Christine that a sixteen year old girl, who had run away from them, had caused that much damage to the Scarlet Witch? To Wanda? It would be better not to mention America at all.

Christine just waves one hand dismissively. “No, no, don’t tell me what happened. I don’t want to know.” She glances up at both of them. “Honestly, I don’t. There’s so many clauses about what doctors can and can’t report, and you know how much the government wanted all up in your business before the Snap, so – for your own safety – don’t tell me. I don’t want to know, and you don’t want me to know. Now,” she looks past Clint, “where is my patient?”

Clint gestures to a back room where Wong waits, slowly but surely coming to consciousness. Blood is still caked to his forehead. He hasn’t washed it off yet; he hasn’t been conscious that long. And while he knows where he is, he isn’t sure exactly how he got there. Or why Christine Palmer is coming to check on him, although most of that he can figure out on his own.

Scarlet doesn’t follow Clint and Christine into the other room. Instead, she sinks further into the couch and closes her eye.

“Hey.” Ash nudges her right side, where her eye is swollen shut. “Don’t go to sleep.”

“I’m not going to sleep,” Scarlet says, not opening her eye. “I’m just resting my eyes. Eye. Eyes?” She shakes her head. “I’m fine.”

Ash nudges her side again. “You are not fine. Stay awake.”

Scarlet sighs and cracks her eye open. She tries and fails to open the swollen one, and it just makes it hurt more. “You aren’t going to leave me alone, are you?”

“No.”

“Fine.” Scarlet pushes herself up into a better sitting position, hating that she’s doing it. Christine would have woken her if she’d dozed off. Being pummeled certainly didn’t make her less tired. She’s still tired. Exhausted. Maybe Ash is right. Maybe if she stayed in one position long enough with her eyes closed, she would doze off. It certainly sounds appealing.

“Scarlet?” Ash asks after another few silent moments. She doesn’t wait for an acknowledgment before she continues. “Why didn’t you fight back?”

Scarlet lets out a sigh and stares at the ceiling. “You don’t know?”

“I can guess.”

“You can have a turn, too, if you—”

“No.” Ash shakes her head. She tucks her hair back behind one ear. “I don’t need to beat the crap out of you. It won’t change anything.”

“It might—”

“—and it won’t make me feel better.” Ash sighs. She nudges Scarlet a third time. “Don’t go to sleep.”

Scarlet glares at her with her good eye. “I didn’t even close my eyes.”

“Oh.” Ash winces with chagrin. “Wrong side. I’m sorry.” She slowly gets up and moves to Scarlet’s other side, where her eye isn’t swollen shut.

There’s silence again. It doesn’t feel awkward, which is nice for Scarlet. She is used to the long silences of her cabin in the middle of nowhere, but that’s a silence borne of her loneliness. Those sorts of silences never feel the same as those when she’s around other people. There’s no weight to this one, no awkwardness, just a gentle sort of lull. It’s…oddly nice. She never thought she would feel nice around Ash. She doesn’t quite trust it.

“Ash?”

“Hm?” Ash hums, her own eyes not quite entirely open.

Scarlet, catching this, nudges her. “Don’t you go to sleep.” It would be easy to wait for her other self to open her eyes and turn to her, which is maybe why she asks before Ash opens her eyes. “Why did you stop her?”

“Stop who?” Ash asks without opening her eyes. Instead, she settles a little more comfortably onto the couch next to Scarlet, resting her head against the back of the couch.

You know who, Scarlet thinks. She hates that her other self wants her to be so specific when she knows. She hates that she’s making her say it. “America. She would have stopped eventually. Why did you stop her?”

Ash doesn’t say anything for a long enough time that it’s quite possible that she did doze off. Even if she hasn’t, Scarlet doesn’t really expect an answer. But she’s curious. If she were in her other self’s shoes – which, to some extent, she is, even though she isn’t – the multiverse is weird, and sometimes there are no straight answers or comparisons between one version of a person and another – she would have let America beat her until she was dead. Perhaps not that far – she wouldn’t like to think of the child beating her to death, but she also doesn’t think America would have gone there. Angry or not, America doesn’t seem to have a killing instinct. Not yet, anyway.

Scarlet, however, has had one for a very long time. As much as she likes to think she only uses it on those who deserve it, her attack on Kamar-Taj – and on the Illuminati – proves that wrong. None of them had deserved it (with the exception of Mordo, who she had not attacked and had not killed, ironically enough). At the time, she thought they had, but she was…wrong. She’s known that for a while now.

Eventually, Ash says, “I don’t think it was fair of you to use America as your instrument of self-harm.” She takes a deep breath and keeps her eyes closed, not saying anything more.

Scarlet turns to her and stares at her. “What?”

Ash sighs again. She opens her eyes, and she turns just enough that she can face Scarlet without moving her head from where it rests on the back of the couch. “You feel guilty for what happened to me. You feel guilty for what you did to America. You feel guilty, and you feel like you haven’t been punished enough.” She meets Scarlet’s eyes. “Even now, you still feel like you haven’t been punished enough. Am I right?”

Scarlet looks into Ash’s eyes. They look identical to hers from far away, but closer, she can see that there is more green there than in her own. More life. Scarlet’s have been twisted and corrupted, just like her fingertips have been stained. “Yes,” she says hesitantly. If she’s honest with herself, it’s for more than just that. But it’s a good start.

“My therapist says that isn’t healthy.”

“You have a therapist?” Scarlet stares in wonder at Ash. “How? When? Why?” The last question feels unnecessary. If Ash is anything like her, there are likely a lot of reasons to have a therapist. Not that Scarlet has ever seen one herself. She’s never felt like she could trust any of them; she’s never felt like any of them would really understand.

Ash sits up a little straighter, enough that she can nod once. “When Vision and I were first having trouble, he suggested we go to marital counseling.”

Ah. That makes sense. Of course. Vis would.

“It didn’t save our marriage, but it did help us separate without hating each other.” Ash snorts and then smiles fondly. “Not that I think we ever would have hated each other. But it helped us understand that was the best decision early enough that we didn’t kill each other trying to make something work that…didn’t.” She shrugs. “I kept seeing her on my own afterwards. It felt like it helped, like it would help. And it did.” She sighs. “I don’t guess I’ll get to see her again. Pity.”

“She might exist in this world,” Scarlet suggests half-heartedly.

“It’s not the same.” Ash scrunches up her nose. “I don’t want to start over again, and I think I’ve made enough progress that I don’t need to see her anymore. You might, though.”

Scarlet barks out a laugh. “No. No therapists for me, thank you.” She grows quieter. “Besides, I killed people. You didn’t. I should be punished for that. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

The whole destroying Mount Wundagore and being killed in the wreckage was supposed to be that – her punishment. Except she didn’t die. Scarlet still isn’t sure how she made it out of there alive. She doesn’t know if the mountain itself – or the building carved inside of it – protected her as the Scarlet Witch or if it was something – someone – else. The last time she’d wanted to die (and should have died), back in Sokovia, when the country was falling from the sky, Vision swooped in to save her. It wasn’t him this time, and it wasn’t the white Vision she’d seen in Westview. In fact, she can almost remember feeling…not quite herself. Separate from herself, somehow.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

Scarlet turns to Ash, but her other self only stares straight ahead. She doesn’t say anything else, and Scarlet doesn’t ask.

This time, neither of them breaks the silence – one that hangs heavy between them, heavier than it had before – until Christine walks into the room. Scarlet sits up. “How’s Wong?” She doesn’t know why she asks. She doesn’t know that she really cares. (She does, and she isn’t sure why.)

“Wong has a concussion.” Christine moves to the coffee table in front of Scarlet and Ash. “He needs to take the week off.” She turns back briefly and yells out, “I don’t care if you’re the Sorcerer Supreme, Wong. Take the week off.” Then she turns back with a sigh. “You look like someone beat the—”

Ash glances quickly out the window, where her boys and the Barton children are running around. She raises both of her eyebrows sharply.

Christine reconsiders as she sits on the coffee table. “—crap out of you.” She leans forward with one gloved hand outstretched. “May I?”

Scarlet refuses to think of herself as anyone’s patient, and she doesn’t feel quite comfortable with allowing a doctor to look her over. She shares more than one look with Ash, as though to suggest that neither of them has ever needed a doctor before, that they have both healed just fine on their own, and that they don’t need one now. Ash returns her look with an equally strong one and a raised eyebrow that suggests Scarlet remember that they do not share the same experiences and that Scarlet’s are absolutely not universal – or multiversal, as the case may be. Then she takes a deep breath. “Fine.”

Every time Christine touches her, Scarlet flinches. It isn’t pain, although she is in a great deal of that, but it’s something else. She can’t say just what.

It doesn’t take five minutes before Christine leans back. “Your nose is broken,” she murmurs, “but that should heal on its own. You’ll need to let me know if it doesn’t heal straight – then it will have to be rebroken – but you should be fine.” Her head tilts to one side, and she reaches back over, slowly moving Scarlet’s face so that she can look over her right side again. “It’s your cheekbone I’m worried about. I think it’s broken, but I won’t know without an x-ray.” She squints and runs a thumb gently along it. “You may need surgery.”

Scarlet flinches away, out of her touch. “No. No surgery. No hospitals.”

“Wanda,” Christine starts. Then she pinches the bridge of her nose. “There are two of you,” she mutters under her breath. “Wanda, you can’t avoid the hospital right now. Your cheekbone is probably broken. It will not heal on its own, and I can’t see what’s going on here. I didn’t bring a portable x-ray machine.”

“Do they make those?”

Christine shrugs. “Even if they did, I can’t perform surgery on you here if you need surgery – and you can’t just not have surgery. Your face will get worse. It might sink in, and then you might need reconstruction surgery. If it’s necessary, it’s better to take care of it now.”

But Scarlet doesn’t move. “No,” she repeats. “No surgery. No hospitals.”

Clint walks back into the room and crosses his arms before leaning up against the stairway. He seems to take in the entire situation with one look and then nods to Christine. “Is there a problem?”

“I need to give her an x-ray,” Christine says, calm, not whining, and gestures to Scarlet with one hand, “but she refuses to go to a hospital. She might need surgery, and she’s refusing that, too.”

Scarlet feels the weight of Clint’s gaze on her. He doesn’t ask – not in words – but she can read his expression enough to know that he’s asking anyway. She refuses to answer. Let him think what he wants.

Christine sighs. “I know you’re an Avenger – or you used to be one – and you want your privacy. I can make sure your room is well-guarded.”

“You’ve been out of the loop, haven’t you?” Scarlet asks, her head tilting to one side. “I attacked Kamar-Taj. I incited an attack in New York—”

“The one right after my wedding?”

“—and a lot of people think I enslaved an entire city a couple of years ago. Whoever your security is, I don’t think they’ll be enough.” More than that, Scarlet expects said security detail to turn against her. She’s a villain now. Of course, her entire house situation seems normal enough from far away – which is how she suspects that other Vision hasn’t found her – and it screams do not come any closer if people get close enough to need the warning. Most people likely think she died on Mount Wundagore, and the ones who don’t know enough to know they don’t want to try and cross her.

But if she’s sedated….

Scarlet doesn’t want to think about all the potential problems that could happen if she was sedated.

“We could arrange for something here,” Clint starts to suggest.

“No,” Scarlet cuts him off. “If they got wind that I was here—”

“You’re already here,” Clint says, “and we’re not going to give you up lightly.” He nods to Christine. “Then you won’t have to worry about her security or guards or…whatever you have going on in that hospital of yours. No offense.”

Christine lets out a little groan and rubs her forehead. “None taken.”

“You’ll have us.” Clint pauses, and his head tilts back and forth once. “You’ll have me. A retired Avenger. And Kate, because she can’t stay out of trouble. And Laura.” He doesn’t try to suggest Ash join them. Instead, his gaze turns to her. “We can find somewhere safer for you and your boys, if that happens.”

Ash gives him a steady look back. “We’ll stay here. If your kids can stay, my kids can stay. And you aren’t the only retired Avenger around here.” She nudges Scarlet once. “Consider it payback for the Illuminati.”

“Fine.” Scarlet frowns. “Fine. If you can set up surgery on a farm, then fine. If I need surgery, I can have it here.” She meets Christine’s eyes. “That work for you?”

Christine sighs again. “I could make a lot of commentary on the amount of cleanliness a surgical area would necessitate, but I don’t think any of you would listen to me. As a doctor, I think you’re being foolish, but also as a doctor, I would rather do the surgery here than not at all. Assuming you even need one, since you haven’t been x-rayed yet.” She clasps her hands together and stands. “How long is it going to take to get everything I need?”

“I don’t know.” Clint shrugs. “Why don’t you come with me, and then you can tell me what all I need to find.” He gestures with one hand, and they leave the room.

Scarlet sighs, and as she does, Ash asks, “The no hospitals thing – is there another reason for that, or—”

“If you don’t know, then you don’t know.” Scarlet speaks a little more harshly than she had before, but she feels stressed, and she’s still so tired. She just wants to go back to her cabin and curl up and not see any of them again for…. She isn’t sure she wants to see any of them again at all. People are tiring.

No, it is trying to be human that is tiring.

“I’m going to close my eye for a bit,” Scarlet murmurs. “If you wake me up this time….” Her voice fades away. She doesn’t feel like really threatening anyone right now. She’s too tired for that. “Just…don’t wake me.”

Ash doesn’t nudge her when she closes her unswollen eye, and that’s enough for her.

For now.

Chapter 41: Part Four: Chapter Three

Chapter Text

It takes time to get everything to the Barton farmstead, and in that time, Scarlet considers. Scarlet considers, and Scarlet thinks, and Scarlet decides that perhaps the Barton farmstead is not the best place for all of this hullabaloo. Yes, there are people who will protect her here, if need be, and yes, that’s.... Well, it’s a semi-comforting thought, that all of these people would willingly fight for her, after everything, especially since she still doesn’t quite think that they should. (And it is a weird thing, this desire to be punished, this knowledge that she should be punished, and the conflicting desire to not be imprisoned again, as though she should be allowed to pick and choose how and when and where she is punished. It is weird to feel guilty and want to allow those she has hurt to hurt her equally while at the same time wanting it to be on her own terms.)

Scarlet decides that, in place of the Barton farmstead, her place is the much better option. She has plenty of room, and it isn’t as though anyone has visited her there at all – except for America, who is missing; except for Strange, when he wanted something from her; except for Wong, who believed she was still an Avenger, even though she isn’t sure she believes that anymore. Her place seems far safer. Far less likely to be attacked. Besides, it won’t be hard to get everything from the Bartons’ place to hers, not as long as she has Wong – or someone like him – to help.

Yes, Scarlet can teleport all of that on her own, but she doesn’t want to do that. It’s far better to have Wong create a portal they can shove everything through. Christine is less enthused about this, given Wong’s concussion, but Wong thinks a simple gateway won’t mess with his head too much. (He is wrong. He can feel the pressure build up in the back of his skull as soon as he tries to use his sling ring, and it only increases as the gateway opens. He pushes through anyway. He is used to pain. And once this is done, he can get rest and not have to worry about Scarlet, which is good for his week off.)

Ash demands to go with them, and Scarlet does not deny her. Having someone else there other than Christine will probably be for the best. She doesn’t suspect that Ash intends to stay longer than that. She knows a bit of recovering after a surgery, and she doesn’t believe that Scarlet should be alone with that. (She doesn’t think Scarlet should be alone for a lot of reasons, but that is the one that her other self will most readily believe.)

The boys settle in with the Bartons. They like Kate well enough, and they love Clint’s kids. But when the time comes for Ash to leave for Scarlet’s place, they corner her.

“Why are you helping her?” Tommy asks, his arms crossed. “She tried to kill you. People who kill people—”

“Murderers,” Billy corrects.

Tommy sticks his tongue out at his brother. “They’re not good people. What if she kills you? What if we never see you again?” He glares over his mom’s shoulder at Scarlet, who doesn’t look at them (for a lot of reasons, none of which she has ever stated or ever needed to state).

Ash kneels down and cups both of her boys’ faces. “You’ll see me again.” She smiles as Tommy flinches away from her touch – her strong boy, who already wants to seem so tough – at the same time as Billy curls into it, letting her brush a thumb along his skin. “You’ll be okay. Clint and Kate will take good care of you while I’m gone.”

That isn’t what Tommy asked. Ash wants to avoid that question entirely, if she can, but Tommy just stares at her. “You don’t know,” he says, meeting her eyes. “Murderers are mean, horrible, scary people. You can’t trust them.” He glares at Scarlet again. “You can’t trust her.”

“You’re right,” Ash admits. “I can’t.” She places her hands in her lap and continues to look up at her boys. “But she came to save us when she didn’t have to. She saved both of you.” Ash boops both of their noses. “And she saved me, too. If she really wanted me to die, she would have left me with the Illuminati.” She glances over her shoulder. “That doesn’t mean she’s good. It doesn’t mean she’s not bad. It just means that sometimes—”

“Mom. You’re giving us therapist talk again.” Tommy’s arms, which had started to relax, cross a little tighter.

But Billy gives a little nod of understanding. “Does this have to do with that rage thing you talk about?”

Ash grins. “Yes. Yes, it does.” She pats his cheek and then stands before ruffling Tommy’s longer hair. “I’ll be back. Be good while I’m gone.”

“I’m always good.” Billy frowns. “You just have to worry about Tommy.”

“Hey!”

Ash turns away, but she knows behind her that the boys are play-slapping each other. When she makes it to Scarlet, she nudges her. “I’m ready.”

Scarlet barely gives her a look. “What’s the rage thing?”

“You were listening.” It isn’t a question, and it isn’t a surprise.

“Of course. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t.” Scarlet doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she says, “You are not allowed to say anything about where we’re going, do you understand? Not anything.”

Ash tilts her head to one side, immediately curious. “What would I say?” She meets Scarlet’s eyes, notes the sparks of scarlet within them, and then asks, “What would you say?”

Scarlet’s teeth grind against each other. “Nothing. I wouldn’t say anything at all.”

They land in a secluded location that is not all scarlet sky and twisted, desiccated trees and ground covered in ash but one with a soft, cloudy, normal sky and apple trees just beginning to bloom and grass so green that it would feel soft beneath their feet if they dared to take their shoes off (they do not). Ash sees a house that is not a rotten log cabin but just a normal house, and next to it, she finds the new shed filled to the brim with every sort of medical device Christine could ever need, stainless and clean and ready for use. Somehow, she still finds all of this unsettling, but she can’t put a finger on just why.

Ash opens her mouth to say something.

“No.” Scarlet gives her a look, strong and stern. “You can’t say anything. Not at all.” Her eyes narrow. “Don’t make me take your mouth.”

Ash raises an eyebrow. She nods towards the flock of sheep near the log cabin. “You have sheep?”

Something sits unhappy in the back of Scarlet’s mind. Something that America said before punching her. Something that made her stumble. She can’t remember what it is. Christine would probably call that the effect of the concussion that she wasn’t told that she had and therefore couldn’t possibly have. But it lingers. “Hm?” She glances towards the flock. “Oh. Yeah. Of course. Can’t have a picturesque log cabin in the middle of nowhere without having a flock of sheep.”

Scarlet still hears the ash crunching and cracking underfoot. She still sees the scarlet sky and the barren black trees stretching up into it. She doesn’t see sheep, but she remembers putting them there. Illusions on illusions on illusions. Ash and Christine see the same one Strange saw when he visited so many months ago. Scarlet sees an entirely different one. Neither are real. If she wants, Scarlet could see what the world really looks like out here, but she doesn’t want that. She wants this – this reminder – and she wants it to terrify any potential visitors away.

It just wouldn’t be helpful to scare the two people traveling here to help her.

“How do you find time to tend to sheep?”

“They aren’t real,” Scarlet says, voice soft. “It’s just easier to pretend.” She gestures with one hand for Ash to continue to follow her. “C’mon. Let’s get this over with.”

Christine does, in fact, find that Scarlet’s cheekbone is broken, and she does, in fact, require surgery.

It’s a small thing, and it isn’t a small thing, and Scarlet is so used to having her body heal on its own without any interference that the idea that someone who has only heard things about her and doesn’t really know her all that well is going to cut into her face and—

Scarlet can’t think about it. She can’t think about what is going to happen to her, and she cannot think about who is going to be with her while it happens. This is, of course, the easiest moment for Ash to take her revenge on her, if she wanted to do so. Just kill her, and then she and her boys could be the Wanda and children of this world. No need to worry about there being two of them then.

But….

She would be okay with that. Wouldn’t she? With dying? Isn’t that what she’d wanted, when Mount Wundagore fell?

Scarlet accepts this. She accepts the inevitability of her own demise. When she takes the deep breath before going under, she releases. She lets go. That should be enough, shouldn’t it? This is enough.

Except Scarlet remembers her dream while she’s under, except Scarlet remembers the first time she ever dreamed the star-shaped portal through which America travels, except Scarlet remembers she hadn’t seen it first with America but with two women who she never could have or would have met but some other version of her had—

People are meant to wake up from anesthesia slowly, foggily, coming back to themselves easy.

Scarlet snaps awake as if she’d just had a nightmare.

Which, in part, she has.

Chapter 42: Part Four: Chapter Four

Chapter Text

“You didn’t kill me.”

The words come, surprised and rasping, as Scarlet sees Ash, curled up in an oversized recliner that hadn’t quite been there before with a book propped open in her lap. Scarlet is just as surprised to find that she has awoken in her own bedroom instead of in the much more sterile hospital-like shed and that Christine is nowhere to be seen. She’d expected to be hooked up to an IV with some sort of monitor keeping track of her heart rate and breathing tubes stuck up her healing nose, just in case. None of this is true.

Ash tucks her long, dark hair back behind her left ear and holds up a finger. “One moment.” She flips to the next page, scans it, but doesn’t look up. “I’m almost done with this chapter.”

“What are you reading?”

“In a minute.”

Scarlet stares at the book, but Ash has it propped atop her knees, so that she cannot see the binding for either the title or the author. She hadn’t brought books with her when she moved into her house (other than that one), and she hadn’t changed reality to create any of the ones she’d once had at the Avengers Compound (and subsequently lost when it was lost), too preoccupied with….

She takes a deep breath in and slowly pushes herself into a sitting positon. Her cheek is sore. Her nose is sore. Her face is sore. But she can open both eyes now – she tests this by blinking, and yes, she’s fine. As fine as she can be, given the circ*mstances.

Other than the recliner, Scarlet’s room still looks the same. She brushes back one of the curtains covering her window, and yes, the scarlet landscape is still there. There was always the possibility the illusion disappeared while she was unconscious, but if her illusions – her realities – changed during those moments, then she would need to worry about Agatha Harkness being freed from her mind trap. That one, however, had been intentionally meant to be a little more permanent, to last beyond Wanda herself, if anything should happen to her. These illusions? Not so much. (It would be nice to have someone find her body, if she died out here. Preferably before it began to stink. Before the bugs did.)

Ash heaves a heavy sigh before folding down the corner her page and shutting the book. Before Scarlet can say anything else, she holds the book aloft. “Deathless,” she says. “Valente did a phenomenal retelling of Koschei and Marya Morevna. It’s one of my favorites. Glad to see it’s in your universe, too.”

“I know.”

Scarlet stares at the book. She’d had a copy of it, back in the compound, but it wasn’t hers. Natasha lent it to her, promising that she would love it. She hadn’t finished it before the Snap – hadn’t finished it before running, before being captured – and hadn’t gone back to it after Steve released them from the Raft. It hadn’t been the forefront of her mind. She’d had a lot more to think about. Her lips press together. “Did Natasha give it to you, too?”

Ash blinks twice. “Natasha Stark has never once considered my interests enough to suggest a book to me—”

“No, no, not…not Stark.” The frustration drips easily enough. “Yours was a girl, right. Right.” Scarlet pushes a hand through her hair, holding it back. “Who was your Black Widow operative? They were still from Russia, right?”

“Dottie Underwood,” Ash hisses. Her teeth grit together. “She was a little too into Peggy to suggest a book to me.” One corner of her lips lifts. “But Peggy suggested it to me.”

“Ah.” Scarlet nods. “We didn’t have Peggy here. We had Steve.”

Ash groans. “Oh, we heard about Steve.” She rolls her eyes as she leans against the arm of the recliner. “Peggy wouldn’t shut up about Steve. Sometimes, I think….” She lets her voice trail off, and she sighs. “You made me kill some of my best friends. Peggy…. She wanted to have kids and couldn’t, after the serum. Dottie couldn’t either. They were the best babysitters for Billy and Tommy whenever Vis and I wanted a date, and Peggy used to say….” Her eyes gaze off past Scarlet, and they focus on something far distant that isn’t there in the slightest. “Peggy used to say that whenever they adopted, they wanted their kids to be just like ours.” She laughs. “Of course, we all thought she would name a boy Steve, and Dottie….” She shakes her head and laughs again. “Dottie would have been a sh*t mother. A good older sister. Or the wine aunt, maybe. But a sh*t mother.”

“Steve wouldn’t shut up about Peggy either, if you got him talking.” Scarlet smiles, and she stares at her black-stained fingertips. “He used to stand up for me. I don’t know if you needed Peggy to stand up for you with Natasha, but Tony….” She rolls her eyes. “Tony thought I was a liability. He didn’t say it at first, but he always did. Lagos was just an excuse to lock me in my room. Like I was his teenage daughter who needed to be grounded. Like I wasn’t—” She glances back up and meets Ash’s eyes. Her other self is crying. She isn’t surprised. “Did anyone train you?”

Ash nods, very slow. “The Sorcerer Supreme before Stephen Strange – they were called the Ancient One – they took me in after my mother died. Erik – you met him, but on my world, he was different – he didn’t know Pietro and I existed. Mom ran away from him after…. Well, she would never tell us exactly what happened, but she mentioned an Anya in her dreams sometimes. The Ancient One took me in, and they would have taken Pietro, too, but Charles – Xavier, you met him, you killed him, too – he thought it would be better if he took Pietro.” Her teeth grit together. “We didn’t like being separated, but as soon as I could teleport, I began to visit him. Daily. Then weekly. Then monthly. We learned that we didn’t need each other as much as we thought, and honestly, we…. We made friends where we were. We loved each other, but we found and forged our own families. I was an Avenger, and he was an X-Man. Perhaps the only two members of the teams that didn’t hate each other.” She shrugs. “And you?”

Scarlet senses it in her tone – Ash doesn’t need her to say that she wasn’t trained. Somehow, Ash already knows. Maybe she’d seen it in her dreams. She can’t be sure. So she just shakes her head and stares down at her hands again. Her fingers stretch. “Where’s Christine?”

“Downstairs.” Ash stretches her arms above her head and yawns. “Do you need her?”

Scarlet shakes her head again. Her brows furrow, and she continues to stare at her fingertips. “Why didn’t you kill me?” she asks again. “I killed your friends. I used you to kill your friends, and you couldn’t do anything about it. Anything. Why did you let me live?”

For a moment, Ash doesn’t say anything. She shifts where she sits in the oversized recliner. Her fingers drum on the top of her book. “The rage thing Billy mentioned.” Her lips press together, and her head tilts to one side, so that her hair just touches the arm of the recliner. “I’m not going to say you weren’t yourself, and I’m not going to say that anything you did was okay, and I’m not going to excuse any of that, okay? You did – and you used me to do – some real f*cked up sh*t. That’s never okay.” Her eyes narrow, and she seems to squint off into the distance, puzzling through what to say. “When we – and I mean us ‘we’, not people in general ‘we’ – you and I, when we get hurt, we tend to subconsciously lash out. Our magic does that for us. We can’t keep the pain in, and we hurt people. Good, bad, in-between – when we hurt, others hurt. Which, you know, really just hurts us, because then we feel bad about that, and we shove it down deep, and we don’t deal with it because we don’t want to deal with it, but then all of that hurt and grief and pain and rage builds up over time and we lash out again.”

Ash considers her words again, and she seems to be trying to choose them very carefully when she says, “I don’t believe you meant to hurt anyone, and I don’t believe you’re going to try again.” She presses her lips together and then, just as carefully, says, “You’re not the only heroic screw up. What makes us Avengers – what makes us heroes – is our desire to do better by the people we’ve hurt, instead of just hurting more people. Stark’s an ass, but when she realized what she was doing hurt people, she tried to fix it. A lot of overcorrecting, but she tried.” Ash makes sure to meet Scarlet’s eyes when she says, “Like I told Billy and Tommy, you saved me, too. The Scarlet Witch that you were wouldn’t have done that. So, no, I didn’t kill you. That would be like permanently locking you in your room because you might be a threat.”

“Stark did that to you, too.” That’s the first thing Scarlet responds to, the first thing she can respond to. She rolls her eyes. “Of course. Even with your training. That ass.”

Ash shrugs. “Stark’s way of dealing with a problem is to get rid of it entirely. She couldn’t take my magic, and she wouldn’t kill me. Locking me up was the next best option.”

“Stark would have killed me.”

“Stark would have killed you.” Ash repeats the words in her own form of confirmation. “She wouldn’t vote for your death by Illuminati, but given the chance, Stark would have killed you. Peggy would have fought him for that, if she was still alive.”

“Steve, too.”

Scarlet remembers just how much Steve fought for Bucky. She isn’t Bucky – she never could be – and the friends she had in the Avengers who might have fought for her that way are long gone. Except for Clint, and as friendly as he could be, his family came first, just like hers did. Given what he’d told her, she understands why he hadn’t gotten involved earlier. Of course, she had hidden herself away pretty well, too. If he found her, would she have listened?

Probably not.

Scarlet wraps her arms around herself. She isn’t cold, but it’s comforting. Sometimes, that’s enough. “Thank you for being more like Steve than like Tony.”

“No one wants to be like…well.” Ash scrunches her nose up. “Stark did some good. She created Vis, after all. But of the two….” She smiles fondly. “I would rather be more like Peggy than like Stark. Maybe not Steve, but Peggy I think I could aspire to. I think she’d like that.”

Scarlet lies when she says, “I know she would.”

After that, time passes easy.

Well.

Time doesn’t pass easy because for Scarlet, time never passes easy. There are elements of ease to them, but more often than not, time passes rough and harsh and lonely. Time passes with increasing guilt and desperation. Time passes with a numbness that causes her to spend more days in bed eating pints of ice cream than with the sort of energy that she knows she should be putting into everything.

Christine doesn’t stay long past making sure that the surgery went well and a couple of choice comments – Don’t blow your nose for the next two weeks being one. Something to do with how her cheekbone was healing. It should have healed before now. She shouldn’t have needed surgery at all. But that isn’t something she wants to particularly inspect right now. Ash thinks it has something to do with her desire for the pain – that her magic, knowing she wants to be hurt and to feel hurt, didn’t click the way it normally does. It sounds right enough, and that’s all that matters for now. It’ll matter more if this is a pervasive problem, but she can deal with the now.

In the months that pass after America leaves, Scarlet mostly stays in her own home. She reads the book Ash leaves behind. She starts to try cooking again, although some things are still beyond her. She tries to allow time for herself to heal. And when the worst of the thoughts come back, the ones that tell her she doesn’t deserve to still be living, she holds onto this – that Ash, given the opportunity to kill her, did not, and that Ash still thinks there might be something of her worth saving.

If the woman she wounded the most still thinks she can be a hero, an Avenger, and if Wong, deciding he needed someone to go back to Earth-838 with him, still called her an Avenger (even if begrudgingly), then maybe – just maybe – she could live up to the title again. Maybe.

It might be a long shot.

Chapter 43: Part Four: Chapter Five

Chapter Text

America lands in another universe.

Sometimes, she strikes a pose when she lands, one fist slamming into the ground and then a slow look up into the world around her, all heroic or something like that, and she waits to see if anyone notices. It takes a bit more effort to set that sort of thing up, because she needs her portal to open up in the sky that she can jump through it instead of against the ground to walk through it, but it’s been fun.

Most of the time, no one notices. That’s probably for the best. Seeing someone fall out of the sky and land in a pose punching the earth would probably sound off some alarms…and has sounded off some alarms. Someone in a previous universe thought she was an alien invader – which, while not technically true, wasn’t technically not true either – and called in their resident Skrull bashing hero to come bash her. It hadn’t gone well.

Whether the Skrull are good or bad really depends on the universe; America’s been in a few where they were the good ones and the Kree were the villains, and she’s been in some where they were both good and the universe was weirder for it, and she’s been in at least one where they were both very, very bad, and she’d made sure to get out of that one super quick. Probably the universe she likes least, other than, you know, universes out of left field like the paint universe, which does have its own special sort of charm – and, of course, Earth-838...and, sometimes, when she’s in the worst of her moods, even Earth-616.

America tries not to think about Earth-616 without some necessary, pressing reason, but each of the universes she’s gone through since leaving have only shoved it back into her face.

When she first ran from the Scarlet Witch, America kept running into Doctor Strange.

Now that she’s running from her again, America keeps running into Wanda Maximoff.

In every universe.

Very unintentionally.

Sometimes, she isn’t even Wanda. Sometimes, she’s Wayne. (In one of them, she was somehow Wayne Bruce – or, he was, in that case – and he lived in a cave with a lot of magic-powered super tech. Somehow, there weren’t any bats, but there were a lot of moths. He’d been the Scarlet Moth in that universe, so that was probably on brand for him.)

And in every single one of them – every single one – she – or he – or they – have kids. Usually Billy and Tommy. Not always. (Wayne Bruce had Sparrow and Baby. Which were weird names, but America wasn’t going to tell him that. He and Vision had still been together in that universe, though, which was cute.)

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. America is just growing sick of running into whoever she is in whatever universe she goes to. She is trying to run from her. She isn’t trying to run to her.

Strange told America that her portals always opened precisely where she needed them to go. At the time, that had been helpful. It helped her to trust her powers enough – trust herself enough – to get into the fight with the Scarlet Witch, to open precisely the portal she had needed to....

Well, she hadn’t taken her down. Not in so many words. Wanda had taken herself out. She’d only needed to see—

You know what, America isn’t thinking about any of this right now. She’s thinking about her sh*t powers that are supposed to take her where she really needs to go and keep throwing her back at Wanda Maximoff or variations thereof. Her powers should know that she doesn’t want – or need – to be around Wanda right now. She needs to find her moms.

And the more she thinks about that, and the more she tries to get her powers to do what she wants, and the more they don’t do it, the more frustrated and aggravated and angry America gets.

It’s another form of rage that sits in the center of her chest, but it’s one that America can’t do anything about. She can’t punch her powers into doing what she wants them to do. This is just another form of lost control.

She hates it.

But here she is, in another universe, landing with a fist slammed down into the earth, but not so hard that she’ll crack anything, and slowly looking up, and hoping, hoping, hoping that she won’t see another Wanda Maximoff—

America takes a deep breath in. She closes her eyes. She counts to ten, just the way that Magda taught her to do, and she runs her fingers along the stitching in the bag that has grown more worn out the more wandering she has done, and she focuses on that instead of on the anger that is surging just beneath her skin.

Just ten feet away, standing in front of a frozen cream cart, is none other than who America assumes is this universe’s version of Wanda Maximoff. She has her back to her now, but America has seen Wanda so many times in so many ways that even now, she can recognize her, without even having to see her face.

Of course, the boys make that easier, too.

Tommy is a little younger than America normally sees him, and his eyes are bright and wide. He’s talking rapidly to his mother, probably trying to get her to let him get two or three or four milksicles – there are some universes where they are all the rage instead of popsicles, more like ice cream with a thicker, harder consistency – America doesn’t know how they’re made, but she knows that, most of the time, she likes them. Tommy’s words are a lost hope, though. There’s no way Wanda will get him more than one.

Billy, however, is staring straight at her, his mouth wide open, and if he had an ice cream cone, the top scoop would have fallen off in surprise. But he doesn’t have an ice cream cone; he has a milksicle with a top bite half-bitten that…still falls with a splatter to the ground. He doesn’t even notice that. Instead he starts tugging on his mom’s plaid shirt.

Wanda turns to him—

And it is Wanda, but happy, healthy – she’s not as thin as the Wanda of Earth-616, who always looked so haunted, or the Wanda of Earth-838, who seemed starved when they saved her – but the way she was meant to be, whole – even if she isn’t smiling—

America turns and punches a hole into another universe. She looks back just enough to meet the other Wanda’s eyes – Wanda reaches one hand out for her, and she seems to be saying, “Wait!”—

The portal closes between them.

America sighs and sits on the closest – it isn’t a bench; it’s more like a very long, very fuzzy beanbag. It might have been made of a sort of velvet once, but it’s a little more waterproof, and it doesn’t let the water of the rain pouring down from above seep into her as she sits on it. She doesn’t have an umbrella. If she stays here long enough, the water will sink through her hair and clothes, will drench her skin, regardless of where she’s sitting. That’s fine. It’s a cheap shower. Probably she should have soap if she wants to call it a shower, but she doesn’t much care about that.

She does care about the bag she still wears slung over one shoulder.

Her fingertips run over the stitching. It’s worn out – it was before Magda gave it to her, and it feels almost threadbare now – but it is blessedly empty. There’s no worry about any food inside it getting ruined. In fact, America takes the bag and carefully pulls it inside out. Crumbs of a variety of sizes and colors fall out. There’s something sticky and green in one corner, and there’s a red stain in the middle from a cherry bomb that she hadn’t realized was more bomb than cherry. Still edible, like rock candy, but only within a certain time period. It hadn’t hurt the bag, only stained it.

The rain will hopefully help with all of that, too.

It probably will not be in her best interest to try and sleep in the rain, but America doesn’t feel like going anywhere else right now. At least, she doesn’t feel like going anywhere big. There’s probably an underpass a few feet away or a bus stop. This universe might not be harsh on the homeless (not as many universes are as might be thought). She’ll find somewhere.

Right now, she just wants to sit.

Sit and stare and be glad that she is the only one out in the rain and that there is no Wanda Maximoff – or whatever she might be or be called in this universe – anywhere within sight.

Okay – not a universe that likes its homeless Earth residents, but not one that hates them either.

The bus stop is out of bounds for a homeless teen – really, it’s out of bounds for everyone; there’s one of those stickers that implies no sleepers here (in some worlds, that symbol is a red circle with a slash across it, but it isn’t that on every world, and it isn’t on this one) – but the nearby overpass is set up as a camp for traveling wanderers such as herself and for those who are without homes but also aren’t wanderers. There are tents (most full, but a couple empty, should America want one (she doesn’t)), benches (most empty, but a couple full, and it is one of these that America does want (one with a nice pillow not soaked by the rain and a blanket which might be a little bit damp with what she hopes is rainwater and not anything else (it does not smell, so that gives more likelihood to the rain))), a few fires roaring nicely (most of these have more than a few people around them, but America doesn’t feel particularly cold and doesn’t join them), and stations with food and many kinds of drink (some of which America isn’t old enough, even in this universe, to have; they would tell her so, but she doesn’t ask for anything like that, only for whatever this universe calls hot chocolate).

It’s all too easy – tired and soaked and full of nice, warm, comforting hot chocolate – for America to curl herself up in the slightly damp blanket and fall into an easy, easy sleep.

One that is woken less than easily by someone – or something – shaking her roughly. Roughly, roughly, even more roughly.

“Wake up, wake up!” hisses whoever is shaking her. “You need to go, you need to go! They’re coming!”

America snaps up, eyes opening, and asks before she can even see who she’s asking, “Who? Who’s coming? Where do we go?” She recognizes the green eyes the moment she sees them, but this—

Her eyes narrow, and she leans forward. “How old are you?”

The other girl’s head tilts ever so slightly to one side. It’s not a power play, as America has so often seen it used; this is confusion and idle curiosity. She nods once, slow, to herself. “Wendy. Seventeen in three months and two days, which is close enough, so I say it.” Then she takes hold of the edge of America’s jacket, just at her wrist, and gives her a sharp, but not rough, tug. “Come on. You’ve got to go.”

America stumbles towards her, half off of the bench, her bag swinging with her, and plants her feet on the ground. “Wendy,” she says, and the name tastes weird on her tongue, “you keep saying I have to go.” She struggles to think things through as the other girl tugs on the wrist of her denim jacket again. “Aren’t you going, too?”

“Sure, sure, I can come with you, but you have to go.” Wendy meets America’s eyes with her bright green ones – insistent, insistent, insistent.

America tumbles forward. She holds tight to her bag with one hand, and she grabs Wendy’s hand with the other. This is better than having her jacket tugged on. As she does so, Wendy interlaces their fingers together and gives her hand a harsh squeeze. There’s just enough time for America to swallow once before Wendy tugs her forward again.

They dash through the now evacuated underpass, twisting here and there around the tents and burnt out fire pits, going so fast that America doesn’t have the chance to say anything until they’re halfway to the other side. “Who’s coming?” she asks, followed quickly by, “Where did everybody else go?” and “Where are we going?”

Wendy just holds tighter to her hand. “Ultron,” she says, voice rough. She glances over her shoulder, and her eyes grow dark – but not scarlet – before she pulls America against her and hides them both between one of the tents and the concrete wall of the overpass. She raises one finger to her lips before America can say anything else and nods to the other side.

America quickly moves just enough to glance over the top of the tent towards the other end of the overpass. A robot, similar to the ones she had seen on Earth-838, clinks down the middle of the street, cold eyes sweeping this way and that. She blinks and moves back to where Wendy hides. “I can take him.”

Wendy raises an eyebrow, and in a move oddly reminiscent of Tommy, she crosses her arms and gives America a little look. “Prove it.”

Now. America Chavez is sixteen years old. She has admitted to herself on multiple occasions that Wanda Maximoff is super hot, and she’s said as much to Wanda herself. Wanda fits the hot mom stereotype to a T. But she’s never, you know, thought about it past that. Wanda is Wanda. She’s the Scarlet Witch. Just because America is aware of the stereotype doesn’t mean that she falls into it.

Looking at Wendy isn’t like looking at Wanda.

Wendy’s green eyes glimmer with defiance, bright against the dark of her eyeshadow, and a sort of self-assurance that America certainly can’t do what she says that she can. She crosses her arms and she wears the posture of a rebel. And when she gives America a onceover, America feels something in her raise. Not anger. Just a need to prove herself.

But not for nothing.

America glances to Wendy’s wrists, which bear a thick leather bracelet and loops of a single long bootstring, and her fingers, which have multiple rings of varying sizes and colors on them. Her ears are pierced three times each – twice at the top and once at the bottom – and her right ear has one ring through two of the holes. “If I do,” America says, “I want your bracelet.” She nods to the bootstring. “That one.”

Wendy shrugs. “If.”

Without another thought, America begins to make her way back through the overpass. She hides behind tents, trying to keep her cover for as long as she can. When she makes it to the Ultron bot, she grins and then pushes just a little bit past him. This will be cool. She just needs to creep up behind him and—

Just before America can punch him square in his tin head, the Ultron bot whirls around, meets her eyes, and grins.

She didn’t know they could grin.

She hesitates.

“Foolish mortal.”

The robot’s voice sounds different from the bots America had heard before. It’s deeper, somehow. Smoother. Not quite like honey, which is too sweet for this, and not quite like molasses, which is dark enough but too thick. Somewhere in between the two, the robot’s voice rests.

It unsettles her.

Then the robot punches her square in the stomach.

America coughs twice, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand (no blood, which is good), and then pushes herself up. Alright. This robot is different. Of course. It’s a different universe. It’s playing by different rules. Well, she is different, too. Sort of. Okay, not really, but she’s got something to prove, so this robot has got to go. She glances over to Wendy, who raises an eyebrow as her head tilts to the side again.

Okay, fine. Power play this time. f*ck Wendy.

America punches the flat of her hand twice and then runs at the robot again.

This time, when America hits him, stars bounce off of its metal form, some of them the size and shape of her portals, although she opens none of them. They’re only there, like the scarlet tendrils that make up Wanda’s powers, like the way her eyes blaze scarlet when she uses her magic – America’s own eyes blaze that blue so soft that it might as well be white, and she grins as she punches him.

It feels good to punch something again. Something other than the universe itself. Much better than punching Wanda, than seeing her blood staining her knuckles, than the way she had shook and shivered afterwards, unable to calm herself down until she was so many universes away that she couldn’t even keep count (she could, she always could, but she didn’t – and still doesn’t – want to think about that), and the way the robot’s metal skin folds and creaks beneath her strength feels better than the sharp, sickening crack of first Wanda’s nose and then her cheekbone as she’d continued to punch her.

She feels good about destroying this Ultron bot. She felt sick after what she’d done to Wanda.

(This is why she runs, this is why she keeps running, this is why she has to run. She can’t go back after that.)

When America walks back to Wendy with the Ultron bot’s head in one hand, completely separated from its body, cords trailing from one end, its eyes punched out in star shapes, and drops it in front of the other teenage girl’s feet, she can’t help the smug smile on her face. Then she holds one hand out flat. “Pay up.”

And Wendy does.

Chapter 44: Part Four: Chapter Six

Chapter Text

It isn’t one bootstring bracelet; it’s two bootstring bracelets.

Wendy unwraps one from her wrist, untangling it from the other, and hands it to America before unwrapping the other and using it to tie her long, dark brown hair back in an untidy, high ponytail. She cracks her knuckles. “Alright,” she says in a tone that suggests America has passed some sort of test and leans forward, hands on her hips, “Who are you, and how did you kill that Ultron puppet?”

Puppet, America thinks. She wraps the bootstring around her left wrist. It’s still warm. “America Chavez,” she says, crossing her arms and tilting her head back in a co*cky sort of position. “I’m really good at punching things.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Wendy’s eyes give her another onceover, although this time it feels even more strongly like an appraisal, especially since she nods once when she’s done. “Where are your parents, kid?”

America’s eyes narrow. “I’m not a kid.”

“You look like one.”

“I’m as old as you are!”

“Got it.” Wendy rolls her eyes, but one corner of her lips curves up in a smirk. “Where are your parents, punk?”

“Lost,” America says before she can think of a way to explain it. She doesn’t want to bring up her multiversal hopping to this…. Well, Wendy isn’t exactly a stranger, is she? She’s still Wanda. But she’s not Wanda. Thinking like that doesn’t make the tightening in her chest feel any better. “I lost them when I was a kid. I haven’t found them yet.”

Wendy reaches over and gives America a shove. “No, they haven’t found you yet.” Then she turns and starts back out to the side of the overpass where they were going, calmly pushing an overhanging series of vines out of the way. She gives no indication that America should follow.

But America does anyway.

“Hey!”

America chases after her, sneakers squelching unpleasantly on the concrete. She gets close enough to Wendy to shove her back. “What do you mean they haven’t found me?”

Wendy shrugs. “You’re a kid. It’s your parents’ job to find you if you get lost, not the other way around.” Her words are dark but with an undercurrent of something a little like pride. Or longing. It’s hard to tell which. “If they haven’t found you yet, then that’s their fault. Not yours.”

“I didn’t say it was my fault—”

“Didn’t have to.”

“—and I’m not a kid!” America grabs Wendy’s shoulders, stops her, and makes her turn to face her. The sun hasn’t even risen yet. She has no idea how long she’d been in the overpass. The stars are still sharp in the sky in some places, but in others there are soft, thin clouds overhead. The moon is behind one of those, leaving only a soft, gauzy halo overhead. “Quit acting like you’re so much older than me.”

Wendy looks sharply at where America’s hands are on her shoulders and then raises an eyebrow. “You gonna punch me, too?”

“No.” America’s hands immediately drop to her sides, clenched into fists, and her teeth grit together as her gaze drops. She shivers, remembering the sickening crack, and pushes the memory out of her mind. “Just…where are you going?” She glances back up. “Where are we going?”

“We aren’t going anywhere,” Wendy says, tilting her head back, “until you agree that you are the lost one, not your parents.” She crosses her arms and her black-painted nails begin to tap on her black denim jacket. “Well?”

America stares at her nails and imagines black of a softer, more translucent color, curling up her fingertips until just past her first knuckle. She pushes the thought away and swallows. Hard. “What’s it matter to you?”

Wendy sighs. She glances back over her shoulder once, to where the Ultron puppet’s head still sits under the overpass. Briefly – briefly – there’s a sharp thread of silver almost like a cloud or an electric bolt out of the overpass, but it’s gone as soon as it’s there, so quick that America can’t be sure she saw anything at all. She rolls her eyes. “If I’m going to take you to my Lost Ones, then you need to be a Lost One. Got it?”

No. America does not get it. But she can pretend that she does. The most she can make of it is, “So your parents lost you, too?”

Wendy stops so suddenly that America walks straight into her.

“Ow.” America steps back, rubbing her nose. “What did you do that for?”

“Don’t ask about my parents,” Wendy growls. “Or anyone else’s. They wanna talk about it; they’ll talk about it. But you don’t ask.” She looks over her shoulder and meets America’s eyes, her brows raised. “Got it?”

Wendy’s voice is so different from Wanda’s. It’s thicker. Deeper. There’s an accent to it that America can’t place; she doesn’t know if it’s unique to this universe or if it’s one that could be found on other universes, too, if she looked hard enough or far enough. But listening closely, America can almost almost place…not place it, she can’t do that, but she hears something of Wanda in it. Sometimes she spoke with a minor accent that sounds similar to this.

But America doesn’t want to think about Wanda.

America nods rapidly. “Got it. Got it. Sure. Whatever you say, ma’am.” She sounds stupid. She knows she sounds stupid. So she gives a grin and salutes. That makes it…. Well, she hopes it makes it funny.

Wendy snorts. She tucks a stray strand of hair back and tries to shove it into her loose ponytail, but it just falls back into her face again. Her eyes narrow. “I always miss—”

Without thinking, America reaches over and tucks it back behind Wendy’s ear. Then she blinks twice. “Um, sorry, that was—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Wendy pats America’s shoulder twice and starts forward again, taking only a few steps ahead of them before holding one hand out in front of her. Her fingers move through the air and then seem to hook onto something. She smiles and turns back to America. “C’mon. Neverland is waiting.”

Neverland?

America steps up next to Wendy. She rocks up on her toes, squinting at the air, and just makes out a deep violet sheen thinner than a spider’s web beneath Wendy’s fingertips. “What’s that?”

“Pixie’s dust.” Wendy winks and then pulls on the strand as she turns to face in front of her. She yells through the crack she has made, “Pixie! It’s your Wendybird! Found another Lost One! Let us in, would you?” Her fingertips play with the violet strand, drumming against it like it’s a guitar string. On the last flick, the strand seems to snap, but its snapping is so soft that there is no sound whatsoever.

Wendy turns to America, grins, and then co*cks her head to one side. “You first.”

Normally, America would refuse. This feels a bit like a set-up. She doesn’t like being set-up. And Neverland – it rings a bell somewhere in the back of her head, but there are a lot of stories in a lot of universes that she doesn’t know and has never seen or read. This might be one of them. She wouldn’t know if it was; she can’t know what she doesn’t know.

Wendy could have killed her in her sleep. Wendy could have left her for the Ultron puppet. Wendy could have stolen all of her stuff and run away.

America is also used to gauging how trustworthy anyone she meets is. That’s important when you’re hopping around the multiverse – learning to intuit who you can trust and who you can’t. She feels like she can trust Wendy, and that’s enough for her.

She steps forward.

The world seems to shimmer in shifting shades of violet around her, each speckled with glittering bits of familiar gold. Then those dissipate, leaving a much softer and yet somehow harsher landscape.

Neverland, as Wendy called it, is a barren wasteland of abandoned concrete buildings with shattered glass windows and toppled steel. Around and through each building plants have grown, sometimes cracking what is left behind, other times covering what must once have been shining golden domes. Blue florescent lights seem grown into some of the plants, and black wrought iron lamplights with vines wrapped around their base and through the lamps themselves shine a green gold in the dark. Overhead, the stars shine brighter than America has seen them anywhere other than Utopia and the plant universe, unimpeded by smoke or pollution. Here, she can see more than just individual stars occasionally glimmering in one place or another, but she can see galaxies, swirls of red and blue tangled together with stars sparkling all through them.

Once, in her travels, America lived in an old abandoned mall. Plants had claimed most of it, but there had been pools of murky water here and there, and she could start a fire to heat anything she needed. Eventually, the local authorities had tracked her down, called her a trespasser, and pulled their guns out on her. She’d gotten scared, and a portal had immediately opened and sucked her through it. (One of the police had gotten close enough to look through – she’d seen his startled eyes looming down at her before the portal closed – but he hadn’t followed her through. That was fine.)

Neverland reminds her strongly of living in that abandoned mall, only bigger, more vast, and much, much more beautiful.

America takes in a deep breath of fresh air and lets it out.

“Beautiful, right?” Wendy rests her arm on America’s shoulder. Her breath is hot on America’s cheek as she lets out a breath of contentment. Then she takes America’s hand and pulls her forward again. “C’mon. You need to meet my Lost Ones.”

Wendy leads America through Neverland, skipping across stones, taking hold of vines and swinging across chasms (and instructing America to do the same), until they come to a playground in what America guesses is the very center of the protected space. A rusted silver jungle gym stands in one corner; each of its angles was once a bright blue, red, or yellow, but the colors are all faded now. On another end is a huge plastic play place with three different slides, all in that similar bright color scheme now faded. One of the corners has a sand pit with a rusted out child-sized claw for scooping up sand, only there are plants growing there now, and another has a busted-up carousel resting on one end. There’s a swing set with five swings (one with a harness for a baby) and three seesaws and a couple of toy horses on springs.

But Wendy doesn’t take America to any of these. Instead, she walks straight up to a large plastic tree in the very center of the playground. It must have been fully plastic once, but as America grows closer, she can see cracks where the same plants that have overtaken everywhere in Neverland have started to take over this tree as well. It should make it look more like a real tree, like the houses she had seen in the plant universe where Magda and Erik had lived, but it doesn’t. If anything, it makes it feel really weird. Creepy. Unreal. Like those scary stories she’d read on the internet that she knew weren’t actually real but still spooked her out anyway.

Wendy pulls aside vines until a faded yellow door appears. She knocks twice on it.

“Password,” comes a deep feminine voice on the other end.

“Pixie,” Wendy says as she kneels down and looks through the peephole, “it’s me. Your Wendybird. Let me in.”

“Wendy knows the password,” says the voice again. “She wouldn’t be peeved with me for asking for it.”

America waits. Her gaze moves from Wendy to the door. The voice almost sounds familiar, but she can’t put a finger on it. She crosses her arms, not out of frustration but a little out of fear, unsure of how Wendy will respond. Part of her is worried that the other girl will grow angry with whoever is on the other side of the door for not just letting her in.

But instead, Wendy grins. Somehow, this grin is more terrifying than her rage might have been. She meets America’s eyes. “Second star to the right.”

“And straight on til morning.”

The door creaks open.

Wendy gestures and gives a little half-bow. “Ladies first.”

America raises an eyebrow. “Thought I was a kid.”

“Thought you said you weren’t one,” Wendy quips back. She still hasn’t moved, and no one has come out of the tree to welcome them.

America takes a deep breath and peeks her head around the door. It looks just like the inside of a plastic tree. There are some shelves with nothing on them. But there’s nowhere for whoever the Pixie girl was to hide. She starts to turn back to Wendy. “Where am I—”

Wendy gives her a shove, and America steps back into the tree. She whirls her hands, trying to stabilize herself, finding herself on the edge of some sort of hole.

“Hey!”

But Wendy just gives her another shove.

America falls backwards. She tumbles head over heels into a hole before finally catching herself on a long slide. It’s too dark for her to see anything at first, and then she sees a light growing nearer and nearer and larger and larger until she tumbles out onto a bed of pillows. Someone – she can’t see who – grabs her wrist and pulls her neatly out of the way.

Wendy follows after, grabbing a long pole above the end of the slide, swinging around it, and then jumping into an entirely separate pile of pillows. She crosses her arms and gives America a smug smirk.

She should be mad. She should really be mad. Or upset. Or annoyed.

But Wendy’s, uh.

Uh.

America swallows hard.

“Wendy, you’re breaking the poor girl’s heart.”

America’s gaze snaps over to the speaker, a boy about her age with silver-white hair full of leaves and dressed in torn jeans, dirty sneakers, and what could almost once have been an old sports jersey. Pietro. He swings back and forth in a hammock made of leaves and held into place with vines, his legs crossed over each other, his head resting back on his arms. When he catches America looking at him, he grins and gives her a wink.

“Shut up, Pan.” Wendy steps off of her throne of pillows, boots clunking on the concrete floor. She comes over to America and grabs her wrist, pulling her up again. “This,” she says, dusting off America’s jacket, “is Starlight.” She whirls America around just enough to showcase the back of her jacket and then gestures to it. “See?” She grins. “I finally found our star.”

Starlight? America glances over her shoulder at the star on the back of her jacket and then up again to meet Wendy’s sparkling green eyes. “That’s not my—”

“Wendy gives everyone a new name.” Pietro – Pan – waves one hand dismissively. “Argue with her all you want; she’ll never call you anything else. Hasn’t done Pixie any good.”

“Stop calling me that.”

This voice comes from much closer to America – likely the person who pulled her out of Wendy’s way and off of the pillows just underneath the end of the slide. She turns to see another girl standing a few feet away, examining her. This girl looks to be a little older than Wendy and Pan. Her brown hair is darker than Wendy’s, shorter and more unkempt; it’s hard to tell if it’s curly or if it’s just super, super wavy or somewhere in-between, especially with how short it is. And despite how dirty she looks, she still looks much more put together than either Wendy or Pan – all lavender sweater and white button-up underneath and black slacks. Wendy feels like punk goth, Pan feels wild and athletic, but Pixie feels like tech support. She even has the black glasses to match.

“Wendy calls you that,” Pan yawns.

Pixie’s eyes – bright, bright blue beneath her black frames – never leave America. “She doesn’t give me a choice. You, though.” She raises a hand, and violet wisps similar to the scarlet ones that Wanda normally uses, only with golden strands within them instead of Wanda's black, swirl around it as Pan raises from his hammock, the same violet wisps holding him aloft. “You don’t have to be an ass.”

“Fine, fine!” Pan kicks his sneakers helplessly in the air. “Put me back! Put me back!”

“As you wish.”

The violet wisps fade from Pixie’s hand, and Pan falls back into his hammock. In less than an instant, he sits back up, glaring over his hammock at her. “You’re such a bitch.”

“Thank you.” And still Pixie’s eyes have never left America. She examines her with one arm crossed just under her chest, the other still up, one finger aloft as though to tap her cheek or her chin, only it doesn’t. Whatever she’s looking for she seems to find, and she steps forward, lowering her hand and taking one of America’s in her own before giving it a firm shake. “Agatha Stephen Harkness, heiress of the Salem Magitech fortune, the tenth of her name, although none of that means anything to anyone anymore.”

“Um.”

America remembers the Agatha she’d met in the Westview of one of the other universes she’d visited, but she’d seemed much more, for lack of a better word, fun than the girl standing across from her. She doesn’t understand why this Agatha took her hand, but it must mean something to her. She shakes her hand once, too. “America Chavez,” she says, eyes flicking from Agatha to Wendy and then back again, “although I guess I’m Starlight here.”

Pixie rolls her eyes. “Whatever name you want.” Her thumb catches on America’s sling ring, and her eyes widen. “Where did you find one of these?” she asks, voice hushed, and she brings America’s hand up so she can look at it.

“I…I don’t remember,” America lies, trying to pull her hand out of Pixie’s.

Pixie just tightens her grip. “You weren’t at Kamar-Taj when Ultron came. I would know.” Her eyes flick up and meet America’s. “Only a few of us made it out of there alive. Where did you get this?”

“She probably found it in the wreckage.” Wendy places a hand on Pixie’s shoulder, and as soon as she does, Pixie’s grip on America’s hand lightens. She looks down at the sling ring. “It’ll be good to have another one. Two foraging parties instead of one sounds good.” Her gaze leaves the two of them and sweeps around the den. “Where’s Toodles and the gang? I wanted them to meet Starlight.”

“Out foraging.” Pixie meets America’s eyes again, but there’s no menace there, only curiosity. “They should be back in an hour or so. Nibs thought he saw a deer. You know how it is.” She finally turns away, and America lets out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding. “You’d like some fresh meat, wouldn’t you?”

Wendy clambers the wall of the den, finding footholds and handholds, until she can swing up into the highest hammock. Then she sits on the edge, hands gripping the worn, thick fabric, and stares down at Pixie. “As long as no one gets hurt this time. You can’t keep healing everyone.”

Pixie rolls her eyes. “I’m going to go check the perimeter. Make sure the magic is still holding.” She glances back over her shoulder at America. “Don’t take my bed.” Then she presses a notch in the wall. It opens into what looks like a concrete tunnel, and she slips inside before the wall shuts again.

America blinks up at Wendy. “Her bed?”

Wendy just gestures to the den around them. “Don’t listen to Pixie. Pick wherever you want.”

It is only then that America lets herself look around the room. There are multiple sets of pillows all over the floor, not just where the slide ends, and hammocks slung about everywhere. Wendy’s in the highest of them, but Pietro is just under and beside hers. She licks her lips and looks around again. “You’re sure no one will care? I won’t be stealing anyone’s spot?” She knows what it is to have a space that’s her own and have it taken from her. She doesn’t want to do that to anyone else.

“They steal spots all the time, little Starlight,” Pan barks down from above. “You’re a Lost One. Best way to introduce yourself is by making your mark.” He pulls the severed Ultron puppet head from behind him and holds it up. “Kind of like this.”

America’s eyes widen. “How did you—?” She doesn’t finish the question. That must have been the silver something she’d barely seen earlier. It must have been him, stealing a trophy. Maybe that’s what this all is – kids playing games and making trophies of things. She yawns and stretches. Wendy had woken her too early. She’s still tired.

And all at once, she knows exactly which hammock she wants.

Just like with the Ultron puppet, America feels the need to prove herself to these people, and especially to Wendy. She finds what handholds and footholds she can and slowly but carefully she pulls herself up and up, higher and higher, until she makes it to the hammock just on Wendy’s other side. She slings herself up into it and lets out a sigh. “This one okay?” she asks, turning just enough to meet look at Wendy.

Wendy’s green eyes sparkle with mischief. “Pixie’s going to love you.”

Somehow, as America takes off her bag, lays it down next to her, and then stretches out in the hammock, she doesn’t think that’s the case.

Chapter 45: Part Four: Chapter Seven

Chapter Text

Time passes.

Now, the thing about the multiverse is that time can pass at different ways or in different fashions in different universes. A month for America in Neverland might be only a day or two for Scarlet and Ash on Earth-616, just as Sinister Strange, who spent his free time dreamwalking into other Stranges throughout the universe and murdering them, seems to have had a long time between Christine’s marriage and when he met Stephen Strange of Earth-616, who had only just been to Christine’s marriage perhaps twenty-four hours earlier. This is also how Wanda can be different ages in different universes – Scarlet and Ash might seem similar ages (they aren’t), but the Wanda of plant-universe is still a child and Wendy is a teenager.

As others have said, time is a weird soup. A wibbly-wobbly sort of thing. It isn’t necessarily the same across the multiverse.

America knows this subconsciously, although she’s never said anything to anyone about it – never really needed to do so. A good chunk of the universes she’s been to have run much more closely parallel to each other – Earth-616 and Earth-838, for example, run very closely against each other – but just as many haven’t.

But consciously?

There’s no way to know just how much time America spends in Neverland compared to how much time passes on Earth-616, not without someone going from one to the other to say. She can’t know how much time passes in the world where she last spent so much time, just like she can’t know how much time has passed in the universe where her moms are.

She tries not to think about this. She tries not to think that whatever universe her moms landed on might be going at a rate twice as fast as the universes where she has been, tries not to think that so much time may have passed for them that they might be dead. She tries not to think about time or the passing thereof.

And this is easy in Neverland. No one there keeps track of the days, because no one needs to. It isn’t like there is a school for them to frequent, it isn’t like there are televisions or shows on them which one or more of them might want to see. The closest thing the Lost Ones have to tracking time is following the patterns of the animals within Pixie’s shield for hunting or seeing when a shopping mart or convenience store will be closed so that they can make a gateway within it and take what food they might need—

That, and Wendy’s stories.

America has only seen sit-coms in stores as she passes them by, occasionally sitting into stores with free food long enough to catch an episode in passing – but there are so many of them throughout the decades, and so many potential variations on them throughout the multiverse, that each story Wendy tells is brand new to her. She is so enthralled with the stories of Rob and Laura Petrie, of Jeannie and Tony, of Malcolm and his family (although less these than the others, which is fine because these are stories that Wendy doesn’t return to often) that she doesn’t think to see how everyone else reacts. She doesn’t see Pan’s face darken whenever Wendy begins to speak, doesn’t see him turn in his hammock so that his back is facing her, doesn’t see him begin to pick at the threads of his hammock; she doesn’t see Pixie’s face flush a bright red whenever Wendy mentions the nosy best friend who just happens to live next door and occasionally only comes over to steal food and to provide further mischief to whatever the problem is, doesn’t see Pixie stare at her hands or push up her glasses, doesn’t see the few instances where Pixie does take off her glasses, folds them into her breast pocket, and crosses her hands under her head before staring up at the plastic ceiling filled with tendrils of plant roots, her lower lip tugged between her front two teeth; and she certainly doesn’t see the faces of the various other Lost Ones, some of who are listening almost as intently as she is and some who yawn and cuddle up to their nearest friend before passing out entirely.

All America can see is Wendy’s face, the small smile on her face as she weaves her stories, the way her freckled nose scrunches up with pleasure just before she tells a good joke, her fingers moving and twisting this way and that, arms that make sweeping grand gestures, and all she can hear is Wendy’s voice – voices – as she changes from one character to the next, taking on different accents, different mannerisms for each of them. Sometimes it feels like Wendy is only telling the stories to her, and that’s okay. That’s okay because America eats them up.

America hasn’t heard a bedtime story since she went through that first portal, since she was swept away from the moms who would tell them to her and brought into a universe where no one knew who she was and thought she was just a no-good scamp escaped from her parents – which wasn’t exactly wrong but wasn’t exactly right either. It’s just. so. comforting. She knows that the bedtime stories are supposed to help them fall asleep, but she can’t. She can’t fall asleep while Wendy is telling a story because she can’t miss the ending – if there is an ending this time, if it’s not one that will continue on into the next story, connecting them all together until…until….

It doesn’t matter the until; it only matters that the stories keep going.

Besides, America doesn’t want to go to sleep.

Ever since that first nightmare, America has been having them more and more frequently. It isn’t every time she closes her eyes, and it isn’t every time she dozes off, but it’s enough. It’s enough. And the worst of it is that before now, she’d only ever had dreamless sleep, only ever wondered what it might be like to have sweet dreams and now has her mind plagued with this, with images of the Scarlet Witch in various forms and shapes, hiding in scarlet clouds, pretending to be a friend, wrapped in the plaid and jeans that she’d last seen Wanda in and covered with blood—

It isn’t always the Scarlet Witch who is hunting her. Sometimes it is America who is hunting Wanda, beating her again and again with that sickening crunch of her bones beneath her knuckles, and these leave her just as frightened. She can’t know if she would have stopped if the other Wanda hadn’t stopped her; she can’t know that she wouldn’t have killed her, that she wouldn’t have been just as monstrous as her mind wanted her to believe the Scarlet Witch is – was.

Sometimes America wakes up in a sweat and finds that she isn’t alone, props herself up just enough in her hammock to see Pixie staring straight at the ceiling, eyes wide, teeth grit together, a fine sheen of sweat across her forehead, curls crumpled beneath her head. Just as often, Pixie’s hammock is empty. America suspects that she’s out reinforcing the shield or checking the perimeter, but she can’t be certain about that. Often, she considers doing the same, just getting out of her hammock and going for a walk in the dystopian concrete wilderness of Neverland, but forces herself to try and get more rest.

But every now and again, America does just that – climbs out of her hammock, out of the tree, and out into Neverland.

The first time she does this, America doesn’t go very far, only going towards the jungle gym and climbing on top of it, hooking her legs around multiple bars, and leaning back so that she can stare up at the stars. It would be poetic to say that no matter where she goes, the stars always look the same, but it isn’t true. Still, she searches them whenever she can, hoping to find a universe that runs closely parallel to Utopia. She can’t go back – won’t go back – until she finds her moms, but the hope is that maybe, just maybe, that will jog something in her memory that will let her find her moms. But she’s never seen stars that look even remotely close to the ones she’d seen above Utopia.

Maybe that’s her powers. Maybe they understand she doesn’t want to go back yet. Or maybe they aren’t as intuitive as Strange had suggested – always taking her where she needs to go, even if it isn’t where she wants to go. She needs to get away from Utopia, away from all the universes running that closely parallel to it. That’s what her powers must be saying.

America sighs and stares up at the stars and startles when she hears the creaking of the jungle gym beneath her. She snaps up just enough to see Wendy climbing up the jungle gym. “You’re awake?”

“Of course.” Wendy’s faster than she was and much more limber, and she makes it to the top much quicker, wrapping her arms on one of the bars near America and pulling herself through and up. “When one of my Lost Ones wakes up, so do I.”

“I’ve never seen you wake up before.”

Wendy reaches over and taps America’s nose. “I’m higher than you, and you never look up. Always looking down is our Starlight.” She smiles comfortably. “You have a lot of nightmares. So does Pixie. Do you want to talk about them?”

“No,” America says at first, because she doesn’t know how she would even begin to broach the topic of her nightmares with Wendy, and then, “Yes,” because she does want to talk about her nightmares with someone, and Wendy is the first person who’s asked what they’re about. “There’s mostly two kinds of nightmare,” she starts. “In one, there’s an evil witch who is out to kill me, and in the others, I’m trying to kill the witch.” That’s easy enough of an explanation without being specific. She can do that okay.

Wendy nods in understanding. “I should think that killing the witch wouldn’t be a nightmare,” she points out.

America sighs. “It’s more complicated than that.” She slings her hands over her knees and stares down at the ground. “People are complicated.” Her face contorts into a scowl. “Punching people, it’s not like punching robots.” One of her hands clenches into a tight little fist. She can imagine the blood staining her knuckles again, and she shivers. “Sometimes they really deserve it, but you still feel bad afterwards. That’s what the nightmare is. Killing the witch doesn’t make me feel better. It just makes me like her, and I hate it.”

“You put a lot of thought into your dreams,” Wendy says. She reaches over and gently rubs America’s back. “I don’t think it’s as complicated as you make it. If someone was trying to kill me, I wouldn’t feel bad about killing them. If someone was trying to hurt my family, I wouldn’t feel bad about hurting them. If the witch is hurting you, then you shouldn’t feel bad about hurting her.”

“I guess.”

Only it hadn’t felt like Wanda was trying to hurt her anymore. It had felt like Wanda was trying to be better. But that hadn’t changed that she had hurt America – or that those wounds ran deeper than either of them could have expected. Punching Wanda hadn’t made any of that go away, and it hadn’t felt good.

It had felt wrong.

Even if she deserved it.

Wendy scoots over and sits next to America. “I used to have nightmares, too, you know. Earlier than Neverland. Really bad dreams about bombs and waiting for them to go off, about having magic like Pixie’s that I couldn’t control, about someone trying to steal my magic and I couldn’t protect my family fast enough, about someone who looks like Pixie but with darker eyes being that someone and killing me while I distracted her long enough to get my family to safety. All horrible, horrible dreams.” She nudges America with her elbow. “Do you know what helped?”

America turns to Wendy and meets her eyes. They’re green like life. Like hope. “What?”

Wendy grins. “Follow me.” Then she jumps from the jungle gym and turns, arms crossed, head tilted back as though to dare America to do the same.

It’s so stupid to do something dangerous just because someone dares her to do it. America knows that. But jumping from the jungle gym isn’t dangerous. Following Wendy deeper into Neverland isn’t dangerous. She’d followed her this far and been just fine, hadn’t she? So she’ll keep following her. Besides, this has the air of secrecy about it, and just the two of them together, and something in America surprisingly wants that very much.

So America jumps down, lands in the pose she’d practiced when jumping out of portals with one fist in the ground, and then slowly stands up to meet Wendy’s eyes again. “Following the leader?” she asks.

Wendy’s eyes sparkle. “Wherever she may go.”

America thought when she first came to the playground that it was the center of Neverland, but the more time she has spent here, the more she has learned that it’s not exactly the case. Her days have been spent mostly exploring the front areas she’d been in – where Wendy initially led her through to get to the den – or sometimes looking through the tunnels underneath, which had to be used to return to the surface from the den. She hasn’t spent much time in the tunnels, though, since the dank, dripping, earthy nature of them remind her too much of running from the Scarlet Witch with Strange and Christine on the way to the book that…hadn’t actually been helpful at all. It makes her heart pound uncomfortable, so she doesn’t spend much time there.

But in her first few days, Nibs – one of the other Lost Ones with bright green hair, blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles – showed America places where she could forage and scavenge about for various leafy greens or mushrooms. She’d been told there were some root vegetables like carrots around somewhere, but they’d had a hard time finding them. Since then, America has been looking in that spread for other food sources – plant ones, not.... Not wild ones.

This is actually the first time America has had much time with Wendy, outside of the bedtime stories, since she’d arrived. Wendy’s in and out – Pixie always says she’s looking for new Lost Ones to come join them, but Wendy never brings anyone else back with her. It’s felt weird, too. America gets along okay with the other Lost Ones – she feels like Pixie doesn’t like her all that much, and half of the time she’s come back to find that Pixie has stolen the hammock up high near Wendy that America likes best – but she doesn’t really feel like she belongs.

Then again, America has never really felt like she’s belonged anywhere. Not since Utopia. Well, no. That isn’t true. She’d felt like she belonged with—

Wendy doesn’t lead her back to the entryway. Instead, she leads her deeper into Neverland. They walk through a thickening forest with less and less concrete being overtaken, more rubble, more buildings that have succumbed to the assumedly natural state of things. As they go, Wendy holds vines and branches out of America’s way and, occasionally, holds her hand to steady her as they cross bogs or mossy stones. Once, America slips, and she holds onto Wendy’s hand so tight that she’s afraid she’ll break her bones the way she’d broken Wanda’s face.

But Wendy just holds her equally as tight, steadying her until America feels stable again.

“Here,” Wendy says finally, coming to a slow stop at what looks to have once been an apartment complex. It’s missing three of its four walls, but those look to have been destroyed by something other than simply being abandoned. They look like they’ve been torn or broken apart somehow.

Wendy steps carefully around the one remaining wall and holds a hand out towards America. “Be careful.”

America takes her hand, steadies herself as she steps around the rubble, and then stops, her eyes growing wide with shock.

There, in the center of the ruined apartment complex, is a large black…. It must be a bomb, emblazoned with Stark Magitech Industries in white along one side. A red light should flash on one side of it but doesn’t, and another shield, this one not invisible, encircles it. This shield is of a thick violet, but in-between the strands of violet are golden shapes and images similar to the ones that America had seen Wong and Strange use while fighting the Scarlet Witch – ones that she had been meant to learn at Kamar-Taj.

“What is this?” America asks, turning back to Wendy.

Wendy just stares at the bomb. “Where my parents lost me,” she says, her voice small. Then she flashes America a grin and sits on the edge of a concrete bit of the rubble. She pats the spot next to her as she swings one leg over the side and tucks the other underneath her.

“I’m confused.” America slowly sits down next to her. “What does this have to do with your nightmares? And I thought I couldn’t ask you how your parents lost you.”

“This time, you didn’t ask.” Wendy props her hands behind her and leans back onto them. “In the years before Ultron, Stark Magitech Industries and Salem Magitech were in a bidding war over their....” She gestures to the bomb. “All of this. They both sold to both sides of whichever war wouldn’t hurt their companies, and that meant people like me – and my brother – and the other Lost Ones – often got caught up in the scuffle.” Her eyes grow hard, and her teeth grit together. “Pixie would have taken over the company eventually, if she hadn’t joined us instead, and Stark….” She takes a deep breath in through her nose and lets it out slow. “This one hit our apartment. Killed my parents in an instant. Pan and I hid just under that couch—” She gestures to a threadbare, rotten out piece of green furniture that could barely even be called a couch anymore. “And we waited for the bomb to go off. Waited to die.”

America hasn’t heard the story this way before, although she’s heard something like it. Clint told her what she needed to know about the different Avengers – why they joined, stuff like that – when he’d given her the overview. He’d mentioned that Wanda hated Tony at first, that she’d had a vendetta against him, for something like this. But she’d never asked her about it. Never wanted to ask. It hadn’t seemed as important as the hug had, as providing some sort of comfort to the woman who had literally tried to kill her.

Maybe that was a step that she shouldn’t have been expected to make.

“What happened?” America asks, turning back to Wendy.

“I had a dream.” The corners of Wendy’s lips turn up in something almost like a smile, so brief that it almost didn’t happen, only it did. “Of me and Pan, hiding, staring out at that bomb and waiting for it to go off. Of my mother’s head severed from her body and staring out at me. Of a star, brighter than anything I’d ever seen before, breaking through the world between us and the bomb. Of two women stepping out of a star and shielding all of us when the bomb went off. Of these star people saving us.” Now, she does smile, as if she can’t stop it from coming over her. “When I woke up, I took Pan, and I pulled him out from under that couch, and we were scared, but we ran. I thought I wanted those women to come for us, but really what I wanted was the courage to come for myself.”

Wendy’s fingers tap along the concrete, and they just touch America’s. Soft. Normal. “Pixie met us a few days later. She’d overheard that there were bombs that hadn’t gone off, and she’d started seeking them out after she ran from her parents. She couldn’t defuse the Stark ones, since their kind of magitech is different than Salem’s, but she could make a shield like this to protect everyone if it did go off.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out, tugging her legs up against her chest and holding them there, a bright grin coming across her face. “That’s when we started the Lost Ones, the three of us. All because of that star in my dreams." She glances up at the star-filled sky, still smiling. “Sometimes, I dream that I have magic like Pixie’s and that I can fly. Those are the best dreams I have now, the ones where I can fly. That’s why I’m the Wendybird, always wanting to fly, never able to do it on my own. But I dream, Starlight.” She turns to America then, bright eyes meeting hers. “When I saw your jacket, I knew you were sent to us. Maybe by wherever my dream came from. But you had that star on your back just like the stars in the sky just like in my dream, and I knew. You were meant to be with us. To be here.”

A green light glows from within the violet and golden shield in front of them. America turns to it and raises a hand to shield her eyes as it glows bright for a few seconds – brighter and brighter – and then fades away again. There’s so much to think about. Wendy had dreams. Dreams were windows into the multiverse. Wendy had a dream about her moms. Her moms had saved Wanda and Pietro. Somewhere, her moms had saved Wanda and Pietro.

America has no way to parse through Wendy’s dreams and find that world, but her throat grows tighter than she even knew that it could. She can breathe, barely, but it’s hard to swallow. The green light, at least, was a welcome distraction. She bites her lower lip. She clenches her hands into fists so tight she can feel her shorn nails cutting half-moons into the palms of her hands. Wendy thinks she’s supposed to be here, but she’s supposed to be finding her moms. She could leave. She could go. She could keep hopping through the universe to find her moms, and then she could come back here and—

When America looks up, Wendy is still looking at her, smile slightly faded, now turned curious. Her eyes flick over America – her expression, her posture, her clenched hands – and her head tilts ever so slightly to one side. “Something wrong?”

“No. Nothing’s wrong.”

Liar.

America slowly unclenches her fingers and taps the rubble beneath them before tentatively, gently, reaching one finger over and tapping one of Wendy’s. “You really think I’m supposed to be here?”

“Yes.” Wendy hooks her finger around America’s. “You’re a Lost One, just like us. You have the star. And,” she leans closer, as though sharing a secret, before saying, “you killed that Ultron puppet for me without a second thought. I’ve never seen anyone else do that before.” Her eyes flick down. “Not for me.”

There’s a moment.

America is sixteen years old. She’s young. But she knows the moment when it happens, knows exactly what Wendy expects, and knows that it really isn’t her decision to make. She tries not to take it. “They’re idiots,” she says instead, “if they wouldn’t go after the puppet. It’s not like killing it was hard. And of course, they would kill it for you. They all love you. Haven’t you noticed—?”

Before America can say anything else, Wendy places a finger over her mouth. This is…not completely uncomfortable. Certainly better than having her mouth erased completely. She stares at her, eyes wide, because she can feel the moment coming again, but not on her terms, and she’s not quite sure she wants that—

Wendy doesn’t tell a lot of romance in her bedtime stories. Sure, there are couples who are together – Rob and Laura, Malcolm’s parents, even Jeannie and Tony – but they’re established couples. Most of the stories are about the hijinks that ensure and the way the couples stay together despite all of that, about the mistakes and miscommunications they make, but always in good faith. The closest she’s gotten to romance is when she told of the day Jeannie and Tony first met, how Jeannie had fallen for Tony instantly, even though it had taken him a lot longer.

In this moment, America isn’t sure if she feels like Jeannie – who had fallen instantly – or like Tony – who isn’t quite sure about the genie he is keeping company with (or, in her case, the witch).

The green light grows brighter again, and a sharp crack sounds behind them. America jumps first, but Wendy keeps her finger over her lips as she stares around, eyes narrowing, suddenly on and aware and angry. For a moment – just a moment – America is certain that she can see a flicker of scarlet in the bright green of Wendy’s eyes, but it could just as easily have been a trick of the light.

“Who’s there?” Wendy growls, scanning around them. Her hands fall to her side, and she pushes herself up from her sitting position. "Who dares to—?”

“Yo, Sis, it’s just me.” Pan comes out from the other side of the violet and golden shield, hands raised in a defensive position. “Pixie said someone tripped one of her warning sensors, and she sent me to come check. Figured I’d get here faster than she could.” He winks at both of them. “I am the fastest, after all.”

America takes a deep breath. Her heart is beating so fast. Her face is flushed. She feels like she’s having a panic attack, only this isn’t nearly as painful. “How…how….” She swallows, hard. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough,” Wendy answers for him. Her eyes are still narrowed. She glances from him to America and then back again. Then, without saying anything, she gives a huff and storms off.

“Hey, wait!” America calls after her. She pushes herself up, too, and starts to go after Wendy, only to find that Pan is holding her back, grabbing her wrist tight so as to keep her in place. She whirls back to him with a glare. “What was that for? What is wrong with you?”

“My sister’s sick.” Pan meets America’s eyes. His are a bright, shining blue, warmer than the cold ice of Pixie’s, even though their shades are roughly similar. “She had a dream – one dream, once – and she builds her entire life around it. She hasn’t told you anything about Neverland, has she? We’re stuck here.” His brows knit together, and he stares at her, stern, angry, but not with her. “You’re not.” He gives America a shove. “You should get out of here while you still can.”

America blinks twice. She shakes her head. This is too much. “What are you talking about?”

Pan sighs. He pushes a hand through his silver hair and glances back to the bomb. The red light should be flashing. It isn’t flashing. “Go ask Pixie. She’s better at explaining all of this.” He turns back to America, eyes narrowed. “And stay away from my sister.” Then he, too, zooms off into the darkness around them, speeding in the same direction as Wendy, so fast that America doesn’t even need to blink for him to be gone.

None of this makes any sense.

Well.

Some of it makes sense.

Wendy had a dream about her moms. America can follow that far. Wendy had maybe almost kissed her, too, but America can’t be sure of that, since Pan had disturbed the moment. She isn’t even sure that she wants that. It feels weird because Wendy is Wanda and that’s super awkward except that Wendy isn’t Wanda, she’s Wendy, and that’s less awkward, and she hates, she hates having to think about all of this.

America Chavez is sixteen years old, and life shouldn’t be nearly this complicated, but she’s found that it’s always been this complicated and she’s never had a choice about any of that. She just has to live with it.

With a sigh, America dusts off her jean jacket and heads back into the darkness, too. Talk to Pixie, Pan had said. She can focus on that. It’s easier than whatever this all is.

Chapter 46: Part Four: Chapter Eight

Chapter Text

The moment passes. It is disturbed. It breaks. And for a while – a long while, as whiles can be counted – it doesn’t come back.

America is still fascinated with Wendy’s stories, but when she catches Wendy looking toward her with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes, she looks away. In looking away, she sees Pan, usually turned to one side and messing with his hammock but now occasionally looking straight up at her, and she sees Pixie, who avoids looking at Wendy sometimes the exact same way that America now does but every now and again, face flushed a bright red, looks up at her just as entranced as America thinks she must have looked – must still look, when she isn’t trying to avoid Wendy’s piercing gaze.

The nightmares come, just as they have been coming, but America’s dreams are memories, twisted and turned like a prism catching the light, and a new one joins the two and their variations: this time of that passed moment and of things that might have been. She has learned how to deal with the other two nightmares, although she still hates them, but whenever she dreams of Wendy’s lips meeting her own, she wakes in the same instant, heart racing, stomach unsettled, breathing shallow, in that same sort of panicked feeling that isn’t quite a panic attack but isn’t quite not.

It is this dream which sends America out of the tree, through the tunnels, and back out into Neverland proper, walking and walking and walking. Sometimes she walks with hands shoved into her pockets; sometimes her hands feel like they need to be out and doing something, but there’s nothing to do; and sometimes her hands clench into fists, cutting those same half-moons into her palms, with that same strong desire to punch something with nothing to punch – but not from rage. She can’t place the emotion. She isn’t sure that she wants to know; she isn’t sure she’ll like what she finds out.

Some part of America hopes that in these walks Wendy will find her again, but another part, just as much as the first, wants the exact opposite. She wants and she does not know what she wants.

So she walks.

Pan’s words echo in her mind during these walks – My sister’s sick usually accompanied by We’re stuck here – and while America has tried to puzzle them out, she still hasn’t gone to ask Pixie about them directly. Somehow she thought that, maybe, Pan would have sent Pixie to her, would have communicated to the other girl that maybe there is a conversation she should be having with America, but she guesses that isn’t exactly the case. Or maybe Pixie is avoiding the conversation just as much as America is.

Just as with the situation with Wendy – America wants to know and she doesn’t want to know. It’s a fine line, an intricate sort of balance, and she feels like she’s walking it thousands of miles up in the air with no net beneath her if she falls. The terror is different than that which comes in her dreams. It doesn’t make her heart beat fast, it doesn’t make her breath shallow or quick, and it doesn’t make her clammy or cold. It only is, and it looms above her like the scarlet clouds that never left Wanda’s domain on Earth-616.

America doesn’t dwell on that. She doesn’t dwell on Wanda, and she certainly doesn’t dwell on the Scarlet Witch. It just makes her stomach churn.

The easiest way to deal with this situation would be to run. America knows this. She is very good at running away from threats or confusing situations, and when she hasn’t actively chosen to run, her power’s kick-in fight-or-flight flight response does it for her. She is built to run away from situations instead of confronting them (although she is also built to dominate in a confrontation, too, when she chooses it), and that is the choice she has often made (except with Wanda, except with the blood that covered her knuckles, staining her as scarlet as the witch she’d beaten bloody).

And running isn’t unappealing. America knows now that when she and her moms were separated they’d ended up in a world with Wanda and Pietro and that they’d saved them. She knows her moms. They wouldn’t have left them alone as orphans. She doesn’t know if they would have stayed with them or not, only that they were there once. If her powers keep doing what they’ve been doing and taking her to Wanda throughout every universe, then eventually, eventually, she will find her moms.

But there’s no way of telling how long that will take or how many universes she will have to go through to get to them. In an infinite number of universes across the multiverse, there’s an infinite realm of possibilities in which she hits every universe once but never returns to her moms at all.

If her powers thought she needed to return to her moms, she would be there already, if Strange’s theory is correct.

This is, perhaps, the worst thought of all.

It is too much and too many things to think about and America’s head feels like it’s swarming with all of the things and nothing connects or seems to make any sort of anything.

So America stays in Neverland. She walks when her dreams are too much, and she thinks about the other too muches, and when the days come, she keeps herself separate from the others and she…walks. She forages. She brings back what food she finds in the bag she’d gotten from Magda, and she runs her fingers along the threads, and she tries – she tries – not to think too much about anything but can’t quite keep herself from doing that.

Everything is thinking, and nothing is, and she has decisions to make but doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know what’s right to do.

Except that indecision is, in and of itself, also a decision.

And, eventually, every other choice can be taken away – or someone else can make the decision for her.

In this case, it’s a little bit of all of the above.

Pixie finds her first, on what feels like maybe the hottest day of the year. If Neverland were normal, there would be a haze of bugs swarming through the trees, mosquitoes being their usual nuisance selves, so much bug spray and sunscreen that the air would be thick with the scent of it, reminiscent of being at swimming pools in the middle of July – but Neverland is not normal. It may be hot and sticky and so humid it feels like they’re walking through water, but there are no bugs to take advantage of any of this, nothing to swat away from their faces.

America is dripping with sweat. She’s tied her jacket around her waist, unwilling to leave it in the tree (because anything left in the tree is considered communal – something no one ever told her outright until she caught one of the other Lost Ones trying to steal the socks she’d left behind (it’s too hot for socks, and it’s too hot for sneakers, but she doesn’t have any other shoes, and she’s not going to walk around Neverland barefoot; it’s a little too haphazard for that)), and taken a knife to her skinny jeans to rip them at the knee. They’re black. It’s hot, and that does not help. Neither does the grey shirt, which was not built for this kind of heat, but it’s not like she’s found any shopping malls around here.

But Pixie is still in that lavender sweater and button-up shirt get-up. Her curls are pulled back into a high ponytail to keep them off of her neck, but that just makes her look a little more off-kilt. She’s got jeans and boots and just looking at her makes America feel even hotter. And, like, not in a good way. How does she even live like that?

Pixie pulls her to one side – her hands are cold, how are her hands cold when it is so hot – and gives her a little look over before rolling her eyes. “C’mon, loser.” She holds up her other hand, and a copper sling ring swings around her forefinger like car keys. “We’re going shopping.” Then she pauses, ice blue eyes narrowing behind wide black frames. “You do know that reference right? I’m not just—”

“I know the reference.” America shoves her – not rough, half-playful, mostly uncertain. She feels like she shouldn’t even be touching Pixie. Even though they’re all Lost Ones, Pixie has an untouchable feel about her. It’s not arrogance, not really. Just…a separateness. An otherness. Sometimes, America feels like she must exude the same thing, although she doesn’t know why.

It’s because she’s Starlight and Pixie is Pixie, and she’s noticed that the same is true of Pan and Wendy, too, but they’re better at getting around it. They’re the leaders here, the leaders of the Lost Ones, but she’s not a leader of anything, she’s just there.

(She killed an Ultron puppet. If Wendy is the real leader and Pan is her protector, if Pixie makes the shield that keeps them all safe, then Starlight is the heavy. She’s the knight. She hasn’t figured that out yet. She hasn’t realized that Wendy is not the only one who saw her annihilate the robot and hasn’t overheard the stories that the other Lost Ones are whispering about her. She tries not to notice the whispering, but it’s impossible not to notice their looks.)

America hasn’t let anyone borrow her sling ring. She knows that Pixie allows her with communal nature – that some of the other Lost Ones have just enough knowledge to know how to use the ring to get to where they’re going and to get back – but she’s never seen it happen. Any time they want to use the sling ring, they go outside the shield first. No one’s explained that to her either. She holds hers aloft. “Tell me where we’re going. I need the practice.”

Pixie raises an eyebrow. Her lips twist into a smug sort of…something. It isn’t quite a smile, but it’s not quite not a smile either. “Try it.”

“I don’t know where we’re going.” America’s brows furrow.

Pixie nods towards the sling ring. “Try it anyway.”

“Um. Okay.” America starts to make the sparkling golden circle that she’s been making for the past several months. She does the exact same motions and waits for the sparks. There’s nothing. Her furrowed brow deepens. “Um. I’m sure I’m doing this right. Hold on.” She tries again, and again, there’s nothing. Strange. She presses her lips together and lets her hand fall. “I guess it’s been too long. You should probably—”

“It’s not you.” Now Pixie smiles, and it’s full of that same smug assurance that her previous expression held. “Well, it is you, but it’s not your fault.” She points upwards, towards the sky, and the shield vibrates thin and violet for a second. “Runes. In the shield. I’m the only one who can use magic here.”

America blinks. “Why?” That doesn’t make any sense. “Wouldn’t it be better if the other Lost Ones – if other people who can use magic here—” She’s making words that don’t make sense. “Why wouldn’t you want us to use magic?”

“Again, not about you.” Pixie starts to make her own sparkling golden circle, and it appears in the air easily enough. She walks through and gestures for America to follow her. “I’ll explain out here.”

Now. America implicitly trusts Wendy. She can’t say just why she does, but she does. It certainly isn’t her interactions with the other variations of her she’s seen across the multiverse, because if that were so, she would run far, far away from any other version of the Scarlet Witch. (She says this, but she was the one who kept going back to the actual Scarlet Witch, so that’s debatable.)

America isn’t so sure she trusts Pixie.

But when she glances over her shoulder, Wendy is there, sitting on a fallen tree trunk, kicking her feet and bouncing them off the trunk. Wendy notices and meets her eyes. Her head tilts ever so slightly to one side, eyes widening, and she gestures with a shooing motion. Go, go.

And now America feels a little bit ganged up on. But she supposes, if it’s Wendy causing it, then it’s okay. Theoretically. Maybe.

You know what, America’s not feeling all that certain about Wendy right now, considering, but she’ll take the support that she’s given. Wendy says to trust Pixie, and she trusts Wendy, so she supposes that she’ll trust Pixie. It’s not like she’s ever been around an evil Agatha Harkness. Just ones that have made her feel unnerved and uncomfortable.

Yeah, this is going to be great.

As soon as America steps through Pixie’s portal, a wave of intense nausea hits her. She doubles over, stomach clenching, as bile rises up her throat. No. No. America shoves that back down. She’s not going to get sick. Even when she was six years old, on her first trip through the multiverse and through the portals she creates, she didn’t get sick. Other people, yes, but America Chavez? Never.

But this hurts. It feels like something is spreading out under her skin, stretching and pulling on it, pushing it faster than it should be. She takes a sharp breath in and looks up at Pixie.

Pixie doesn’t move. She just stands there and stares at America with those cold blue eyes.

The pain slowly – slowly – begins to subside, and America just as slowly begins to straighten herself. She coughs and coughs and swallows. This time, when she clenches her hands into angry little fists, the nails that normally are shorn and cut sharp into the flesh of her palms bend.

They’re too long. They’ve never been too long. She doesn’t keep long nails. They always catch on something and get ripped off when they grow longer than her fingertips. She holds a hand up in front of her face. They’re long. Wicked long. She turns back to Pixie. “What. the. f*ck?”

“You haven’t been out of Neverland in a while,” Pixie says, and her gaze moves out to the rest of the world. “It takes time to readjust.”

“How are you fine?”

Pixie reaches beneath her button-up shirt and pulls out a golden circlet dangling on a thick black cord around her neck. A green light similar to the one America’d seen near the bomb glows out from the circlet. “I have this,” she says, staring at the circlet before clenching it in her fist and shoving it back beneath her shirt. “There’s some things you need to know, Starlight, and apparently it is my job to teach you.” She rolls her eyes and steps forward.

America hadn’t even looked in front of them, too concerned with the sudden overwhelming nausea and pain she’d been feeling. She looks now and sees an abandoned shopping mall. It isn’t nearly as gone as everything within Neverland is; in fact, it looks like it would be a completely normal shopping mall, except that the parking lot is completely deserted. There’s no one here. Everything is empty.

This is oddly different than how the universe appeared when America first arrived, and it makes her feel unsettled. She turns to Pixie. “What is going on?”

“We’re going shopping, first off.” Pixie holds the door open and gives her a blank stare. “I’ll explain what I can while we do. Now get in. We don’t want to call the attention of any Ultron puppets.”

America’s eyes narrow. “I can kill the puppets.”

“Oh, honey. They wouldn’t be here for you.” Pixie gives her a smile, but there’s no mirth to it, no joy, only a strange sort of superior sadness. “Now get.” She wiggles her fingers, and a cloud of violet struck through with golden threads shoves America forward. “We don’t have time for standing around and staring.”

America’s teeth grit together as she enters the shopping mall and the door shuts soft behind them. She glares at Pixie. “Don’t do that again.”

“Then don’t make me do it again.” Pixie smiles at her. “You need more clothes, you need an explanation, and you….” Her nose scrunches up. “Honestly, you’re starting to smell. Wearing the same clothes for so long does that to a person. I’m doing you a favor.” She taps America’s nose with her forefinger and then turns away, striding off down the hall. “Get moving, please. I don’t want to make you join me again.”

Great. Exactly as fun as she thought it was going to be.

America glances back over her shoulder to the shopping mall doors. She should have stayed in Neverland. She shouldn’t have trusted Wendy’s gesture. She could leave right now. All she’d have to do is punch another hole in the universe and go somewhere else.

But something stops her.

She refuses to think about what that something is. Instead, she bites her lower lip and follows Pixie deeper into the abandoned mall.

Chapter 47: Part Four: Chapter Nine

Chapter Text

America shoves her hands into her pockets as she follows Pixie deeper into the abandoned mall. “Look, couldn’t you have just gotten us straight to the clothes or whatever? If you’re so concerned about avoiding the Ultron puppets, why did we have to show up outside in the first place?”

“One,” Pixie begins, holding one finger up in the air, “the shopping mall’s security system is still live. Any magical interference will sound the alarm, which will automatically trigger the Ultron puppets’ arrival, and two.” She holds up a second finger before giving America a sad look. “I couldn’t be sure you wouldn’t vomit all when we arrived, and that would have defeated the purpose of new clothes.” Her hand lowers. “Now, are you going to join the rest of the class, or are you going to keep skulking along behind me?”

America grits her teeth, shoves her hands deeper into her jeans pockets, and steps up next to Pixie. “You were going to tell me why I felt sick when I left Neverland.”

Pixie nods slow. “You’ve noticed my shield.”

“Yes.”

“It’s a bit more than a shield.” Pixie takes a hard right into the nearest shop. “You’ll look cute in these.”

America stands outside of the shop, staring at the mannequins covered in frills, and scowls. “Uh, no.” Not to mention that she wouldn’t be able to do anything in Neverland dressed like that. The frills would get caught in the rubble or on trees or…. No. “Can’t you just let me pick my own clothes?”

“Sure, but this is more fun.” Pixie grins and wiggles her fingers just enough for America to be afraid of magical interference. But nothing happens, and Pixie’s face falls. “You thought I was going to force you into these.”

“No,” America lies.

But Pixie gives her that look that suggests she knows full well that America is lying and stores it away for use later. She starts back down the hall again, and America catches up easily enough. “Neverland runs on its own time separate from the rest of the world. No one grows up. That’s how Neverland works.” She turns to America. “You know Peter Pan?”

“Yes,” America lies again. It isn’t a story she’s familiar with because she’s never needed to hear it. She’s never had anyone tell it to her, and she doesn’t think that it even existed on Utopia.

Pixie doesn’t question this lie in the slightest. “Wendy wanted us to have Neverland, so I made Neverland. The problem is that we can stay in our little unaging bubble all of the time. It’s not self-sustaining. And when we leave….” She shrugs. “Well, you know.”

“No, I don’t.”

Pixie rolls her eyes. “Going from one time speed to another doesn’t sit well with most people, and the longer you’re in Neverland, the harder the effects can hit. You’ve been in Neverland for a really long time without leaving, so they hit you particularly hard. Everyone else leaves every now and again – most of the Lost Ones go into stores to get bits of food, Pan does perimeter checks outside of the shield, and Wendy looks for new Lost Ones. But you.”

America holds her hand out to make Pixie pause and is struck by the length of her nails again. “Time catches up to us.”

“More or less.” Pixie clasps her hands behind her back. She tilts her head to the left. “What about this store?”

America turns. The store’s façade is all fake brick and mortar, and the clothes inside are all black. Grunge. Some of them are dripping with chains. She turns back to Pixie. “I take it Wendy shops there?”

Pixie shrugs. “Wendy shops where Wendy wants to shop. Mostly she steals things from the other Lost Ones. Things they won’t miss or won’t know to miss.” She glances down to America’s wrist, where the bootstring still hangs tight. “Those were mine, once. Her hair kept falling into her face. They were what I had.”

“You’re an heir to, what was it, Salem’s fortune or something like that? You didn’t have any scrunchies?” America raises an eyebrow.

“You never know what you’ll need a bootstring for.”

America gazes around them and taps Pixie’s shoulder. “This one.” She doesn’t even wait for the other girl, instead heading into the shop all on her own. It’s just a lot of jeans and t-shirts and tank-tops. Nothing fancy. All things that will let her blend in with a crowd, no matter where she goes. She’s never wanted to stand out. That doesn’t do well when you’re in a brand new universe, trying to learn the rules of everything around you. Better to blend in and have no one question whether or not you’re supposed to be there. Always believe you’re supposed to be there. It isn’t the first rule of multiversal travel, but it’s close enough. Besides, she doesn’t have the opportunity to get clothes often. These have always been the easiest to get.

“You don’t want something, oh, I don’t know, more flattering?” Pixie asks as she follows her into the shop. “I know a few people who will like that better.”

Wendy, America thinks immediately. But she’s never been one to dress up just to make someone else like how she looks, mostly because she’s usually never known how long she’ll be somewhere or with the people she’s with. So America has always only ever gotten clothes that she likes, that are useful, that will last. She’s never thought about flattering or style. Just what she likes.

Besides, Wendy doesn’t seem particularly interested in what she does or doesn’t wear. If she likes her now, she’ll like her in clothes like these. That only stands to reason.

So America ignores Pixie’s chiding and starts looking through clothes instead. “You said you made Neverland?” she asks, barely looking up.

Pixie’s face sets. “Neverland was once the country of Sokovia. When Ultron decided to destroy humanity, he intended to make it his first target. I don’t know how Wendy found out, but she did. Pan brought her to me, and together the three of us got there first. Pan’s quick, when he wants to be.” She smirks. “I set up the shield, and Ultron couldn’t get through. He set his sights elsewhere.” She gives America a look. “But then, you know all of this. You know about Ultron, and you know what he’s done. Don’t you?”

“Of course,” America lies again. It’s so easy to lie to Pixie, partly because she feels like Pixie isn’t being entirely truthful with her. “I don’t get how your shield keeps him from coming in, though.”

“It doesn’t,” Pixie admits. “The Ultron puppets are purely Stark magitech, so their magic won’t live beneath my runes, but Ultron….” She presses her lips together. “Ultron uses a combination of Salem and Stark magitech. He would still live beneath my runes, but he won’t go in alone. As long as he stays outside of the shield, he controls the world – the universe, really, except for the two Avengers left who are still searching for a way to defeat him.” She rolls her eyes. “I don’t think they’ll find what they’re looking for, but every now and again, people can surprise you.” One brow raises. “Don’t get that.”

America pauses, a bright yellow tank-top with an image she doesn’t recognize but which looks cool in one hand. “Why not?”

“Yellow’s not your color, and I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a magitech symbol like that.” Pixie waves a hand. “Of course, I wouldn’t be caught dead. I suppose you can wear whatever you want.”

America slowly puts the tank-top back. Better not to wear a symbol she doesn’t understand. She’d hoped it was just a pretty design, but no. “If Ultron can get through, why doesn’t he? He’s not scared of you, is he?”

“Of course not. Ultron isn’t scared of anything, and eventually, he will come through to kill us all. We’ll fight, we’ll lose, and that will be it.”

“Don’t sound so hopeless.” America folds a handful of clothes over her arm. “You could always, I don’t know, win. I could help. One of my friends caught me a cool trick with the portals – but I can’t make a portal—”

“Because the shield keeps the puppets out,” Pixie completes for her. She raises an eyebrow. “It isn’t about you, Starlight. It’s about the best way to protect the Lost Ones for as long as possible. And trust me, this is the only way.” She sighs and pulls along the thick black cord around her neck. Then she nods to the pile of clothes. “You have what you need?”

The sizes on all of the clothes seems similar enough to what America has seen before. It would be smarter to try some of them on, but she’s been homeless long enough that she knows how to make clothes work, no matter what size they start out as. She’ll make these work. They’re close enough. “Yeah.” She presses her lips together as she follows Pixie out of the store. “So the shield keeps the Ultron puppets out, but not Ultron, and the shield keeps everyone except you from using magic to keep those puppets out. But the shield also changes the time flow in Neverland so we don’t age unless we leave, and then time…. We get older all at once. Is that right? Is that everything you needed to tell me?”

“Wendy may think you’re supposed to stay with us, but I don’t.”

America gives Pixie a sharp look, but the other girl isn’t looking at her at all. “What do you mean?”

Pixie plays with the black cord around her neck. “I’ve seen things that I can’t tell you, America Chavez. I know you aren’t going to stay.” She stares straight ahead and takes a deep breath. “When you leave, take Wendy with you.”

“What?” America stops flat and stares straight ahead. “You made Neverland for her. She finds the Lost Ones. She loves Neverland. It’ll all fall apart without her. Why do you want her to leave?”

Pixie glances over to America. “Because I want her to live. That is more important to me than what she wants. Do you understand?”

There’s a weight to Pixie’s words that America cannot deny. She would have wanted to take Wendy with her anyway and decided against it; at the moment, she’s still been looking seriously at staying. She isn’t sure how Pixie can be so sure that she’ll leave when everything so far has indicated she won’t do that. She doesn’t know what Pixie has seen, and to be honest? She doesn’t want to know.

America just nods. She understands. “No promises,” she says, voice soft. “I can’t just pirate her away. She’ll hate me.”

And America knows what it’s like to have her world and her home ripped away from her without any choice. She doesn’t want to do that to Wendy, and she won’t. Not unless she has to. Not unless—

She isn’t going to think about that.

Pixie shrugs again. “I can’t force you. My magic can, but I’ve done enough bad things with my magic to last me….” She laughs. “An eternity, probably. I don’t feel like playing with your mind that way. Not today, anyway.”

America wants to ask, but she decides against it. Hopefully, it’s just a joke. She doesn’t want to know if it isn’t.

Pixie begins to trace a circle in the air, creating a portal back to Neverland. “Don’t tell the other Lost Ones about our conversation,” she says, meeting America’s eyes. “The only ones who know about the time are Wendy, Pan, me…and I guess you, too, now. We make sure the others get out into the real world enough, so they never feel like you did. Telling them would only prompt a mutiny. Don’t do that.”

“I would never,” America lies a third time. She won’t tell the others because it isn’t her secret to tell, but she isn’t above starting a rebellion if it gets the right thing done. Through the portal, Neverland looks like it always has – attractive, wild, wonderful. But Pixie is right. If it is exactly as Pixie says it is, then she can’t stay. She’d never find her moms that way, and she can’t let herself have this feeling if she tries to leave Neverland and go to another universe.

The only question is when – and how – does she leave?

No. Not the only question.

The more important one has to do with Wendy. But she doesn’t want to think about that.

Not yet, anyway. Maybe not ever.

Chapter 48: Part Four: Chapter Ten

Chapter Text

Time passes.

This time, America is aware that not knowing how much time has passed is a feature and not a bug of life in Neverland. They do not keep track of days because there are not really days to keep track of – or there are, but not in the sense of time passing. Time passes, but time does not pass because time doesn’t actually pass in Neverland.

This doesn’t make any sense to America. She can’t quite get this straight. Are they just reliving the same day over and over again? Or are they just extremely out of sync with the rest of the universe around them – so that time is passing but so slowly that they do not age within Neverland’s boundaries? Does it even matter? They don’t age. Pixie said they don’t age. That must have been what Wendy meant by Pixie’s dust.

It would be all too easy to be angry with Wendy, to take the rage that America previously felt towards Wanda and turn it in another direction entirely. It would be all too easy to feel betrayed, except that Wendy hasn’t done anything wrong. Not on that scale. She’s tried to save a country (although this begs the question where the rest of the Sokovian residents went, and America isn’t sure she wants to find that out), and she’s tried to carve a spot out in the world where she and the rest of her Lost Ones can be safe. The time thing is…weird, yes, but it’s….

My sister is sick.

America thinks over Pan’s words, and she shivers in spite of herself.

Wendy isn’t Wanda, but she’s still Wanda. She wants what she wants, and she relies on magic to provide it to her. The world tries to hurt her, and she uses magic – even if it isn’t hers – to try and create a safe space for herself. Is it really wrong if it isn’t hurting anyone? If, in reality, it is providing the last few happy moments the Lost Ones might have before Ultron decides to wipe them all out? The last few happy moments she might have? Why shouldn’t Wendy spend those moments in a delusion of her own making, believing that she can be Wendy, that her brother can be Pan, and that Agatha can be the Pixie who keeps them all safe?

Except.

Wendy isn’t Wanda, but she’s still Wanda. Pixie and Pan and the Lost Ones might not be able to defeat Ultron on their own, but America is certain – absolutely certain – that the Scarlet Witch can. Especially if he runs on magic. She knows Wanda’s magic. Perhaps Wendy is a variant who doesn’t have magic, but America is just as certain that the reason Wendy can’t access her powers has nothing to do with that and everything to do with being confined within a shield where she couldn’t use her magic even if she wanted.

It is with this in mind that America, a few days later, if they can even be called that, takes Wendy’s hand in her own, interlaces their fingers, and pulls the other girl over to her. “Can we talk?” she asks. Her eyes scan the room around them, taking in the Lost Ones, who aren’t paying them much attention, and Pixie, who is. She lowers her voice to a whisper and meets Wendy’s eyes. “In private?”

At first, Wendy starts to pull away, but as America interlaces their fingers, she slows, and when America mentions in private, one of her brows raises. “Is this a good talk or a bad one?” The sparkle in Wendy’s eyes is gone, replaced by something a bit more like fear, and her face has grown pale enough that her freckles stick out stark across the bridge of her nose.

“Good.” America says this more to reassure Wendy than because it is actually true. She’s not sure that it can be classified as a good or bad talk. That really depends on the outcome. If Wendy has magic, then that’s good, probably. Complicated, but good. If she doesn’t, then that doesn’t mean things are bad. So – no loss, probably, which means it can’t be bad. Just…neutral?

But Wendy is afraid, and America doesn’t want that. Without thinking, she rubs her thumb along Wendy’s skin in an attempt at comfort and gives her hand a gentle squeeze. “It’s good.”

Wendy glances down at where their hands are held together – her left hand with the bootstring and America’s right with the same. She rubs her thumb along America’s and squeezes her hand back, too. “Okay,” she says, and she looks up again, meeting America’s eyes with a soft, albeit cautious, smile. “Where should we go?”

Not the tunnels, America thinks first, and then she says, hesitant, “Outside of Neverland.”

Wendy’s expression grows immediately harsh. “Why would I want to go there?”

“I want to spend time with you,” America says with another squeeze of Wendy’s hand. “Just a little time. Please.”

Wendy glances away. She glances around the inside of the tree, at the other Lost Ones, at her brother’s hammock (although Pan is long gone), and over to Pixie, who makes sure to look away as soon as she notices Wendy’s sweeping eyes. When she turns back, the fear in her eyes has returned. “Will you protect me, my Starlight, if we come to any danger?”

“We won’t be in danger.”

“We won’t?” Wendy raises an eyebrow and leans forward, her voice hushed. “How can you be so sure?”

America doesn’t think about what she says until later, and thinking over it makes her oddly uncomfortable, although she cannot pinpoint just why. “You won’t let anyone else hurt us, and as long as we’re together, we’ll be safe.”

“I won’t—” Wendy’s head tilts to one side. “I do not know what power you think I have, Starlight, but I’m grateful you think so highly of me.” Her smile returns, then, although it is a bit wistful. “I will trust you for now, but if we’re suddenly swarmed by Ultron puppets, I expect you to defend your Wendybird, for she has no way to defend herself.”

“I won’t let the puppets kill you, Wendy.”

But America knows better than Wendy does that she has no way to defend herself is likely more of a lie than Wendy could ever know.

Wendy keeps hold of America’s hand as they walk through Neverland’s abandoned world wilderness. She doesn’t lead her back, instead they walk together, side-by-side, as they return to the shield’s closest edge. And there is no sense of urgency in their walk – America still doesn’t quite want to have the conversation, and she is more than content to stroll hand-in-hand with Wendy and just take in everything around them.

Only once does Wendy request that they pause, and she leaves America’s side just long enough to pick a slender red rainflower. When she returns, she tucks it just behind America’s ear. Then she hesitates and searches her eyes. “Is that okay?”

“Uh, yeah.” America reaches up just enough to run a finger along the flower’s petals. They’re soft, just like she’s dreamed that—

Nope.

Then Wendy takes her hand and interlaces their fingers again before they start forward once more.

There are no real paths in Neverland. The Lost Ones don’t really use the same way through twice, and even if they did, the unchanging nature of Neverland tends to keep those paths from forming. But Wendy knows the way, knows it better than the back of her hands, and they make it to the shield perhaps not as quickly as they might have that first time but within a reasonable amount of time.

When they get there, Wendy raises her empty hand to the shield then thinks better of it. “Here. I will teach you.” She raises the hand entangled with America’s and holds it up against the shield. “Do you feel that?”

Where her hand just touches the shield, America can feel a gentle, gentle hum, almost like the purring of a cat but more mechanical in nature. “Yeah. What is that?”

Wendy doesn’t answer her. She just smiles. “If you feel that, then all you have to do is this.” She places their hands up against the shield, and it flickers beneath their touch. It stretches as she pushes against it, so that the lines of it shine bright violet with the occasional single golden thread between them. “Find a golden thread from the outside, and you can hook your finger onto it, like this.” She hooks her pinky around it and then pulls. “Pixie knows it’s one of us, then, instead of someone else trying to push through who shouldn’t be here.”

“What happens if it’s someone else?” America asks as they push through the shield.

“It’s never happened before,” Wendy admits, “but when it does, we assume the worst and back up to the bomb.” Her eyes flash dark, and for a moment, there’s a flash of something like scarlet just beneath them and her voice grows harsh as she growls, “If Ultron comes, we want to take him with us.”

America doesn’t ask. She has seen Wanda at her worst, and she knows not only how she fights but also the toll it takes on her afterwards when her emotions run ragged. That Wendy would find a way to kill Ultron that would likely also end up killing her doesn’t surprise America in the least. She just doesn’t want to consider it.

However.

“Wendy?”

“Hm?” Wendy turns to her, head tilting ever so gently to one side, considering her.

“How old are you?” America asks, her voice cautious. “I mean – how long have you been in Neverland? How long has it been since Ultron tried to—”

Wendy reaches over and places a hand over America’s mouth. Her brow furrows. “I told you the truth, Starlight. I’m seventeen, minus a few months.” She removes her hand. “I’m not sure what you are asking me.”

“How long have you been seventeen?”

Wendy takes a deep breath. She glances up at the sky. Without the buildings in the way, it’s easier to see, but the pollution from the years of machines throwing gas and smoke into the air makes it harder to see the stars. “I was fifteen when we created Neverland,” she says, still staring upward, “and I will be seventeen in a few months.” She glances back to America. “Just because no one grows up in Neverland doesn’t mean I didn’t grow up a little. There’s a difference. I didn’t want to be fifteen forever.” She doesn’t smile. “Does that answer your question?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m.” America pushes her hand through her hair, and it falls back into her eyes almost immediately, save for what is held back by the rainflower. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have thought—”

“No, don’t be sorry.” Wendy’s voice still sounds harsh, but when she crosses her arms, she seems more hurt than mad. “You are right to have thought. Pixie’s used magic to make herself seem younger. It would only make sense for you to suspect that of me, too.” Her fingers grasp a faded shawl she’s tucked about herself, and she pulls it tighter, as though that will hide her away. “I would never lie to you like that.”

It’s a moment.

Not the same sort of moment as before. America feels pressure here, but of a different sort, and it makes her uncomfortable without making her uncomfortable. Discomfort due to how she has made Wendy feel, not….

Not.

It’s a moment, and America doesn’t think about any of that when she moves to Wendy and just softly touches her arm. “Hey, I know that. I know.”

“Do you, Starlight?” Wendy lifts her head and meets her eyes, and she’s taller than America, but not by much. “I do not think you trust me.”

“I trust you.” It’s a lie, but it slips through her lips as easy as anything, and in the moment, it doesn’t really seem like a lie to America. Not true, perhaps, but not entirely not true either.

Wendy gives her a look, fingers fiddling with the edges of her shawl. “Do you?”

Another moment, and this time, America misses it, misses the warning signs. All she sees is that Wendy is hurt, and all she wants in that moment is to heal the hurt that she has caused. (There is blood on her knuckles, blood that isn’t hers, and it’s bright and shining and dark and scarlet and scarlet and she can’t fix that, and she can’t go back, but this is small, this is an accident, this she can fix—)

“Yeah,” America says, and she doesn’t know why her heart is suddenly in her throat when she says it. She only knows that somewhere between that heartbeat and this one, what she says becomes suddenly, completely true. “I trust you.”

Wendy smiles – a soft thing, a vulnerability acknowledged – and this time, when her eyes flick down, America catches the moment but not quickly enough to stop it. (She isn’t sure, thinking about it afterwards, if she even would.)

It is not the first time that America Chavez has been kissed. She’s sixteen, almost seventeen, maybe she is seventeen now, she doesn’t know how time works in this universe and knows even less about how it works in Neverland, it could be her birthday now, and she would never know, most of her age is guesswork based on the stars overhead and trying to figure out how days and months and hours work from one universe to the next – and prior to meeting Steven Strange, she had been through seventy-two universes in ten years’ time, bouncing through an average of one universe every other month, sometimes more – and she has had to learn to adapt and fit in and blend in wherever she lands, but that doesn’t mean that there haven’t been other people that she’s liked or other people she’s loved, and love is a strong word because she is sixteen, and she doesn’t use it lightly, especially because she’s always known that no matter where she is, she won’t be there long because she’s never there long, so she uses it sparingly and not on things like this, not on people like Wendy, but on people like Strange, who saved her, on Wong, who housed her, perhaps in the future on Clint or Kate or the Wanda from Earth-838 if she ever returns, if she ever feels like she can return, because they feel like family (and a part of her is very aware that she might use it for her Wanda, too, but she refuses to think like that because then she has to remember her blood on her knuckles and she has to remember how she left things and she is still so mad at her and she is still so mad at herself) – and it is impossible to imagine going through that many universes without having a connection with someone on at least one of them – so yes, America Chavez has been kissed, and yes, she may have kissed someone else first – but she is sixteen almost seventeen, and it hasn’t happened that often, and it has never happened like this.

There is so much fear here.

When Wendy moves away, that fear is bright in her eyes, and it weaves through the fingertips that raise to just touch America’s cheek, the thumb that brushes her skin, and it only grows as she searches her eyes, only grows the longer that America stands there and says nothing, only grows as her heart aches with yet another mistake, and she steps back, lowers her head, and pulls her shawl even tighter about herself. “I am sorry,” she says, and her accent seems thicker now, and there’s a word she says that America doesn’t understand because it’s a language she hasn’t learned, and she doesn’t look up. “I should never have—”

“Can we….” America hesitates as she interrupts, but she does so anyway. She licks her lips and looks down, focuses on Wendy’s fingertips where they pull at her shawl. “Can we talk?” She glances up and bites her lower lip and lets her gaze linger on Wendy’s face, but Wendy still doesn’t look up. It’s easy, then, the way she steps forward and covers one of Wendy’s hands with her own. “Hey.”

Wendy’s eyes are red when she looks up.

“Hey, don’t—” America doesn’t know what to say (she still isn’t sure how she feels) but she knows this well enough. She squeezes Wendy’s hand, and if she were older, maybe she would brush away the tears that haven’t fallen yet, but she isn’t older, she’s only sixteen – almost seventeen, maybe actually seventeen, what is time in Neverland, what is time across the multiverse – and this isn’t something she’s handled before, why would it be something she’s handled before – so she doesn’t do that, but she offers the comfort she knows that she can. “Don’t cry. I’m not. I’m not mad. Or anything.”

She’s tongue-tied because what are words is as valid as what is time, and this is a situation she cannot explain to Wendy and have the other girl understand. There’s a reason this is so complicated for her in a way that isn’t and can never be for Wendy, and it hurts that she cannot put it into words the way that she wants. It is impossible to say I like you, too, but another version of you who is not quite twice your age definitely tried to kill me and I’ve met another version of you’s kids and I met a third version of you as a kid, and as much as I want to separate that from you, I can’t, and I don’t know if I ever can – not because she cannot say that but because Wendy wouldn’t believe it.

And she’s too young to know anything else to say, and that hurts, too.

“You wanted to talk, Starlight,” Wendy says, stepping away from America, gently removing her hand out from under America’s, and wiping her eyes with it, with that tip end of her frayed shawl, before looking up. Her voice is rough. Rasping. She makes herself speak anyway. “What did you want to talk about?”

It’s a clear, deliberate change of subject, an avoidance of what has happened, an avoidance of pain, shoving it back and back and back into a deep well of it where it won’t be touched and it will not harm her, and that is Wanda, too, and eventually, it will bubble up and spill over, but maybe America won’t be here when that happens.

America does not think that way. For a moment, her hand remains in the air where it was, as though grasping for something she knows she cannot have, and then it just as quickly lowers, clenching into a fist. She has not been in Neverland so long that her nails have grown when she leaves it, so their chopped, torn nature slices her skin. Not enough to bleed. Sometimes, she wishes—

“When you talked about your dreams,” America begins, hesitant, unwilling, “you said you had magic like Pixie’s.” She glances up from her clenched fist, forces herself to relax. Her lips press together. This is another thing she doesn’t know how to explain. “I think your dreams are right, but Pixie’s runes are keeping you from using it.”

Wendy’s face grows hard, then, and her eyes flash dangerously dark. There is no scarlet in them. “How dare you?” She takes a step forward, face contorting with an anger built from hurt. “You would take my dreams and turn them against—”

“Have you even tried?” America asks, and her voice cracks. She pulls the sling ring from her fingers and holds it out to Wendy. “You can use mine. Magic’s not hard, and I think yours—”

“I have tried,” Wendy spits out, glaring at the offered double ring. Her voice is tighter now. “When Pixie taught all of the Lost Ones how to use hers, I tried. Over and over and over again. No matter what I did, nothing happened. Nothing. Every single one of them could get at least a few sparks, but I…. I could do nothing.” Her gaze lifts to meet America’s. “Whatever magic everyone else has, I’m so bad at it that I don’t even have that.”

Something is wrong.

America doesn’t know how to say that, but something is wrong.

“That’s not…that’s not right,” America stutters instead, brows furrowing, not really looking at anything, only trying to puzzle things out. “You should have magic. You should be the most powerful—”

“Do you know what else I dreamed, Starlight?” Wendy asks, stepping forward toward her again, voice taut. “I dreamed of you. For weeks. Months. Time without measure, I dreamed of you. Every single dream I had, there you were. Just like you were when we first met.” She looks her over. “Sometimes, you even came with the same star that the two women in that first dream did. I was so certain that it had to mean something, and then – there you were. In one of our way stations.”

“Way stations?”

Wendy ignores this and turns away from her. “I knew you the moment I saw you, and I thought – this is it. This is the girl from my dreams. She’s real, and she’s here. And then you were you.” She glances back over her shoulder at America, and her head tilts ever so slightly to one side, and her eyes are red again, and she’s not quite looking at America but she’s not quite not. “And now this.” She gestures hopelessly with one hand. “I did not think anyone could be so cruel.”

America steps forward immediately, that same sense of needing to fix what she’s broken causing her to reach out and touch Wendy’s arm again. “Wendy, I—”

Wendy pulls away from her. “I don’t think you should stay here anymore,” she says, voice soft as she looks down at the ground. She opens her mouth as though to say something else and then hesitates. “I think, America Chavez,” she continues, “that you should leave Neverland.” She glances up and meets America’s eyes. “And I don’t think you should come back.”

A small tendril of scarlet flickers through her eyes.

“Your eyes.” America stares at her. “Your eyes are red.”

Wendy’s eyes narrow, and she shakes her head. “You are so—”

Whatever she is about to say is cut off. A loud booming sound – like a muffled explosion – comes from behind them. Wendy whirls around to it. Smoke, rising from above Neverland, and startled birds flying up and up and up, pressing against the shield, breaking through the shield, and as they do so suddenly becoming paralyzed with the same pain that America felt when Pixie brought her through, such they fall straight back to the ground, hit the shield, bounce off of the shield, and continue to fall down and down and down.

Wendy’s eyes search the shield. “Ultron,” she whispers. “He’s here.” She runs towards the shield.

“Wendy, wait!” America runs after her and grabs her wrist. When Wendy whirls back to her, her eyes blaze scarlet in a way that America has seen and is familiar with and sends chills – not good ones – down her spine. She swallows once, and this time, her quickened heartbeat is one of terror, not of something she refuses to think about but cannot avoid. “I told you,” she says, keeping hold of Wendy’s gaze, “I told you that as long as we were together, we would be safe. I told you I wouldn’t let the Ultron puppets hurt you.”

Wendy rips her wrist out of America’s grasp, but she does not move. “You will not keep me from my Lost Ones, Starlight.” She tilts her head back in that same sort of beckoning, that same sort of reckless dare she’d given when they first met, but there is so much more power in it now. “Will you fight alongside us? You could die. Would you risk death just to protect your Wendybird?”

America hesitates. She wants to see her moms again. She doesn’t want to die here.

Her powers are not magic. If things come to the worst, she can still run.

“I will fight with you,” America says and then begins to lie again as she says, “and if I die—”

Another boom. More smoke. More birds, but where these break, so does the shield.

America swallows. “Gotta die sometime, right?” She meets Wendy’s eyes and hopes that her lie has appeared as truth.

Wendy looks at her. She looks and she looks, and as she does, the scarlet fire in her eyes fades, replaced with something…something. Her head tilts to one side. “Fine,” she says, voice soft again, and her gaze flicks up to meet America’s eyes once more. Behind her, the loud sound of the shield breaking, and she whirls back to it, stares at the violet and golden strands falling apart. “Take me to the bomb,” she says, grabbing America’s hand in her own. “Pixie’s power is failing; we need to get to the bomb.”

No more shield. No more runes.

America makes a golden portal and pulls them both through it.

Chapter 49: Part Four: Chapter Eleven

Chapter Text

Run.

The shield is falling. The shield is falling, but it hasn’t fallen entirely yet, so the golden portal will only take them so far. America doesn’t know Neverland as well as Wendy does, and so she does not know where they are or how to get where they’re going, but Wendy takes her hand in hers and tugs.

And they run.

They don’t make it far before Ultron puppets swarm about them. It should be impossible. The shields haven’t fallen completely. They shouldn’t be here. They shouldn’t even be able to be here. But if America can make a portal with her sling ring that leads her into Neverland, then the Ultron puppets can follow.

Within reason.

One Ultron puppet steps in just the wrong spot – or the right spot, as far as America is concerned – and lands beneath the shield. It freezes, twitches a few seconds as the orange light in its eyes grows, and then that light seems to implode. The puppet doesn’t move again. One of the others, rushing past it, knocks into it, and it falls in a crumpled heap. Others follow to trample it, and the shield, still fading, no longer holds in that place. They decimate their fallen.

Ultron puppets do not care about their slain, only about their goal. This is not their goal.

America glances over her shoulder. She shouldn’t. She knows better. She does anyway. “They’re catching up.”

“Trust me,” Wendy whispers – or it seems like she whispers, but if she did, then there is no way America should have heard it over the clanking of the puppets behind them, over the crunching of leaves under their feet, under the beating of her own heart loud and fast in her ears. She lets go of America’s hand, grabs one of the tree branches, and swings herself up into one of the trees.

America’s first instinct is to yell after her – Hey! – and to feel as though Wendy is abandoning her. But that isn’t trust. Trust means that even if she doesn’t know what Wendy is doing – or why Wendy is doing it – she knows that whatever it is, it will only help them both. So she turns on the ball of her foot, punches her hand into her fist (more to look cool, if Wendy sees her, than anything), and sprints back into the swarm of Ultron puppets.

She might not know how to get anywhere after that, but she trusts that Wendy will lead her there.

The first Ultron puppet goes down with a punch directly into its face, one that crumples whatever metal is holding it together. It sparks, and its eyes grow a bright orange before imploding in the same manner. America grabs it in one hand and uses its mangled body to shove another puppet into one of the places the shield still holds. It, too, goes down, but she doesn’t see it, whirling to send an uppercut straight into the chin of the nearest puppet to her.

This puppet grabs America’s wrist and sinks clawlike fingers into her skin. America grits her teeth against the pain and sends a fist into the side of its face, hard enough to knock the head clear from its body. The problem is that the body is still there, the problem is that those claws are still sunk deep into her arm, and in the extra moments it takes for her to rip the claws out of her skin, dripping her blood (she is trying not to look, she remembers blood on her knuckles, and if she looks now, she will see grease staining them instead, but even grease can look like dried blood), another puppet grabs at her waist and pulls her back.

America stumbles.

A branch so thick and wide that it might as well have been a log itself smashes from above them and lands with a thunk between America and the puppet pulling her back, neatly severing its grasping arms from its body. The puppet stands still just long enough for America to whip the one that had been attached to her wrist around and hit it with its fallen comrade. They both crumple into a tangled heap.

“That was a little close!” America yells out, not even looking up as she goes for the next puppet.

“It is hard to aim from this high!” Wendy yells back from somewhere above her. The leaves hiss and rustle as she moves, and somehow, America hears this. She shouldn’t be able to hear this.

Another puppet crumples as it gets too close, and another log-sized branch falls into three puppets at once, smashing the one in the middle and sending one of the others careening into a spot where the shield still holds. Its magic fades as it flies through the spot, and it lands and doesn’t get up. The third puppet loses its legs but begins to drag itself – far faster than anything without legs should be able to pull itself along Neverland’s floor – to the nearest tree. It doesn’t say anything, but two other puppets follow it, not up the same tree, but jumping up the ones nearest to them.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” America sprints to the one without legs, tears it from the tree, and throws it at one of the others. This doesn’t kill the second puppet, but it does knock it from the tree. She gets to it before it can start climbing up again, ripping it away from the trunk and punching it over and over until there’s nothing left to call a face.

The other puppets are farther off – some of them have run passed them in an attempt to get to their goal without being distracted by these Lost Ones, and others haven’t yet gotten to them yet (and a third group still has seen the damage America is doing and decided to make a wide berth, which only leads to more of them stumbling into spots where the shield still holds and falling anyway).

America scans the area around her, sees the fallen puppets, and sees even worse that the third puppet climbing one of the trees is now completely out of her reach. She starts to try and climb up after it anyway. “Wendy!” she yells up, unsure of where the other girl is. “It’s coming for you! Watch out!”

There is no response, only the leaves rustling in the trees.

Then something that isn’t rustling in the trees.

America glances up. She can just catch a glimpse of Wendy through the branches, jumping from one to the other, and an Ultron puppet catching up to her. “Wendy!”

Wendy hears her.

Wendy hesitates.

The puppet grabs her ankle, and she falls.

America isn’t going to make it up the tree in time. She’s not as fast as a puppet. Wendy doesn’t have any way of hurting the puppet (she does, America is sure of it, but she isn’t doing anything, and if she could do something, even subconsciously, she would be doing it now, that’s the way America’s power had protected her, and she’s certain that’s the way Wendy’s will protect her, too, but the more she sees, the more nothing happens, and something is wrong, but she has no idea what it is, she has no idea why Wendy’s magic isn’t coming to her – it can’t be the shield, because the Ultron puppet is still functioning; something is wrong)—

She drops from the tree trunk, positions herself to the tree nearest to where the puppet is dragging Wendy towards him (she’s screaming, she’s screaming, she has to do something, she’s screaming), clasps her hands together, and slams them as hard as she can into the trunk.

The trunk breaks.

The puppet falls.

The puppet is still holding onto Wendy, and so Wendy falls.

Wendy grabs onto a branch, and the sudden jolting stop causes the puppet to lose its grip on her ankles. The puppet scrabbles to try and grab onto something – anything – but fails, and when it lands, it half crumples, shakes its head, and then starts towards the tree trunk again. America stamps on its head until there is nothing left but a few mangled bolts and nuts, then she looks up to where Wendy has just pulled herself up onto the branch and is breathing heavily.

“You okay?”

“Define okay.” Wendy stays where she is, kneeling on the branch. Her fingers run along the spot where the puppet grabbed her ankle. She takes a deep breath. “I’m not bleeding.”

That doesn’t mean she’s okay. America knows about sprained ankles. She knows that there will be bruises.

But Wendy glances down at her and meets her eyes. “Catch me.”

“Catch you?”

The words are no sooner out of America’s lips, then Wendy flips herself off of the branch and falls through the air. America’s eyes widen. She’s no good for this. She’s not going to be able to – she’s going to miss, and Wendy’s going to get hurt – but she positions herself as carefully under Wendy as she can. Wendy lands just in her arms, but America isn’t expecting the weight of her, and they both fall.

It’s another moment, but when Wendy meets her eyes, it’s not an uncomfortable one. America flushes a bright scarlet, and Wendy tears her gaze away. “We need to go. Pixie’s waiting for us.”

“Um.” America stays on her back a moment longer as Wendy stands. She swallows once. “Yeah.”

When Wendy offers her hand, America takes it. Just as before, Wendy’s hand is so cold. It shouldn’t be so cold, not in Neverland, not in this sweltering heat. It’s almost like touching a corpse.

Not that, you know, America’s touched a corpse. Other than that one Strange who had decided his only option was to steal her power. And even then, she hadn’t touched him so much as his body had been pulled through the portal after her and dropped on top of her when they both landed. Which had been really uncomfortable and—

Now is not the time for this.

Wendy tugs her forward again, and America runs with her.

There are more Ultron puppets as they make their way towards the heart of Neverland, but they are few and far between. America kills them easily enough; Wendy never has to make it up into the leafy overgrowth above, and she is never once in danger.

(This is not strictly speaking true. Wendy is in incredible danger. But she is never in danger from the Ultron puppets as she just was, and America cannot know the danger that they are in more than Wendy has conveyed it to her. Ultron looms in the background. This is not her primary danger.)

They do not make it back to the bomb before they run into the other two leaders of the Lost Ones, and when they do, two things become apparent immediately: Pixie stands amidst a pile of Ultron puppet bodies, each neatly severed from limb to limb, violet wisps swirling around her hands in a manner reminiscent of the scarlet wisps that should be swirling around Wendy’s and yet never have, and as they approach, she neatly severs the head from another puppet and drops it onto the pile around her. Pan, on the other hand, has not fared so well. He lies on the ground a few feet away from her, one hand on his side, breathing heavily, not quite conscious.

Wendy runs to her brother and kneels down next to him. “You’re okay,” she says, although whether that is to reassure herself or to reassure him America cannot tell. She holds his other hand in hers and squeezes it. “You’re going to be okay. Pixie’s got magic, she’ll make it better, she can heal you, you’ll be fine—”

“I’m not sure fine is the right word.” Pixie slowly moves over to the twins. She glances over to America. “You’ll take care of the puppets, won’t you? I need to fix my mistake.”

“Uh, yeah.” America turns away from them, towards the puppets that are just on the edge of the woods, coming ever closer. She moves towards them, hands clenched into fists and held at the ready. If any of them dare to come closer, she’ll take care of them. They push forward, and she runs to them, beginning to destroy those closest to her.

Pixie kneels down next to Wendy, and she brushes the hair back from her face, tucking it neatly behind her ear. Wendy glances over, eyes already red and tears threatening to spill over. “You can save him, can’t you, Pixie? With your dust? You’re supposed to save Pan from his poison.”

“Oh, my dear.” Pixie gives Wendy a little smile. “I can save all of us, but I need your help. Will you help me?”

Wendy’s brows furrow. “Of course, I’ll help, but I don’t know what—” Before she can even finish speaking, violet wisps swirling with threads of gold, wrap around her wrists and ankles, holding her tight and still. Her eyes widen. “Pixie? What are you—?”

Pixie’s head tilts to one side. “I’m sorry, Wendy, but this really is the only way.” She holds one hand out towards Wendy, and a flood of scarlet tinged with black pulses out of her and into Pixie. Then Pixie holds her other hand up and shoots more of her violet and golden magic into the shield above them, strengthening it, rejuvenating it. The shield begins to spread outwards, and some of the Ultron puppets begin to shut down immediately.

America has been so focused on the puppets that she hasn’t heard anything that has been going on behind her, but then Wendy screams. She whirls around. It takes a moment to understand what she’s seeing, because America has only ever been in Wendy’s position before, having her power ripped from her by another magician – sorcerer, witch, it doesn’t matter which – has never seen it from the outside.

But she knows.

The feeling of every cell of her body being ripped out from under her skin, being dragged like nails under her flesh and along her bones, like everything is on fire but doesn’t know how to burn, a permanent sort of constant death in a million thousand ways all at once—

“She’s killing her,” America whispers, and it still takes another instant before it all clicks together, and then America runs at Pixie, one hand clenched. “You’re killing her!”

The punch lands easy, not because Pixie isn’t expecting it but because she cannot move one hand to freeze America in place while also simultaneously draining Wendy and bringing the shield back to its former strength. Her eyes blaze violet with thin threads of scarlet swirling in them – up until America slams her fist right into her face.

She hears the bones crunch. Her stomach churns. This is okay. Pixie isn’t defenseless. She’s trying to help someone. People’s bones break when you hit them that hard.

America doesn’t want to have to hit her again.

Without thinking, America moves between Wendy and Pixie, fists up. “Try it again. I dare you.”

Pixie stands, brushes a hand across her lips, and pulls it back spotted with blood. She smiles. There’s nothing menacing there in the slightest; it’s not like when Mordo met her with Strange so long ago. It feels…sad. Very, very sad. “I don’t want to hurt you, Ms. Chavez—”

“Starlight,” Wendy coughs out from behind her as she slowly stands. “Her name is Starlight.”

“Is it?” Pixie’s gaze never leaves America. “Is that what you want to be called?”

America hesitates. “I—”

As soon as she is distracted, Pixie flicks her fingers, and magic swarms around America, throwing her to one side and then holding her in place. She examines her carefully. Her head tilts to one side, and she steps closer. “I wonder.”

No, no, no. Not again. Not again—

But Pixie doesn’t seem to care about her at all. Instead, she turns back to Wendy and holds her aloft again, just like she had before. “I do apologize,” she says, voice soft. “I haven’t been able to drain any of your power recently, and that’s made everything weaker. You were never supposed to know, and it was never supposed to get this bad.” She sighs and holds her hand out to Wendy again. “But I think I will need everything to fix this. You won’t live, but I will save everyone. It’s the only way.”

Wendy spits at her. “Pirate.”

“She could have helped you!” America shouts out, struggling against her bonds. “If she’d made the runes, then none of them—”

Pixie doesn’t even look away. “How long do you think it would take to train her?” Her fingers flick, and Wendy’s power streams out of her again. Wendy’s head tilts back, but this time when she opens her mouth to scream, power comes out instead. “We would all have been dead by then. That wouldn’t have worked. She wanted Neverland, and I gave it to her. To all of us. For a little while.” She tries to meet Wendy’s eyes. “Thank you for help—”

The problem with counting someone down and out is that they often will come back and surprise you.

Pixie is so focused on Wendy, and America is so focused on the both of them, that neither of them notices when Pan disappears. They only notice when Pan slams himself full force into Pixie, knocking her over and breaking her concentration. America falls to the ground, in the stance that she’s practiced so many times falling out of her own star-shaped portals, one hand punching down, and she knows it looks cool, but this is less about looking cool and more about landing in a position that gives her the ability to sprint immediately to Wendy.

Pan holds Pixie in place. “Go, go!” he rasps, and when he coughs, blood comes up. “I can’t hold her very long!”

America grabs Wendy. “We’ve got to go.”

“No!” Wendy doesn’t have any strength left – it is impossible to have much strength left that quickly, America knows this because she’s felt it – but she still tries to move away from America, back to Pan. “I’m not leaving him! He’ll die!”

The problem with focusing so completely on the few people immediately close is that it lets enemies draw closer. The Ultron puppets never left, and now one is close enough to shift its claw into a gun and shoot Pan. He takes a deep shuddering breath and collapses on top of Pixie.

Now.

America has learned to control her powers to a certain extent. She can punch holes from one universe into the next or into several at once, sometimes, but usually she uses it between two. That’s easier. Sometimes, if she knows a universe where she wants to land, she can control it that far, too. It’s harder when she only has a general idea of where she’s wanting to go, and sometimes – as with her moms – even the general idea is so hard to pin down that she can’t locate the universe on her own. So she has an element of control, yes, but not complete control, not like the control that the Scarlet Witch showed when she possessed the Wanda of Earth-838, reached into America’s mind with her own power, and directed her to the universe that she wanted.

What happens next has not happened since America ran from the Scarlet Witch, not since Stephen Strange told her to trust her powers to take her where she wants to go, not since she has learned that she can punch portals when and wherever she wants.

America is afraid.

She’s been afraid before. She’s been afraid a lot of times in the recent past, panic attacks included, but none of these fears have been real, life-threatening ones. Her powers have never believed that she is truly threatened, and so they have not kicked in.

Her powers kick in now.

A star-shaped portal opens up behind her, with all the power of a space-altering vacuum sucking her and whatever is nearest into it. America does not control this portal, and although she is grateful for its existence, she has no idea where it will send her, and she cannot keep it from drawing both her and Wendy in.

Pan is too far away, and he is pushed even further when Pixie drags herself out from under him. Pixie pulls the black cord from around her neck – the one with the green gem on the end – and shoves it towards America and Wendy. “You need this,” she says, voice rough. “Take it.”

Wendy ignores her. America reaches her hand out, but the portal sucks her in. Pixie shoves her hand through the portal—

And the portal neatly severs it off.

Agatha Stephen Harkness has been Pixie for almost two years. She has never really liked the name, but then again, she’s never really liked her name to begin with. Her parents believed that she would be born male, and so they intended to name her Stephen. It was a good name – a strong name – and perhaps it would have been a great distraction from her father’s last name.

Strange, he had been called. She would much rather have been a Stephen Strange than an Agatha Harkness.

The tenth of her line, descended from the Agatha Harkness of Salem, the firstborn daughter of the last firstborn daughter, ten generations of Agatha Harkness after Agatha Harkness, all of them keeping the same name as a remnant of the great Agatha Harkness who protected the Darkhold without reading it and started what would eventually become Salem Magitech. There wasn’t a lot of tech back in those days, but she and her coven had found that infusing it with magic made it safer. Smoother. Better for everyone.

If she’d had an older sister, Pixie would have been allowed to grow up and become whatever she wanted, but because she was the firstborn, she was destined to take the Agatha Harkness name and carry on her legacy.

She’d never wanted that. She’d wanted to become a surgeon. She’d wanted to help people.

The only time she’d been able to truly do that was when she saved her younger sister, Donna, from drowning. Magic did what a young girl couldn’t possibly have known to do. The fact that Donna still died to one of her other mistakes later doesn’t really erase that.

Salem Magitech at least was more focused in that direction than the magitech that the newcomers – the Starks – had created. They had been so focused on their weapons of war that they forgot the entire point of magitech was to help people. But when they’d reached out to Agatha with an offer to create something big – something that could provide the help she was meant to provide so that she could be free—

Of course, she’d leapt at it.

Ultron was born, and Ultron was Ultron, and she ran.

Wendy offered for her to join the Lost Ones while Agatha was trying to fix the mistakes she had made – the mistakes the Starks had made – and she’d never felt more like she belonged anywhere. She had always been a Lost One, as Wendy described it, because in her mind, her parents had lost her the moment they decided she had to be an Agatha Harkness and not who she wanted to be – who she could have been.

Pixie might say she created Neverland for Wendy, but she created Neverland for herself.

As Pixie walks through Neverland now, leaving Pan’s broken body behind, leaves crunching beneath her bare feet, she cradles her eviscerated, bloodied wrist in her hands. It doesn’t stay bloody for long; the thing about losing the Time Stone is that the magic keeping her in a teenager’s body is quickly fading, and she is rapidly returning to her twenty-five year old self. It doesn’t hurt the way it hurt America or any of the other Lost Ones left in Neverland too long, or if it does, she doesn’t seem to mind it. The greatest fortune of it all is that the rapid time change means her stump of a wrist heals itself almost immediately, scabbing and scarring over as new skin stitches itself into place. It doesn’t even hurt.

(It does. It is the most excruciating pain she has known to this point, but she knows better than to compare it to what is to come.)

The shields are down. The puppets are coming.

The bomb waits.

There were a lot of moving parts in the game that Pixie devised as Neverland was crafted with a bomb at its very heart. Time doesn’t pass in Neverland, but it does, and in its heart, a Stark Magitech Industries bomb is left just before it is meant to explode.

Pixie has had nightmares. She didn’t lie about that, and neither had Wendy. But she used those nightmares as an excuse – a reason to be up and about when no one else needed to be, just the same as she used her perimeter checks on the bigger, but less important, shield. She’d needed a hammock close enough to Wendy to absorb power slowly out of her through the hours that she slept – absorbing it so slowly meant that Wendy didn’t notice, and that was for the better, and she’d always made sure not to absorb everything. She hadn’t wanted to kill Wendy; she’d only needed the additional help she’d seen in her dreams from a Scarlet Witch who existed in a universe far separate from their own. And on those long walks, yes, sometimes she checked the perimeter, but mostly she returned to the bomb and used the Time Stone to strengthen it.

This time, when the shield falls, the bomb will go off and decimate everything within a—

Well, Agatha was never the one to create bombs. Stark did that. She doesn’t know how big this will be. Certainly not enough to destroy the earth, but certainly big enough to destroy what is left of Neverland. Big enough to destroy Ultron.

She is waiting for him at the bomb when he arrives, and when he calls her Mother, it feels strangely right. She was his mother, after all, just as the long deceased Stark was his father. She opens her arms wide to him, and her curly hair, pulled loose from the bootstring that had been holding it back, billows long in the wind – longer now, with age, and streaked through with white.

Ultron comes to her, not to kill her, but to be loved, because he is her creation just as much as he was Stark’s, and he wants his mother, and he has been looking for her for so long.

Agatha holds him in her arms, kisses his forehead, and drops the last shield.

Chapter 50: Part Four: Chapter Twelve

Chapter Text

Scarlet sits on her couch covered in a fine dusting of flour.

It has been months since America disappeared, and she’s not better, but she’s trying to be. Ash has stayed on the Barton farm for now, but they aren’t sure how long that will last. Clint’s house is fairly big, but it’s holding two families – three adults, five children, and Kate, who isn’t quite either – and even for a house that size, and a lot that size, things are beginning to feel cramped. Laura has been homeschooling her children and has been teaching Ash how to do the same with Billy and Tommy, and there has always been an open invitation for Scarlet to join them whenever she wishes – for dinner, for board games, for movies, for life. She hasn’t always done it, but every now and again, something in her aches to be somewhere else and with more than just herself, and so she goes. Of course, something else in her aches when she’s there, too, surrounded by a family that is not hers and that only reminds her of what she has lost, so she’s rarely there very long.

Ash and her boys, however, maintain Shabbat.

Scarlet didn’t really keep track of days after Westview, and even if she had, the Darkhold had so rooted itself in her mind that she hadn’t much cared. Rituals and celebrations she might have kept in previous years fell to the wayside in her pursuit first of a way back to her boys and then of America Chavez as that way to her boys, and afterwards, she hadn’t kept them up.

Time passed and time passes and she’s been aware of time passing but she hasn’t had the heart to take part in its passage.

The first time Ash and her boys keep Shabbat on Earth-616, Ash invites her over so that she does not have to be alone, and when Scarlet comes not that first time but another time later, she welcomes her with a smile so compassionate and comforting that it breaks Scarlet’s heart – what little left that hasn’t already been broken in ways that feel beyond repair. When Ash lights the candles, there are two extra beyond the extra Scarlet would have imagined, and when Ash notes her concern, she says, “We always lit a candle for you.” Then she gestures to the other. “This one is for America. We’re family, after all.”

Scarlet hasn’t known what to say to any of that, but she is starting to feel like so much of her heart has been hurt that there cannot be much of it left, even if these hurts are warm and familiar and right. They should be healing her. But everything just hurts.

It has taken even longer since then for Scarlet to extend the invitation herself, to allow Ash and her boys into her own home for Shabbat. She has needed to clean, and it has taken so much more energy than she’d thought that it would. She has needed to cook, and she has needed to have ingredients to cook, and she has needed to get back into the habit of cooking. She is only covered in flour now because the challah bread is in the oven, slowly cooking, and she’d sat down to rest for a few minutes before cleaning up.

Time may have passed, but Scarlet is still so tired.

And when Scarlet sits on the couch for a few moments’ rest, she dozes off and gets flour all over her couch.

Scarlet dreams of falling.

This isn’t an uncommon dream to have. Most people dream of falling at some point in time or another, and Scarlet has certainly dreamt of falling before, even though it hasn’t happened in a very long time. Her dreams now are always about or with her boys. This time, though, they are nowhere to be seen.

Scarlet dreams of falling, and as she falls, she tries to use her magic to steady herself and levitate, but nothing happens. This, too, is odd. In her dreams, she has usually had the powers that she has in the real world; even if they aren’t the full power of the Scarlet Witch, they’re something. Here, there is nothing. She feels, instead, like a battery that has been drained.

And she is so, so tired.

Around her, Scarlet sees the world changing, flickering from one universe to another. She spots unicorns in one place, dinosaurs in another, and in a third, she thinks she becomes a being of paint. This doesn’t make any sense.

Someone is holding her tightly against them.

Scarlet turns just enough to see America Chavez’s face before she catches the edge of a star-shaped portal. The flickering universes around them stop, and now, when they fall, they fall directly towards a cabin in the middle of what looks to be an idyllic apple orchard with sheep roaming about to one side.

They fall closer, and that picture is swept away to reveal burned trees, ashen grounds, and a scarlet sky with a sun just on the horizon.

Scarlet dreams of falling, and she dreams of America Chavez holding her tightly against her, and she dreams of falling towards her own cabin, and she dreams of America yelling for her while the her that is in America’s arms struggles against her—

Scarlet snaps awake, and she covers her domain with another illusion to bring the idyllic landscape back (really, she needed to do that before Ash and the boys arrived anyway; she doesn’t want Billy and Tommy to have another reason to be terrified of her when they’ve been slowly but surely getting accustomed to her presence), and she phases through the wall of her cabin, shifts into the costume of the Scarlet Witch, and meets America Chavez and the version of her that America carries with her in the air.

It is easy to slow their descent, and it is even easier to hold them, gently, in place.

Scarlet takes a deep breath and stares at America. “You came back.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

Then something else comes shooting out of the atmosphere, and Scarlet, without even thinking, freezes it in place. She gives America a look. “Someone is chasing you.”

“No one should be chasing us—”

Scarlet barely glimpses the other version of herself. She’s so young. Her eyes are red. Something is wrong. (Of course, something is wrong. She’s here and not in whatever universe she’s supposed to be in. That means something happened. Of course, something happened. Why isn’t she surprised?)

She’ll think about this later.

Scarlet moves to whatever it was that had followed them through the multiverse and stops when she sees that it is nothing more than a severed hand. She blinks twice. Not what she expected, but then, could she really have expected any of this?

Something glimmering bright, bright green dangles from a black cord held tight in the severed hand.

She moves closer, and her eyes widen.

Scarlet knows an Infinity Stone when she sees one. She knows, and she knows, and she’s not sure if she wants it all to herself or if she wants to destroy it immediately. She could do that even before she came into her full power; she could do it so easily now.

No.

Without the barest thought towards the grotesqueness of it, Scarlet takes the severed hand and returns to the two children – one America and one another version of herself – still hovering in the air. She doesn’t want to ignore the other her, but she doesn’t know what to say to her. Instead, her eyes focus immediately on America.

“I think you have some explaining to do.”

It is only then, as Scarlet slowly lowers the two kids with her back to her house, that she hears the timer that has been going off this entire time, that has likely been what actually woke her up in the first place. Her eyes widen. “Oh no.” She phases back through the wall, forgetting about both America and her younger self for the moment (and leaving them stuck, hovering out there), and the strong scent of burning bread overwhelms her. “Oh no oh no oh no.” She opens the oven and pulls the bread out without oven mitts.

Black. Burned. Ruined.

Scarlet resists the urge to make her domain look like that again. It wouldn’t do her younger self any favors, and considering the way she looked—

Oh. Right. Them.

Scarlet phases back through the wall where the two girls are hovering just above the porch’s floorboards. “Sorry.” She waggles her fingers, and they both drop. Even without the sitcoms trying to turn her everyday life into a fun little comedy, there’s always something. She stares at them both for a moment and then holds out her hand. “Sling ring.”

America stares right back at her, confused. “What?”

“I have to go tell Ash—”

“Who?”

“The other Wanda.” Scarlet’s eyes flick to the other her that America has brought with her. “The other other Wanda.”

The younger her crosses her arms, but it’s less annoyance and more like she’s holding her together and trying to feign annoyance, or it’s all of the above. Scarlet has had this exact same posture before, right down to the way she runs her fingers along the edge of her frayed shawl. She knows, even if she can’t put it into words. “My name’s Wendy.”

“Good. We all have different names now. No one has to be confused.” Scarlet turns back to America. “We were going to have Shabbat. I burned the Challah bread. I need to go tell them that no, they can’t come over right now because you’re here and you brought another one of us with you.” She gestures to Wendy. “And I need you to stay here so we can talk about all of this when I get back.” Then she holds her hand out again, palm open. “So. Sling ring. No teleporting off to Kamar-Taj.”

America scowls and hands the sling ring over. “I could just go to another universe, you know.”

“I know. You’re very good at running.” Scarlet has no pockets, so she doesn’t tuck the sling ring away anywhere. She slides it on her fingers instead. It’s warm and uncomfortable. Teleporting is so much easier. Her eyes glance up and over to Wendy. “But I don’t think you’re going to leave her here without you, and I don’t think it would be good for her to be shoved into another new universe when she’s just getting used to this one.”

Wendy pulls her shawl tighter about herself, but doesn’t say anything. She’s taking everything in, though. Her eyes keep wandering around and then returning to Scarlet. The question is on the tip of her tongue, but it doesn’t come. Or, at least, not the question Scarlet expects. “Can we go inside? You mentioned burning something.”

Scarlet hesitates. She has never let America in her house before. To be honest, she isn’t quite sure she wants to do that now. But it would be better than the shed full of medical supplies, so she nods, hesitantly, once. “Don’t go upstairs,” she says, then, realizing this will likely just lead to them immediately going upstairs, she waves her hand and the upstairs disappears entirely.

There’s a top to the porch. They won’t notice until they’re inside, and she can always put it back later.

It feels foolish to lock the door behind them, but Scarlet does so anyway.

Just in case.

There is something odd about going inside the Scarlet Witch’s house for the first time, and it is even odder because Wanda isn’t there with her. She’s never even let America so much as glimpse inside. Every time she’s given her tea or hot chocolate, they’d had it out on the porch, and although America could have gone in and made her own drink, Wanda had never allowed for it. Almost like Wanda had always intentionally been in the costume of the Scarlet Witch every time she’d visited, up until that weird meeting at Denny’s.

Intentional distancing. Very intentional distancing.

Of course, America is not so overwhelmed by actually being inside the Scarlet Witch’s house that she doesn’t hear the door locking behind them. Like that would actually do anything. They could just go over and unlock it themselves—

She reaches for the door only to find that there is no lock on the inside. Okay, but they can still break through the windows—

…there are no windows.

And Wanda had told them not to go upstairs, but there are no stairs.

Fine. Fine.

America glances around and finds that, actually, she’s very underwhelmed. She doesn’t know what she’d expected the inside of Wanda’s house to look like, but she certainly hadn’t expected what is basically a house copy and pasted straight out of the suburbs. But given that the Scarlet Witch had been so obsessed with finding her sons and being a mom, maybe this is what she should have expected. Wanda wanted to be a suburban house wife with two kids, and she’d ended up being a mass murderer chasing a child through the multiverse to—

No.

America can feel her heart racing thinking about that. She has to remember that, despite all of that, Wanda has been trying to get better. That they’d actually had conversations. That Wanda had tried to fix the mistakes she’d caused on Earth-616. That should count for something. She has to remember that she doesn’t actually hate Wanda, no matter how much she still wants to be mad at her.

Somehow, it’s harder than America wants it to be. The things she’s shoved deep within herself are still finding ways to bubble up towards the surface, to itch just beneath her skin. She doesn’t want to be the person who punches Wanda bloody again, but somehow it feels like just talking about things isn’t going to fix it at all.

But she can think about all of that later. Right now, she needs to focus on Wendy.

America scuffs her sneaker on the hardwood floor before turning and facing the other girl. “Are you okay?” she asks, even though there is no possible way that Wendy could actually be okay. Still, she scans her. There will be bruises where the Ultron puppet grabbed her ankle, but there’s no way to see those beneath her thin black pants. She doesn’t know if the rips in Wendy’s clothes were there before the fight; oddly, she hadn’t really been taking notice of them. Not the way she is now. And it’s hard to look for any potential blood on black or scarlet clothes.

Reminded of it now, America’s arm aches where the Ultron puppet ripped through her skin. She needs to clean it. Can cuts from a robot get infected? Probably, if she’d gotten grease in it.

Wendy doesn’t answer her question. “You have to take me back.” She steps forward, gripping tightly to the frayed edges of her shawl, so tight that her knuckles gleam a stark white against the darker fabric. “We have to go back and save Pan. Pixie…I don’t care about Pixie, but we have to save Pan.” Her words come so fast that it’s hard to disentangle them, and her eyes flick about the room like a cornered animal. “I don’t know where we are, but we have to go back.”

“We can’t go back.” America’s brows furrow. “If we go back, we’ll die. You’ll die. It’s senseless—”

“It’s senseless for my brother to die when we could go back and bring him here.” Wendy’s eyes narrow as she glares at America. “You were able to take me—”

“Pixie will freeze me the moment I get back! She knows I have power now, so she’ll probably just try to absorb it—” America cuts herself off, holds a hand up. “Pixie was hurting you. You yelled.” She steps forward, not hesitant in the slightest. “I’ve had that happen to me before. Are you—” She reaches out one hand to touch Wendy’s arm.

Wendy pulls away. “No, Starlight, I’m not okay! My brother is alone out there dying when we could save him, and you’re just standing here doing nothing!” She shoves America back. “We need to—”

“He’s probably already dead!” America says it before she can even think about what she’s saying, and she sees Wendy’s already red eyes grow wide. She wants to reach out again but hesitates, fingers curling. “Your brother stopped Pixie so that we – so that you – could run. We ran. This is what he wanted.”

“He wouldn’t have wanted to die! He wouldn’t have wanted me to abandon him! He wouldn’t have—” Wendy turns away, and she raises her shawl just enough to cover her mouth, cutting herself off.

America steps closer, one hand outstretched, and tentatively, tentatively, places it on Wendy’s shoulder. When Wendy doesn’t flinch away, she relaxes. “No wants to die, Wendy.”

“I do.” Wendy’s voice darkens, and she doesn’t turn back. “I was prepared to die with my family in Neverland – for Neverland – and now I’m…now I’m here. Alone.” She steps forward, out of America’s touch.

America moves closer to her again and places a hand on her arm, squeezing it gently. “You’re not alone. You have me.”

Now Wendy turns, tear tracks under her eyes, and she examines America. “I’m not so sure about that,” she mutters. “You saved my life, but you don’t….” Her eyes narrow, and her head shakes, eyes glancing down and away and unfocused on anything. “I don’t understand you, Starlight. You tell me I’m magic and you save my life and you dare things for me and protect me and you seem to care about me, but the moment I kiss you, you act as though that is somehow the worst possible thing in the world.” She glances up and meets America’s eyes. “You make no sense to me. And I would rather die with my brother and my family and my Lost Ones than be here with someone who only pretends to care about me when it makes her feel good.”

“What?” America flinches back at her words. “That’s not—”

“Then what is it, Starlight? Because I can’t—” Wendy glances away and looks around the house, and not just at the house, but at everything, and then turns back to America. “I can’t understand. I don’t know where we are. I don’t know where you’ve taken me. I just know that no matter how much you tell me I’m not alone, that is the only way I feel.” She licks her lips and glances at her hands. “Make me understand, Starlight, because right now I don’t.”

“Wendy, I—”

America is getting very good at noticing moments when they exist. Moments like this one. She sees them and acknowledges them and mostly does nothing because even though she knows what Wendy wants, she is hesitant. It’s complicated. It’s too complicated. And maybe now that they’re here, with both of the other Wandas, some of that complication can be explained, and maybe Wendy will understand it. Maybe.

But that’s a moment in the future. That’s not this moment. And the problem with being in a moment is that sometimes when it passes, there’s no way to regain it. Or maybe it’s that the understanding Wendy might get from meeting the other Wandas is not the one America wants her to have.

It’s so complicated.

So complicated.

…but maybe she’s making it a little more complicated than, strictly speaking, it needs to be.

America Chavez has been in moments like these with other girls before. Not very many. Maybe two or three, at most, across the multiverse, in the multiple universes she’s been in, and even in those moments, even recognizing and acknowledging them, she’s very rarely taken advantage of them. She’s a wanderer. She can’t promise anything.

Wendy doesn’t want a promise. Wendy wants an understanding.

And when Wendy looks at her with emerald eyes stained red from her own tears, America Chavez makes a decision she hopes she won’t regret, brushes tears from Wendy’s cheeks, and leans up to kiss her.

Now.

America Chavez has not entirely forgotten where she is, but let’s just say it is not entirely the focus in that moment.

It is in the next one, when she steps back from Wendy and finds, within that same second, that she no longer has a mouth to kiss her with.

Wendy’s eyes widen in a sense of panic, and she reaches up to her own mouth, touches it, finds that it is still there, and then looks past America to the person that America knows, just from the state of her own being, must be standing in the doorway.

America turns to see Wanda, in full Scarlet Witch dress, eyes blazing scarlet, fingers stained black and held aloft, and mouth pursued before saying one single syllable.

“No.”

Wanda moves her fingers, scarlet magic tinged with ash twirling around them. America feels herself slipping away to somewhere else – somewhere she doesn’t know – and she turns to Wendy to tell her that it’s okay, you will be fine, only she doesn’t have a mouth to say anything. She reaches out just to touch the tips of Wendy’s fingers before she disappears entirely—

And finds herself stuck in the middle of the Bartons’ living room, surrounded by people chattering about, well, her and whatever it was Wanda has just told them; people whose eyes, on seeing her, slowly widen.

Kate Bishop is the one who says it first, head tilting far more to the side than one should think it could. “What happened to your mouth?”

Chapter 51: Part Four: Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Text

Wendy screams.

She looks at Scarlet, and she screams, and the response Scarlet expects, in that moment, is for her to run away, terrified, screaming, but even though she knows that Wendy is another variation of herself, she doesn’t quite grasp what that means in this situation.

Wendy screams, and Wendy does not run away from Scarlet, but she runs at Scarlet, and because Scarlet does not expect this, she gets a moment of opportunity and uses it to punch Scarlet in the face.

Which, all told, is a perfectly reasonable reaction to another perfectly reasonable reaction.

“Bring her back!”

Wendy does not punch with the same weight that America does, and Scarlet’s subconscious doesn’t believe that she deserves the punch that Wendy gives her, so it does not hurt, and it does not break her nose, and it does not crack her cheekbone (which sometimes still aches when it is cold), and it does not so much as harm her enough to give her a black eye in the future. That said, Scarlet does not particularly feel like being another teenager’s punching bag, so when Wendy tries to punch her again, she ducks.

“You killed her!”

“I did not,” Scarlet replies, calm as anything as Wendy tries to punch her from the other side. She does not know what all training this version of her has received – when she was sixteen, the most she had gotten was some general sparring sessions from running around on the streets of Sokovia, which it seems is what Wendy has, but she cannot be sure – Ash had been trained by the Ancient One, apparently, so there’s no telling what this Wendy can do – but Scarlet remembers the training she’d received from the Black Widow herself in those months living in the Avengers Compound. When the punch comes at her face again, she reaches out and grabs Wendy’s hand. “I just sent her to her room to think about what she’s done.” She pauses for a moment, considering. “Maybe not her room. But close enough.”

Wendy tries to pull her hand back, but Scarlet maintains a tight grip on it. She hesitates to use magic on this version of herself because she isn’t really interested in fighting her. That wouldn’t do anyone any good, and while Wendy doesn’t seem particularly scared of her (yet), she doesn’t want to take the chance that she might get that way.

“I’ll bring her back when she’s had time to think about what she’s done.”

“She didn’t do anything wrong!” Wendy, realizing that her left hand is now useless to this fight, punches forward with her right, aiming for Scarlet’s stomach.

Except that Scarlet still has a grip on her other fist, except that Scarlet has had far better training than Wendy has, except Scarlet knows that now the best way to avoid the attack isn’t so much to dodge but to twist Wendy’s arm up and around.

It might be easier to use magic. Less painful. She still doesn’t do it.

Wendy takes the opportunity to jam her elbow into Scarlet’s back, and Scarlet drops the grip she had on her hand. “What, do you hate queer people? Is there something wrong with two girls kissing?” She tries to punch her again.

Scarlet steps back, out of the way of her fist, and she blinks twice. “No,” she says, slightly disgusted. “I don’t have a problem with that. I just have a problem—” She’s cut off as Wendy throws another punch at her again, and this time when Scarlet dodges, she hits the wall instead, getting her arm stuck in the dry wall. “—with America kissing you.”

Wendy tries to pull her arm out of the wall. This does not work. “Why?” she growls, glaring at Scarlet. “What’s your problem?”

“If I tell you,” Scarlet begins, crossing her arms and staring at Wendy from one side, “will you stop trying to hit me?”

“No.” Wendy spits at her.

It lands in Scarlet’s face. Scarlet takes a deep, exasperated breath. She wipes the spit from her face, stares at it on her fingertips, and glances at Wendy. Her eyes begin to glow. “You really should stop.”

Wendy pulls her fist out of the wall with so much force that she stumbles back once she’s free. Her knuckles are cracked, and fresh spots of blood stain the otherwise white wall. “What are you going to do if I don’t?”

Scarlet glances to the wall. She notes the blood and sighs again before raising her hand. Her fingers twitch, and the same scarlet magic flows from them to the wall, fixing it as though nothing had happened at all.

Wendy’s eyes narrow. “Are you going to take my mouth, too? Kill me?” She lobs another punch, and this time she misses not because she didn’t hit exactly where Scarlet is but because the moment she would have hit her, Scarlet is suddenly no longer there.

“No, dear,” Scarlet says from behind her, leaning forward just enough to whisper in her ear. “I’ll just stop playing fair.”

Wendy whirls, but Scarlet isn’t there. No one is there. She whirls again. No one. No thing. For all intents and purposes, she is alone in this suburban white mom’s house (that isn’t even in a suburb) without the woman who is neither white nor a mom (she knows the smell of Challah bread, even when it’s burnt, and there are no children here to speak of – and Wendy does not consider herself a child). Just her. By herself. No Starlight.

Scarlet sees all of this. She isn’t gone, not really, just making sure that she isn’t somewhere Wendy will try to hit her again. Or spit on her. None of which she feels she really deserves. Her arms cross. “Wanda Django Maximoff.” Her words reverberate low and echo within her house. “I command you to stop.”

This time, Wendy stills. Her eyes widen. She doesn’t know where to look, but she hasn’t quite stopped. “How do you know that name?” she asks. “I haven’t been called that in…in years.”

When Scarlet allows herself to appear in front of the younger version of herself, Wendy only meets her eyes. Her hands are still clenched into fists, but she doesn’t attack. Her head just tilts to one side. “Did you read my mind?”

“No,” Scarlet answers. “I know your name because it is my name.” She holds her hands up, fingers slightly bent just where the black stain ends. “Do you trust me?”

Wendy’s eyes narrow. “No.”

“Okay.” Scarlet stays just where she is. “Can you trust me for maybe five minutes? Five seconds?” She waits for Wendy to respond, but the girl says nothing, just keeps an eye on her, studying her. “I know you’re upset. Really, I do. But America brought you here – to me – for a reason. So if you trust her, you should trust me. For five seconds. You can give me five seconds.”

Slowly, Wendy nods. “Five seconds. But that is all.”

Her accent is so thick that it hurts, and the more Wendy speaks, the more Scarlet feels her own accent slowly slipping back. That hurts, too. She gingerly steps forward and places her hands on either side of Wendy’s head, being careful not to let her fingertips touch her temples. “This shouldn’t hurt.”

“What do you mean shouldn’t?”

Then Scarlet stretches magic – her magic – chaos magic – through into Wendy’s head. She waits for Wendy’s eyes to glow and shut before she allows her own to close. What she does takes longer than five seconds, but it is the easiest way to understand and to be understood. It’s likely, during, that Wendy won’t even notice how much time passes.

When they’ve finished, Scarlet gingerly retracts her magic. Wendy opens her eyes, searches Scarlets which mimic her own so perfectly, and then crumples forward against her chest. She sobs without sound.

Scarlet hesitates before she wraps her arms around her younger self and holds her close, brushing her fingers through her tattered hair. She does not whisper platitudes about everything being okay, because in her experience, that so often feels like a lie and it hasn’t quite come true yet. Her journey through life has felt like such an unending line of trauma and pain that she won’t tell Wendy hers will be any better.

But she will hold her close, and she will soothe her, and she will kiss her forehead the way their mother did for them on the times when the nightmares were at their worst, and she will give her a soft place to land.

America slumps onto one of the couches. She crosses her arms and rests her sneakers on the coffee table. Everyone else is talking over her – some of it is asking where she’s been, as if she could answer them without a mouth; some of it is asking where her mouth is, as if that wasn’t blatantly obvious; some of it is discussing what they could do to try and get her mouth back, which is more in line with her particular concern. She can’t press her lips together because she has no lips. She can’t purse her lips or scowl or frown or give any look of displeasure other than a strongly expressed glare and furrowing of her brows.

At one point, Clint comes to her and make a lot of hand motions that she doesn’t understand. Her brows shoot up in a sort of question, but he doesn’t answer it, just gives her a thumbs up and walks away. She has no idea what that was supposed to mean.

And the longer everyone talks, the more she settles into the couch with her arms crossed. Her eyes shut, and she plays through the last few seconds again – the ones before Wanda had decided to throw her back here. Kissing Wendy – choosing to kiss Wendy – had been….

She would lick her lips or bite her lower lip while thinking about this if she could, but she doesn’t have any f*cking lips.

It hadn’t been bad. She can settle on that.

America had been so concerned that it would feel weird, since Wendy was Wanda – and when she thinks about it like that, it is weird and she does feel weird because – she shudders internally – no, for so many millions of reasons, no – but when she thinks of Wendy as Wendy, then it’s…not awkward at all. Well. Less awkward, anyway.

She’d thought it would be bad. She’d thought she would feel sick or unsettled or uncomfortable. But none of that was true. Not in the moment. Not as long as she wasn’t thinking about it. Not as long as she saw Wendy as who she was and not who she could or one day maybe would be.

(That isn’t how the multiverse works. Even if Wendy looked like Wanda later, she wouldn’t be Wanda. Or – she would, if she wanted to be, if she decided she was tired of being Wendy – but she wouldn’t be Wanda. She would be whoever she turned out to be. Herself. The only exact version of her in the entire universe, no matter who or what the other variants of her turned out as, Wendy would always be the only version of herself who was her. That’s what the multiverse means.

America is beginning to see this, but she doesn’t understand it just yet, and until she understands it, she will feel uncomfortable with Wendy. That’s what sits in her head, in the back of it. She can’t quite separate the Wendy from the Wanda. Not yet. Sometimes, but not always.

She’s trying.)

Of course, all of that would have been better if Wanda hadn’t showed up and ripped off her mouth like a scab on an unhealed wound and thrown her back to Clint’s house like she was a bag of trash.

America sinks even lower into the couch and only opens her eyes when the talking seems to quiet and the weight of another person settles in next to her. She turns to see Wong sitting there, and she sighs through her nostrils before tilting her head back in a what’s up? sort of gesture.

“Scarlet took your mouth,” Wong says.

America raises an eyebrow. Who?

“Scarlet – Wanda—” Wong holds up a hand and cuts himself off. “The two Wandas thought it would be easier to have different names. We can tell them apart, but it’s easier for them if they know who we’re talking about. Ash is from the other Earth. She has the scar.” He taps his forehead where the scar would be. “Scarlet is the Scarlet Witch. The one who isn’t here right now.”

Oh.

America wants to say that. She wants the long held out oh of understanding. But she doesn’t have a mouth. Instead, she tries to make the sound in the back of her throat, just the smallest sort of hum of understanding. It’s better than nothing, anyway. She nods, too, in case Wong doesn’t get it.

“So.” Wong nods to her missing mouth again. “Scarlet took that.”

America grits her teeth together – She still has teeth! She still has a tongue! She still has a jaw and a throat and all of that! She just doesn’t have a mouth! – and looks away. Her arms cross a little tighter. She’d scowl if she could, and she does the best job she can without her mouth.

Wong nods again. Then he stands, brushes off his robes, and sighs. “I’ll be right back.” He uses his sling ring to make one of those golden circles America has come to know so well, but he doesn’t direct it into Wanda’s – Scarlet’s? she’s not sure she’ll ever be able to call her that – house the way that America would want to at this point. He doesn’t even put it on the porch the way that America did so often before they returned to horror-verse. Instead, he creates it a little further out, just on the edge of what looks to be soft green grass and an apple orchard.

America stares through the portal and blinks.

Well, that’s new.

Somehow, with everything else going on, America hadn’t noticed that. It’s…nice. She doesn’t want to like it, but she does.

Wong pats her shoulder. “I’ll go have a talk with her.” Then he steps through, and the circle closes itself entirely.

Yeah, you do that, America thinks. I’ll just sit here without a f*cking mouth. Good f*cking luck.

Wendy picks at the burnt Challah bread and pops some of it in her mouth. For now, her eyes are dry, although they’re still tinged with red and tear tracks trace trails through the dirt staining her face. She scrunches her nose. “This isn’t very good.”

“I burned it. Of course, it isn’t good,” Scarlet says, smacking her fingers lightly. She’s changed in the moments after the memory exchange – out of the costume she wears to intimidate and into something more comfortable and familiar – jeans, long-sleeved shirt to combat the chill of the fall weather outside, and a camisole that allows her to pull the sleeves down to hide her fingers, should she wish. The severed hand she’d taken before has been whisked away, tucked into a drawer in her bedroom (to which there are still no stairs), and the Time Stone dangles on that same black cord around her neck, hidden beneath her shirt. She tucks her hair back out of her face as she moves about the kitchen, setting a kettle on the stove. “I know my preference for tea, but I figured it would be polite to ask….”

“I will take whatever you give me.” Wendy glances about the kitchen, still holding the edges of her shawl, fiddling with them, giving her anxious fingers something to do instead of trying to keep her hands steady at her sides. There are no pictures on the walls, very little to mark it as something distinct from a showroom or a house that might be for sale. “You live here alone?”

Scarlet nods. “I do.” She has not shared as many of her memories with Wendy as the girl shared with her for a multitude of reasons. In part, she does not want her to be afraid of her and what she could, in the future, become, but also something in her feels that sharing too much with a younger version of herself might change what the future is meant to hold for her. Not good or bad. But that knowing too much is its own special sort of hell.

They aren’t the same. Wendy may never return to her Neverland, and even if she did, that world is so far removed from Scarlet’s that the choices she would be given are far different. But while it might be good for Wendy to know that she is capable of great magic, it isn’t necessarily good for her to know just how dark those paths can go.

As the water boils, Wendy slowly moves about the house – the kitchen, the living room – taking in everything, running her fingers along the edges of bookshelves, eyes wandering. Outside, the house had two floors, but there are no stairs here. It’s a question she could ask but doesn’t. She startles when the kettle begins to whistle, and despite everything, her eyes still flicker with panic like those of a pet just landing in its new home.

Scarlet pours two mugs of chamomile tea, making them both the way she would like them, and brings them both into the living room, setting them on the coffee table before sitting on one of her armchairs. She gestures to the couch. “Sit. You know I’m not going to hurt you.”

Wendy nods delicately. She glances at the mugs. “Which one is mine?”

“They’re the same,” Scarlet says. “Take whichever one you want.”

Despite everything, Wendy asks, “What if you’ve poisoned one of them?”

Scarlet smiles. “That’s a risk you’ll have to take, isn’t it?” She doesn’t lean forward to take a mug. They are, as she said, identical. This isn’t some sort of therapy session where which mug Wendy chooses has any particular meaning – other than choosing to trust, which has already been done on a much larger scale.

Wendy hesitates before taking one of the mugs. She holds it in her hands, lets the steam waft up, and then takes a tentative sip. She presses her lips together and nods. “Thank you.”

Scarlet takes her own mug, and for a few moments, they sit and drink in silence. It’s a different sort of silence than the ones she’d had drinking tea outside with America. It isn’t exactly comfortable, but it doesn’t feel like sitting on a precipice, and it doesn’t feel like something might break in the doing. If anything, it feels much more like Wendy is tracking her movements, gauging her, still trying to decide if she’s a threat.

It’s understandable, considering. And it isn’t as though Scarlet isn’t – much more subtly – tracking Wendy, too. Hers is less about threats, because the girl isn’t even close to one for her, but more keeping a careful eye. Every now and again, Scarlet runs a finger along the black cord around her neck, careful not to get too close to the gem hanging just above her chest. She doesn’t want to pull it out. She doesn’t want to consider.

It’s another few moments, her first cup of tea almost gone, before she breaks the silence. “How would you like to live with me? Not forever,” she continues as Wendy’s expression grows panicked, “but just for now. Just until you find your feet.”

“I need to go back.” Wendy’s fingers bend, tips just touching the mug, thumb hooked through its handle. She glances down at what little tea is left in the bottom. “I can’t stay here. Pan needs me.”

Scarlet is not harsh. She remembers losing Pietro, remembers the fresh wound, remembers feeling him suddenly disconnect from her and the outpouring of magic that immediately disintegrated every Ultron puppet around her. Wendy’s magic isn’t entirely gone, but it’s low enough that isn’t a risk. More importantly, it seems as though her other self never felt that sharp disconnect. Being in another universe might have saved her from that pain.

“I know what it is to want to die,” Scarlet says instead, entirely focused on the other girl. “Life is hard and complicated, and sometimes that feels like the better option. It isn’t.” The words don’t feel exactly right, but perhaps that’s because she hasn’t completely decided that for herself. “Pan wanted you to escape and live, not to worry about him.”

Tears threaten to spill over Wendy’s eyes again, but she nods. “I don’t want to be here.”

“Do you want to know a secret?”

Wendy glances up. She searches Scarlet’s eyes, head tilting to one side in a way that makes Scarlet unsettled. Then she nods wordlessly.

“I don’t either.”

It’s then that the knock comes, sudden, on the front door. Wendy jumps – there isn’t enough tea left in her mug to slosh over the side, but it does ripple – and then backs into the couch for all the world like a kitten who doesn’t want to be perceived. Scarlet glances over her shoulder to the door, and as she does, one of the windows reappears. It’s weird to see the landscape outside as anything other than dead and deadly, but for Wendy’s sake, it’s become pastoral once more. Neither of these are how it really looks, only images, fictions that Scarlet spins for various purposes. She can just catch a glimpse of robes that look like those of the Sorcerer Supreme, and she sighs.

“How do you do that?” Wendy asks, and when Scarlet looks up, the girl has moved to the arm of the couch, still half-hiding but equally as intrigued by the new window.

“Magic.” Scarlet places her mug on the coffee table. “You’ll be able to do it, too, someday.”

“Will you teach me?”

Scarlet pauses, considers, but does not answer the question. Instead, she opens the door just enough to see Wong on the other side and for him to see her. He’s taller than she is, frustratingly so, and she has to look up to meet his eyes. “Can I help you?”

“You took America’s mouth.”

Scarlet smirks. She holds back laughter. “I’d forgotten I did that.”

Wong stares at her with all the weight of an angry father. “You can’t just take someone’s mouth, Scarlet,” he chides. “She needs to eat.”

“Oh? You think I don’t know that?” Scarlet’s head tilts ever so slightly to the side, and she hopes he feels as though she is considering him. It’s harder to be intimidating in this outfit, but she lets her tiara flicker ever so briefly atop her head as her eyes return to his. “Did she tell you what she did?”

“It’s a little hard to tell me anything without a mouth.”

“Pencil and paper are still available.” Scarlet leans back into the house. She examines Wendy, who still seems frightened but also seems more curious about what’s going on outside of the door. “Would you like to meet a….” She hesitates on what, exactly, to call Wong. He isn’t a partner or a teammate, and he’s a bit more than an acquaintance. There aren’t many good words. Finally, she settles on one. “…a friend of mine?”

Wong makes a disgruntled sound behind her. Apparently, he does not like her choice of words. Alas.

Wendy tries to peer around Scarlet’s shoulder, and her curiosity gets the better of her fear. She nods.

Scarlet opens the door wide enough for Wong to see inside and for Wendy to see him. She scoots to one side. “Wendy, dear, this is Wong, our resident Sorcerer Supreme. Wong, this is Wendy.”

Wendy gives him a little look. Her eyes alight on his sling ring. “You’re from Kamar-Taj. My friend—” Her voice chokes on the word, and she glances down at her mug again, fingers tightening. “Pixie went there.”

Wong takes her in and then glances back to Scarlet. “Who is she, really?” he whispers.

“Me,” Scarlet says point blank. She looks back at Wendy, who is still looking at her tea. “A younger me,” she corrects before turning back to Wong. “The one that America decided to bring back with her from her latest multiversal travels.” Her arms cross as she meets Wong’s eyes again. “The one she decided to kiss.”

Wong’s face grows ashen. He glances back over Scarlet’s shoulder to Wendy. He blinks a few times. He swallows. “I understand.”

“I’m sure you do.” For all that it’s amusing to see his reaction, Scarlet has something else in mind, just out of reach. She dares not hope. Her fingers play with the black cord around her neck, and her head tilts to one side. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

Wong tenses. In this moment, his color returns, and his eyes grow harsh. “How can I help you?”

“I wondered if it might not be in our best interests for me to peruse the library at Kamar-Taj.” Scarlet chooses her words carefully, expecting the very quick and sudden no to cut her off. When there is none, she continues. “Your Ancient One intended to teach me, and your library has a vast wealth of books on witchcraft that would help me – and Wendy – learn how to use our powers for the better good. It would certainly help curb any nasty habits picked up from the Darkhold, and you could have your people there, making sure I don’t get into anything I’m not supposed to.” She keeps an eye on Wong’s expression, but nothing changes. She fiddles with the black cord again. “I won’t lie to you, Wong. I want to learn for me. Up until the Darkhold, my magic has been…fickle. Most of the time, I can control it, but other times it seems to do what it wants. Proper training would help with that.” She glances back briefly. “Wendy would benefit, of course. She won’t make the same mistakes I did.”

Wong slowly, slowly nods. “I do not think the survivors of your attack would take kindly to you being there.”

That isn’t a no. That’s just a complication.

“I can make myself look like someone else, if that will be easier. No one will have to know.” Scarlet feels the smile creep to one corner of her lips and shoves it down. That would only make Wong think that she’s fooling him into doing something bad. She isn’t doing that.

She’s being entirely reasonable.

Wong meets her eyes. He glances over to Wendy, who has looked up just enough to see him. She startles and quickly looks away. He sighs and presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Kamar-Taj has often helped those who want to better their situation,” he says, and it sounds as though he is convincing himself more than he is explaining anything to her. “In that light, I do not see why it would be wrong for you to study there.” His hand falls. “You’ll give America back her mouth?”

“Oh, that was a simple spell. Should wear off in a few hours.” Now Scarlet does allow herself to smile, and for all the world, she feels like the nosy neighbor Agatha had pretended to be in Westview – the one who offers help for her own devices. “I’m sure you understand why I—”

Wong’s face grows ashen again. “Yes. Well.” He swallows once and immediately changes the subject back. “I will consider allowing you access to our library.” His glance flicks to Wendy and then returns to Scarlet. “Take care.” Then he turns, creates his own portal, and walks through without another word.

It’s a hasty sort of avoidance of an uncomfortable situation, but it amuses Scarlet to no end. She feels her smile widening as she shuts the door, still fiddling with the black cord around her neck. Wendy glances up to her, and her head tilts as she examines her. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“I think,” Scarlet says, still hesitant, “I might be able to teach you after all.”

When Wong returns to Clint’s living room, Kate Bishop is sitting on the couch next to America. She’s talking animatedly about something – he doesn’t know what – and America seems more annoyed than anything. America’s eyes light up when she sees Wong, however. He meets her eyes, and his brows furrow. “You know what you did.”

America’s face falls.

As Wong turns away and heads to the kitchen, he hears Kate behind him. “What did you do?”

Wong suppresses a shiver.

Chapter 52: Part Four: Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Text

The absolute worst part of everything, America decides, isn’t that she doesn’t have a mouth.

It’s that Wanda took her sling ring.

At the time, it hadn’t seemed like a terribly big deal. Wanda would only be leaving for a moment. She was only taking it to make sure that America didn’t go somewhere else – which, of course, hadn’t been particularly comforting, but she hadn’t been planning on going anywhere else anyway. Not then. She’d expected that after whatever talk it was Wanda wanted to have, she would give the sling ring back.

But they never had the talk. They never had the talk, and Wanda never gave her sling ring back, which meant she is stuck here, at Clint’s house, until….

Well.

She always has the option of punching through into another universe and coming back to this one somewhere else in the world. She could even get back to Wanda’s house that way, find Wendy, and then get them both out of here. Now, she doesn’t know where, exactly, they would go, but somewhere.

Of course, America isn’t sure how what effect that would have on the whole missing mouth situation. If she goes to another universe, will she get her mouth back? If she’s in another universe when Wanda decides to put her mouth back, will it still happen? Or does she need to be here for it to happen at all? And will Wanda ever give her mouth back?

These are the questions that haunt her.

When everyone else gathers around the dinner table, America takes the excuse to get away from Kate and go upstairs. They might still share a bedroom together, but if she gets there first, maybe Kate will think she’s fallen asleep. It isn’t that she doesn’t like Kate. She does. It’s just after the past several hours of sitting and listening to Kate without being able to get a word in edgewise (both because she doesn’t have a mouth and because, even if she wanted, there hadn’t really been a moment to say anything), she needs a break.

Honestly, America almost feels wary of getting her mouth back because that means Kate is going to bombard her with more questions about what she’d done to have her mouth taken in the first place, and she’s not quite sure she wants to tell her. Kate hasn’t been the only one to ask, either. They’d given her a notepad and pen so that she could write whatever she wanted, but America hadn’t had anything to say. She hadn’t wanted to say.

How could she explain Wendy to them when she couldn’t even really explain her to herself?

Fortunately, no one – other than Kate – seemed too terribly determined to make her talk. (Hah.) And the other Wanda – the one they were now calling Ash – didn’t ask her at all. It was almost as if she already knew, which – with the way the multiverse works – makes America even more uncomfortable.

It would be easy for her shared room to be the same as she left it, but it isn’t. America isn’t sure how long she’s been gone – a couple of months, at least, maybe longer – but the bed that used to be hers is now covered with all sorts of papers, Kate’s bow and quiver, and a handful of crumpled up clothes that are probably dirty and overflow from the nearby clothes bin. Underneath all of that, it looks to be still made, at least. That’s a plus.

America wrinkles her nose as she moves the clothes over to the bin. She shoves Kate’s bow and quiver over to her own bed. Then she slumps down on top of the bed, only to sit back up with—

Well, she would have yelped if she had a mouth, but she can’t, so the sound gets muffled and caught between her teeth.

She pulls the covers back to reveal the rainbow unicorn backpack she’d gotten months and months and months ago, right when she’d first started meeting with Wanda. When she’d randomly shown up in her domain and ran, when she’d made it to her front porch and been shoved away, when she’d returned with that weird lime ice cream with cheese crackers that the Wanda from yet another universe had given her for the Scarlet Witch.

…thinking over all of that, America can see exactly why the two Wandas who are here have decided to call themselves by different names.

America holds the backpack in her hands. It’s empty now, she thinks. She doesn’t open it but instead places it on the floor so that it rests against one of the legs of her bed. The bag Magda gave her back in the plant universe is gone. She hadn’t thought to take it with her when she and Wendy went to have their talk, and with everything that happened after—

It might still be in the tree. One of the other Lost Ones might have taken it.

Her fingers ache to run over the stitching again. She isn’t panicking, and she isn’t too terribly upset, but there had always been something comforting about fiddling with them. Without them there, her fingers wander to the bootstring still laced about her wrist. She taps it a few times, and her heart skips a beat.

This time, when America slumps back on the bed, there’s nothing to jab into her back. She stares up at the ceiling, her hands laced beneath her head, and tries to find the patterns in the popcorn ceiling that she’d found before she left. Those, at least, are still there, just like the constellations outside are. It’s been a few months, so they might be different, but they’re still there, just moved ever so slightly.

America lets out a deep breath through her nose – thankful that she doesn’t have allergies – and closes her eyes.

She doesn’t want to sleep, but really, what else is there to do? At least this way Kate will leave her alone.

At least this way she doesn’t have to wonder how Wendy is handling being alone with Wanda.

(Her mind whirls and whirls and whirls with all of the possible things that could be happening at Wanda’s house. She’s not afraid that Wanda will hurt Wendy (except she is) because Wong had – Wong had been there, and he hadn’t brought Wendy back with him – which means that Wendy couldn’t be hurt or in trouble.

Or maybe Wong just didn’t care. Maybe Wong looked at Wendy and saw another Wanda and thought that maybe it would be better to wash his hands of all of this and leave a child magic user with the Scarlet Witch who was known to try and steal powers from children and—)

This time, fortunately, America doesn’t dream. She’s not sure she could handle it if she had a nightmare after all of that.

Wendy seems to settle the more hours pass. She barely moves from her corner of the couch at first, but her eyes stop searching everything over and over. Her tense limbs relax. Eventually, she gets up just enough to explore the first floor. Scarlet isn’t worried about her getting into anything she shouldn’t, and the flush only a few moments later shows that she’s found exactly what she needed to find.

It’s only when Wendy starts into the kitchen that Scarlet moves from her own perch and follows after her. Wendy refills the kettle and sets it to boil before finding the exact same cupboard where Scarlet kept her tea and rummaging through them. Her nose crinkles. “Really?”

“The peppermint isn’t for me,” Scarlet says, frowning as Wendy jumps again. “It just comes in the pack. I always give those to America.”

“Starlight,” Wendy corrects. She turns back with another packet of chamomile. Her lips press together, and her eyes focus on the tea packet as she waits for the kettle to sing. “You have tea together?”

Scarlet leans up against the wall, propping one foot on it. “We used to. I couldn’t get rid of her.”

Wendy glances up. “You’re smiling.”

“Am I?” Scarlet holds her own mug, now empty, a little closer. She doesn’t need another packet – she’ll just reuse the last one – but she’ll take some of the hot water once it’s done. “I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay. Starlight makes me smile, too.”

The kettle begins to whistle, high-pitched with steam, and Wendy doesn’t jump. That seems like a small miracle. Instead, she turns, fills her mug with hot water, and then holds it out to Scarlet.

“Thank you.”

“Mmm.” Wendy sticks her packet of tea into her mug and blows the steam from the top of the mug. She’s wearing rings – so many rings. Scarlet doesn’t wear any of like that anymore, only the wedding and engagement rings she’d recreated after Westview. She’d been able to make them permanent afterwards; she’d had no such luck with her children.

She can’t think like that.

“Are you hungry?”

Wendy shakes her head. She’d had some of the burned challah bread earlier before Scarlet through it out, so it’s entirely possible that she is lying. But Scarlet is also aware of how little she cares about food when dealing with her own grief, how little she’d cared for it over the last several months, how little she still cares about it most times now. She should make sure that Wendy eats something. She should push for that.

Tomorrow, maybe, she will, but today, she doesn’t.

“Would you like to see your room?”

Wendy glances up, disbelief etched onto her features. “I can’t have a room. I just got here.” Her eyes narrow. “And you don’t even have any bedrooms. I’ve looked.”

Scarlet takes a sip of her tea. It’s a little weak, but then the second cup usually is. It’s her own impatience, honestly. “They’re all upstairs.”

“You don’t have any stairs.”

“I didn’t have any windows, either, but you saw me make one of those.” Scarlet moves from the wall and gestures with one hand for Wendy to follow her.

She doesn’t have to see the way Wendy’s eyes widen at the stairs now just outside of the kitchen. They aren’t new to Scarlet, but they’re new to Wendy, who mutters something under her breath. Scarlet hears Wendy’s rings clink against the stair rail, which gives her an odd sort of feeling. Nostalgia, maybe, and a bit of regret.

The top of the stairs leads to a long hallway. Scarlet glances to the right, and her stomach lurches. The bedroom door at the end is closed. It’s always closed. She needs it to exist. Even if she allowed it all to disappear when Westview returned to normal, she’d needed it reconstructed here. Maybe she can’t make people. But she can—

Before Wendy makes it to the top of the steps, Scarlet places a wall there. It isn’t for Wendy to see. It isn’t for anyone to see. Only her.

Scarlet turns left. “My bedroom is at the end of the hall. You have your own bathroom here.” She gestures to the door just at the top of the stairs and flinches. No. It has to stay the same. She can’t—

She swallows and pushes forward. “This will be your room.” It’s not easy to make herself keep going. It’s hard – extremely hard. But Wendy’s going to live here. Not at Kamar-Taj. Not with Clint. Here. With her.

That means making adjustments. She can make adjustments.

“I tried….”

Scarlet hesitates. Before, the room had only ever been a guest room. It’s okay to change it. It doesn’t hurt to change it. In fact, it was the thought of a moment as she reconstructed the stairs; her home was created to fit what she wanted – what she thought she needed or would need. The boys were never meant to live here because she was never meant to stay here. But as her dreams of them continued, the house had expanded. Where initially it was a small cabin, just as it looks in the scarlet illusion, with only the basic rooms (one bed, one bath, kitchen, front room, somewhere to do laundry), it had grown to mimic the house she’d left behind in Westview. The one that had never really existed.

Well. It existed now.

It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t even a conscious decision. It only was.

Haunting, if she thinks about it too hard, but she doesn’t ever think about it that hard. It’s home. Or what home should have been.

“Never mind,” Scarlet says, suddenly ashamed. “Just, um. Go in. It’s yours.”

When Wendy opens the door, Scarlet can see the room she has created. It isn’t one she would have liked when she was Wendy’s age, but it fits with the memories she’d seen in their exchange. The walls are a deep forest green, any bit of furniture a dark stained wood. A hammock half-full of pillows swings idly from the ceiling – higher, perhaps, than is reasonable, but it needed to be high. Scarlet could feel that it needed to be high.

Still, Scarlet feels the need to correct herself. “If you want a bed or a mattress, I can change it. Just let me—”

“No.” Wendy barely steps foot into the room, eyes still taking everything in. “This is enough.” She doesn’t turn back to Scarlet. She doesn’t have to. “Too much. Don’t change anything.”

Scarlet nods once. “I’ll…I’ll leave you to it, then. To making the place your own. I….”

It’s awkward and fumbling and hesitant. That isn’t Wendy’s fault. It isn’t about Wendy. There’s a level of inevitable awkwardness to having people in her home again, and while Scarlet had been prepared for a Shabbat dinner with Ash and her boys, she would have had the home to herself again afterwards. She would have spent herself for those hours and then be left to recharge. She’d prepared for that.

She hasn’t prepared for this, and while it still feels like the right thing to do in this situation, that doesn’t make it easy. That doesn’t make her suddenly able to share a space that has been wholly and only hers for almost three years now – no matter how it has expanded and how empty that expanse has felt, living here alone, knowing it should be full of the sounds of her boys running down the halls or playing video games or sitting on the couch while they start their favorite movies or shows. She is so used to living alone and to being alone that this is hard, and if those growing pains are already starting to show here at the beginning, that only makes sense.

It isn’t awkward because of Wendy; it’s awkward because of Scarlet.

“If you need anything, I’ll just be—”

Scarlet cuts herself off, presses her lips together, glances down at her mug of weak tea, and heads to her own room, shutting the door behind her. It feels a bit like hiding. Maybe, right now, she needs to hide. (Mostly, right now, she needs to breathe.)

It’s the early hours of the morning when Scarlet’s bedroom door creaks open – it has never creaked before, so that’s new – and she snaps up in bed. Despite how tired she is and how tired she has been and how much she normally dreams on any given day at this point (less than it was when America first showed up on her doorstep, which says something, really, but still probably more than the average person), she hasn’t been able to get there yet. The chamomile tea had helped her nerves, but it hadn’t help her get any rest. It isn’t that she’s afraid of Wendy doing anything; it’s just that intrinsic knowledge that someone else is there in the house with her, and it sits beneath her skin. She doesn’t get startled when she hears a toilet flush or the faucet running, and she doesn’t get startled when she hears footsteps leading downstairs into probably the kitchen, and she doesn’t get startled when a light flickers on in the hallway when it gets too dark to see otherwise. She’s just…a little unnerved on the whole.

Regardless, the door creaks, and Scarlet snaps up, and she finds Wendy standing in the doorway, framed with the soft light from the hallway – not the harsh light of one that might be overhead, but the soft glow of a nightlight that had appeared in the hallway when the house began to expand. (Tommy needed it when he zoomed in the dark so that he didn’t run into walls; Billy didn’t need it, but it had comforted him.) She hasn’t changed clothes. Scarlet wonders, briefly, if she’d actually made any clothes in the drawers and closet of Wendy’s new room. She probably hadn’t. She needs to fix that.

“Is something wrong?”

Wendy stands in the doorway a little longer, fingers still just touching the doorknob, and her head hangs low. For a moment, she might be confused for sleepwalking – Scarlet doesn’t remember every doing that, but Wendy is her own person with her own experiences and might be prone to such things (and if so, she’ll deal with it when it needs to be dealt with…even if that is right now) – but then her head tilts ever so slightly to one side. Her words come haltering as she speaks, as though she is considering each one carefully and doesn’t quite want to say it. “My room is empty,” she says, and she leaves it at that, lifting her head just enough to meet Scarlet’s eyes with a pained expression.

Scarlet rubs at her eyes and sits up straighter. “What did you say?”

“My room is…. It’s empty,” Wendy repeats, and she bites her lower lip. “In Neverland,” she starts, hesitant, “we didn’t…. I didn’t have a room. I had….” She presses her lips together and shakes her head. “Never mind.”

In the moment Wendy turns away, Scarlet gets it. In the memories she’d seen, Wendy and her Lost Ones had lived in a tree trunk of sorts. They’d all been grouped together in one main room – some in hammocks, some on piles of pillows – and any of them at any time could curl up with any of the others for whatever reason, particularly if they were new and wanted to feel safe. There was always someone else within reach. Always. Wendy’s room isn’t empty of things; it’s empty of people.

“No, no, it’s…. It’s okay.” Scarlet waits for Wendy to turn back, and when Wendy glances over her shoulder, ashamed and uncertain, she gestures her over. “Your room is empty,” she echoes as Wendy draws nearer. “What do you need from me?”

Wendy stops next to the bed. Her eyes flick down to it, and she bites her lower lip. “I don’t—”

“Come here.” Scarlet scoots over and pats the mattress next to her. She expects Wendy to be just as hesitant and unsure as before, but Wendy sits as though she belongs there, looks up at Scarlet, and then just as quickly looks down. Her fingers begin to play with the wrinkles of her shirt – the shawl, at least, is gone, but in its absence, she seems more timid. Scarlet moves closer to her and wraps an arm around her shoulders, guessing at what she needs.

Wendy responds immediately, curling against her and resting her head on her chest. She looks up and then away and whispers, “Is this…a problem? Am I…am I bothering you?”

“No.” Scarlet shakes her head and runs her fingers through Wendy’s hair. Something in her aches, and she remembers Tommy after a nightmare doing the exact same thing. Billy never questioned going to his mom when he was scared and hiding in her arms until he felt safe again, but Tommy had always wanted to be – stronger isn’t the right word, but independent. He wanted to take care of himself, but sometimes he wanted his mom, too – and he wanted her to notice it so that he didn’t have to ask for what he needed, not out of some misguided assumption that she should just know but because he never wanted anyone else to think he was weak. “Asking for help isn’t weak. Not when you know you’re safe.”

Wendy nods against her chest. “I won’t need this always,” she says, hesitant. “I just—”

“You’ve had a rough time, and you’re alone, and you’re scared, and you need to be held. That’s okay. It happens to everyone.”

When Scarlet first moved into the Avengers Compound after Pietro died, she’d felt the exact same way, but she hadn’t felt close enough to any of the other Avengers to ask for what she’d needed. The boys were all – well, they were boys. Nat would have helped, but after the memories she’d given her (the memories of Nat’s she’d seen before…before), she’d felt uncomfortable even considering the possibility (and she still does now). Vision checked on her and talked with her – and Steve and Nat did that, too, in their own ways – but he hadn’t known this. Not then. He’d learned, but he’d been so new that so many things seemed theoretical, and he’d been hesitant. It had taken a while before she’d felt comfortable enough to ask for this sort of comfort, and even then….

The Sokovian Accords had happened so quickly after that.

“You can stay here for as long as you need,” Scarlet murmurs. “Whenever you need. I’ll be here.”

Wendy nods again, and she relaxes, curling closer to her and closing her eyes.

It takes Scarlet longer – not to relax, but to let herself sleep. It’s an odd feeling, holding Wendy the way she’d wanted to be held after everything, but it also feels right. Maybe…. If she’s honest with herself, really honest with herself, maybe she needs this just as much as Wendy does.

But she’ll never tell her – or anyone else – that.

America wakes the next morning with her mouth newly returned – she licks her lips and finds them both very dry and very chapped, which, all things considered, probably tracks – and her sling ring resting on her bedside table. She barely glances over to where Kate is still sleeping before she takes her sling ring and returns to the edge of Wanda’s domain.

It’s weird to see her world so full of life – trees with leaves turning soft autumn colors, grass just as soft beneath her bare feet, smoke curling from a chimney she definitely didn’t have before, and…is that a flock of sheep running about wild over there? Somehow, the pastoral picture perfect scene is more unsettling than the dark and desecrated scarlet hellscape. Like Wanda has two extremes when it comes to wherever this place is and no middle ground. Either everything’s one hundred percent wonderful or it’s one hundred percent not.

But America forces this out of her mind as she pushes towards the…well, it isn’t exactly a log cabin anymore. It might have been once, but now the exterior looks like a soft green house straight out of the suburbs, just like the inside of her house had looked. If she hadn’t seen the landscape differently yesterday, she might think she’d come to the wrong place or that her sling ring was somehow malfunctioning. But no. This is the right place.

America doesn’t even knock on the door. She pushes it open – oddly surprised to find that it isn’t locked – and storms inside.

The inside seems just as suburban house mom as it had the day before. Maybe even more so now, since there are windows that let light in and a door that doesn’t lock from the outside when it shuts behind her (she checks) and a stairway that leads to the second floor that had always existed yesterday, she just hadn’t had access to it. In a better mood, she might run up the stairs first, but America hears soft conversation from the kitchen and follows both it and the scent of fresh bread, fried potatoes, and eggs. Her stomach rumbles, reminding her exactly how much she hadn’t eaten after returning here.

America finds both Wendy and Wanda in the kitchen. Wanda stands behind the stove, staring at a kettle that hasn’t begun to whistle and a frying pan with what America assumes to be latkes, based on the food Magda and the younger Wanda had given her, while Wendy stands to one side, flour dust sprinkled in her hair. “See?” she says, accent strong. “This is how you make good challah bread.”

Wanda doesn’t even look up at her, although her eyes narrow. “Mine was just fine,” she says, and there’s the slightest hint of the same thick accent in her own voice, which America hasn’t noticed before. “I just got distracted saving a couple of kids from going splat in my lawn.”

“You should have saved the bread first.”

Wanda sticks her tongue out at Wendy like she, too, is a child again. Then the kettle begins to whistle. Wendy starts for it, but Wanda shoos her away. “I can make tea while the latkes cook. It’ll be fine.”

“Just don’t burn them.”

“Oh, shush.” Wanda lifts the kettle and pours boiling water into not two but three mugs. She sets packets in each of them and then turns, holding one out to America. “I wondered when you would get here.” She taps the mug. “Peppermint isn’t great for first thing in the morning, but I figured you’d like a peach.” Her lips curl into a jesting grin before she nods to the other two mugs. “If not, ours are lemon and ginger, and I can switch—”

“You expected me?” America asks, interrupting her without a thought. “You stole my mouth and my sling ring and kicked me out. Why would I eat breakfast with you?”

Wanda shrugs and turns back to Wendy, who is cutting the bread into slices. “Told you.” She sets America’s mug on the table. “If you want it. The raspberry is really good.” Then she moves back to the latkes.

America moves past her to Wendy, and she grabs the other girl’s elbow. “Hey,” she says, “are you okay? Do you need to leave? Because if you do, I can—”

“Leave?” Wendy echoes, brows raising as she turns to America and pauses her slicing. “Why would I leave?”

America blinks a few times. “She took my mouth,” she repeats, staring at Wendy. “You really want to stay with her?” She glances back to Wanda, and then her voice drops to a hush. “Did she do something to you?”

Wendy gives her a stern look. “No, she didn’t. She explained certain aspects of the multiverse to me after you dumped me here—”

“I didn’t dump you anywhere! She teleported me—” America gives a huff. “I would have explained all of that to you—”

“I’m sure you would have.” Wendy sighs. She brushes strands of hair back out of her face where they’ve pulled from her ponytail, the bootstring tying everything else untidily into place. “I’m not mad at you, Starlight. I just think….” Her voice trails off, and she glances over to Wanda. “I think I should stay here for now. I can’t go back to Neverland, and who better to teach me how to use my magic, whenever it comes, than myself?”

“Not this one,” America answers immediately, something in her stomach churning uncomfortably. “There’s another you where I’m staying, and she can—”

“Why not this one?” Wendy asks, eyes meeting America’s curiously. “And why are there so many of me here?”

America glares at Wanda. “Ask her. It’s all her fault that—”

“You know, I don’t think she was the one who brought me here,” Wendy interrupts before America can finish. She meets America’s eyes again when America turns back to her. There’s no malice in her eyes, only a twinge of regret, of longing for something she doesn’t have anymore. Perhaps a hint of blame, but that disappears quickly enough. “I’ve seen Scarlet’s magic—”

“When she took my mouth—”

“—and she offered to teach me. I don’t see a problem with that, do you?” Wendy continues to stare curiously at America. “Or do you not want me to learn to use my power the same as you know how to use yours?”

It feels like an attack. Something in the way Wendy says it feels like an attack. At first, it’s anger that bubbles up in America, followed by a sense of betrayal. “I’m the one who told you had magic in the first place,” she hisses. “Of course, I want you to learn how to use it. Just not from—”

“Latkes are done,” Wanda interrupts with an almost cheery sort of tone. She moves the frying pan from the stove and nudges America. “Move, please. These are very hot and very greasy, and I don’t want to get any of that on you.”

America moves quickly out of the way, and she pulls Wendy with her. “Please,” she says, earnest, meeting Wendy’s eyes again and hoping that the desperation, at least, will mean something. “Not her. Please. Not her.”

For a moment, Wendy hesitates. She turns back to Wanda, who continues on as though she isn’t paying attention (despite America being acutely aware that she is paying attention, she’s just choosing not to interfere, which is also wildly unsettling). Her lips press together, and she shakes her head before turning back. “I’m sorry, Starlight,” she murmurs, and she cups America’s cheek. “You’ve already ripped me from one universe, and I don’t think it’s fair of you to rip me from my new home either.”

You haven’t even been here a full day! America wants to scream at her. You don’t know who she is! But for all the anger she feels bubbling up inside, she doesn’t say any of it. Instead, she levels a steady glare at Wanda, who has opened her home, who is cooking breakfast, and who is acting for all the world like the normal suburban mom that she wants to pretend she somehow still could ever possibly be.

Wanda catches the glare. Her face doesn’t fall, but it does grow a hair more somber. Some sort of understanding flickers behind her eyes. But then Wendy turns back to her, and all of that is lost behind a sort of relaxing and a warm smile. Wendy passes her to return to the bread and then leans up to reach the cabinets behind it, where she pulls out two plates before hesitating and turning to America. “Are you staying?” she asks, and there’s the slightest hint of hope in her voice.

She doesn’t want to stay. She doesn’t want to stay.

But America glances down at the bootstrap still on her wrist, fiddles with her sling ring, and, sighing, says, “Yeah. I’ll stay.” She slumps down at the table and gives Wanda a harsh look before moving her tea. “But I won’t like it.”

Wanda doesn’t look away. “I don’t think either of us is asking the other to like it.” She meets America’s eyes just long enough that when her gaze flickers to Wendy and then back again, the understanding lingers.

This is how things are going to be. America might not like Wendy staying here, and Wanda might not like whatever is going on between America and Wendy (and how could she know what to call it when America doesn’t know what to call it), but they’re both just going to have to accept that these things they don’t like are very real and very much happening.

They’re just going to have to learn to adapt to it.

Chapter 53: Part Four: Interlude

Chapter Text

Wong takes a good week to consider Scarlet’s proposition.

Something about it doesn’t sit well with him – probably something to do with the still enduring prophecy that the Scarlet Witch will either destroy the universe or rule it – but if that’s going to come true, it’s going to come true, no matter whether she knows better witchcraft or not. Besides, the Scarlet he has come to know over the months since America disappeared seems to be looking to better herself. He’s heard that she’s actually been spending time with Clint and his family, and since she’d proven herself by saving not just her twins but her other self as well….

Wong is certain that he is being played for a fool. Certain. But the Ancient One had often reached their hand out with compassion to those who did not deserve it, knowing they would be burned in the end, and still they reached out. Kamar-Taj was a place of healing and study. It would be wrong to deny that access to a woman who truly wishes to learn.

Even if she had been the reason for its most recent reconstruction.

By the end of the week, Wong has made his decision – that yes, he will allow for Scarlet and her young protégé to study in the library at Kamar-Taj – but he waits even longer before saying anything to her. This, at least, he can test. If she’s impatient, if she’s pushy, if she brings it up again, if she teleports all the way out here with the child at her side, if she does or says anything that makes him feel as though she’s doing it for anything more than what she initially stated – he will change his mind.

In the end, Wong doesn’t say anything to Scarlet about her request for a little more than a month.

It takes three weeks for Wendy to begin to feel something different about herself.

She has never been particularly concerned about whether or not her magic will return; America tells her that it can’t be fully gone because if it was, then she would be dead. Since she isn’t dead, there’s still some magic left.

Scarlet proposes her own theory: that if Pixie was able to keep siphoning power away from Wendy regularly, then somehow, in some way, she must have recharged. However her magic works, it seems to be more sustainable in the long run. Or perhaps all magic works that way. Perhaps the only reason people die when their power is stripped from them is that it’s too much for them to take all at once.

America gives her a harsh look at that one and mutters something under her breath about maybe you just shouldn’t take people’s powers away from them because it isn’t worth the risk. Scarlet’s expression shifts subtly in ways that Wendy cannot read as she agrees with America. A person’s magic – or power – is their own, and it shouldn’t be taken away from them, no matter what the benefit might be to someone – or even multiple someones – else.

They talk about sacrifice, and Wendy thinks about her brother, and her heart aches.

Sometimes, during those weeks, the grief hits Wendy so hard that she collapses. The first time it happens, a wave of Scarlet’s magic ripples out from around the both of them before Scarlet kneels on the floor next to her and pulls her to her. When she asks about that, Scarlet mentions that her own grief has often come with an unconscious magical effect that tends to hurt other people more often than not, and while she does not want to hurt Wendy, she does not Wendy to unconsciously hurt her either. The ripple of magic is an intent to protect both of them.

Wendy understands that, but it brings up more questions – and solves one, at least in part. America holds something against Scarlet, likely this has something to do with that unconscious magical effect. But America won’t talk about it, and when Wendy has considered bringing it up, she’s pushed it back down. Whatever it is, it’s between them, and she doesn’t want to get involved.

That desire to not get involved gets tested every time America decides to say something that indicates a problem with Scarlet – and equally tested when Scarlet, definitely hearing what America says, doesn’t try to correct her – but Wendy stands by it. Their relationship, their problem. She is sixteen, nearly seventeen, and she is dealing with her own grief and living in a new universe that she was never meant to be in, and her mind is so full and her heart is so heavy that trying to also play peacemaker between the girl she loves and the woman who has taken her in is a little more than she can handle right now.

Well. All of the above on its own is more than she can handle. That sort of thing would just tip her over the edge.

But it’s three weeks before Wendy begins to feel something she cannot name, something just into the ether, that she can reach out and touch and pull to her, and the moment she does, the tendrils of scarlet, the wisps that she has seen Scarlet use when she employs her own magic, tangle about her fingers. Unlike Scarlet’s magic, though, hers is not interspersed with threads of ebony; hers is interspersed with threads of gold.

America thinks this has something to do with Pixie, some lingering effect of her absorption magic, but as much as she says that, every now and again she glances up at Scarlet and a look passes between them, a look that says it might actually be something else entirely – something that doesn’t lie within Wendy but within Scarlet. Another mystery that she cannot try and solve while her heart is still healing.

That first week, Wendy wants nothing more than to learn how to fly, but Scarlet still refuses to teach her. Not now, she says. Wait.

But Wendy doesn’t know what she’s waiting for, and the more Scarlet tells her to wait, the more she begins to test her newfound magic in other ways. Small ones. Sometimes just having a mug hover over to her instead of having to get up and get it herself. At first, she tires easily, but the more she practices, the more she stretches, the more she is able to do.

Maybe this is what Scarlet meant, but she cannot be sure.

For her part, Scarlet spends the month – four weeks – with the Time Stone dangling from her neck on a thick black cord. Most of the time, she maintains an illusion to hide it; sometimes she visits with Clint and his family, and she doesn’t want him to know what she has. Still, she’s certain that he’s caught her fiddling with something about her neck, and while she can tell him she’s just playing with her shirt collar, she knows there’s only so many times he will believe that.

Scarlet never takes Wendy with her on these trips. It isn’t that she doesn’t want Wendy to meet everyone, although doing so all at once might be a little bit overwhelming (she knows it was for her, at first); it’s more that she doesn’t want to push her while she is still processing what she has lost. Having distractions can be good, which is why Scarlet makes sure she is always available if Wendy needs her, which is why she has maintained the illusion of the apple farm and the flock of sheep (despite everything, the apples are still very much real and still very good, don’t ask her how that happens), which is why she lets America spend as much time with them as she does.

It is hard to see Wendy and America together, and that doesn’t change.

Perhaps it is unfair to the both of them, but Scarlet is always there as chaperone. It isn’t that she is afraid of what will happen if she isn’t; it’s more that she’s aware of how easily, when she goes through a devastating loss, it is for her to attach to those who show her even the smallest scrap of affection. That isn’t why she fell in love with Vis. She knows that. But she also doesn’t want Wendy’s grief to cause….

Grief complicates relationships that are already complicated enough as they are. Now is not the time to start a relationship to ignore the grieving process.

Scarlet isn’t a therapist, but she knows that much.

And in the quiet hours when America is gone (either to her room at Clint’s or occasionally back to Kamar-Taj, although Wong has had to give her a new room) and Wendy is asleep (mostly in her own room, although sometimes nightmares awaken her and sometimes she grows so lonely that she finds her way to Scarlet for safety and comfort), Scarlet takes the Time Stone out from its hiding place and begins to study it.

The Time Stone is just as it is called – the Infinity Stone that deals with power over time. It is the Time Stone that Strange gave to Thanos, and it is that same stone that allowed Thanos to rewind her destruction of Vision’s Mind Stone so that he could take it for himself. The Time Stone could allow her to see multiple possible futures, but Scarlet isn’t particularly interested in that. Each of those futures would eventually spawn into its own universe, knowing them all would only allow her to choose which one she is most interested in. Right now, Scarlet isn’t concerned with the potential future.

Scarlet is interested in the past.

Now, Scarlet was not around for the time travel heist that the remaining Avengers pulled off to bring back those who were Snapped, such as herself. She’d heard about it later, had needed to hear about it to understand what had happened to Steve, who most definitely had not died during that final battle. At the time, she’d been told there was no way to go back to the past and change things and that if she did (well, if anyone did, not her in specific), they would be risking the future that had just been saved. Besides, they needed so much of a certain kind of particle and there weren’t any anymore so the whole time travel thing wasn’t really a viable option. Why would Wanda want to time travel anyway? The world was saved!

And so on, and so forth.

Scarlet holds the Time Stone now, and she feels no corrupting influence from it (not that she’d felt it from the Darkhold until it was too late, but if Strange wasn’t corrupted carrying around the Time Stone for so long, then why should she be), and she stares at it, and she considers.

The Time Stone could allow her to go back.

The Time Stone could allow her to rewrite her hunt of America Chavez.

The Time Stone could allow her to rewrite the murders she caused at Kamar-Taj.

The Time Stone could allow her to rewrite Westview.

The Time Stone could allow her to rewrite Vision’s death, the years she was Snapped, maybe even the Snap itself, if she wanted.

There are so many other universes that Scarlet has seen that had nothing like the Snap, so many other worlds where Thanos was defeated in so many other ways. It didn’t have to be this way, and with the Time Stone, maybe it doesn’t. Maybe she can go back. Maybe she can fix what went wrong.

Scarlet stares at the Time Stone, and she considers it, and she probes it with her magic and lets it probe her right back.

Then she hides it beneath her shirt, curls up, and forces herself to sleep – and dreams of the worlds of what might have been and worlds that could be here if only she could figure out how to harness the Time Stone’s power.

Chapter 54: Part Four: Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Text

“I’m going to be gone for a week.”

Scarlet resists the urge to play with the black cord hidden around her neck as she talks with Wendy. She’s just as tired as she’s ever been, but now it feels like a good kind of tired. Living with her younger self has forced her to actually be awake and responsible and able to do things, even if the main need has been to simply be there, and while Scarlet has had to grow accustomed to sharing her living space with another human being, it’s been nice. Welcome, even. Having someone else there has forced her to stay out of her own mind, which is something she’d desperately needed and hadn’t known that she did.

Yesterday, Wong had come by in what had felt like a sort of test. He’d come out of the blue and without invitation in a move that set Scarlet’s teeth on edge. Not that she had anything to hide (other than the Time Stone, which no one else could see), but that he’d felt it appropriate to drop in on her without warning – on them without warning.

Wendy had spent most of his visit tucked away in her room, reading. For a girl who had seemed so sociable in their memory exchange, she kept mostly to herself more often than not. Fortunately for both of them, Scarlet’s library – or lack thereof – had changed in the time since her surgery, since Ash had left Deathless behind. It wasn’t that Scarlet hadn’t read before – she had, a long time ago, but after that, she’d been voracious. It was something else to fill her mind; it was something to help her dream. And it was those books that Wendy picked up when America wasn’t around, and it was those books that they discussed as Wendy read – over lunch, with tea. Most of the time, though, they didn’t need to talk. It was enough simply to have each other’s company.

Wong intruding on that had been not quite great.

After a cup of tea (hers chamomile, given her unsettled feeling about the sudden meeting, and his lemon ginger, because he wanted something with a bit of a tang), Wong clasped his hands in front of him, just under the table, and gave a little nod. “You are wondering why I haven’t said anything about Kamar-Taj.”

Scarlet was caught with her cup halfway to her lips. She stared at him over the lip of the cup and slowly placed it back down on its saucer with a clink, making sure to keep both hands visible on either side. “I did wonder about that, yes. Is that why you’re here? You’ve made up your mind?”

“Yes.” Wong didn’t look away from her, which was hopeful. He seemed to be waiting for something. “The answer, I mean. The answer is yes.” He glanced upwards briefly at the sound of something overhead – Wendy must have been moving about in her room or something (her room shouldn’t be above there) – before letting his gaze return to Scarlet. “With stipulations.”

Scarlet nodded. “Of course.”

“You have to wear a disguise, as you said. The survivors from your attack would not take kindly to your being there, even if the Sorcerer Supreme explained his reasoning.” Wong took a deep breath. “Your magic should let you—”

“Yes.” Scarlet smiled nonchalantly. “I always wanted to be blonde. Do you think I could pull it off?” Her head tilted to one side, and she pulled her braid around over her shoulder. “I’ve gone red and I was born a brunette, but blonde. They won’t notice me at all.”

Wong stared at her, his expression neutral. “Please tell me you will do more than change your hair color.”

Scarlet rolled her eyes. She lifted a hand over her face, the way she might have with a baby (the way she had for the few hours that her sons were babies), and as her hand moved past, her face changed. She didn’t feel the shift, but she knew it happened. Her chin grew a little sharper, as did her cheekbones, and her eyes became a brilliant, blinding blue. Fake curls on either side of her face, almost as if she was from Steve’s time. All angles, nothing soft. “How do I look?”

“You look like that waitress,” Wong said, searching her face. He wagged his finger at her as he tried to puzzle it out. “From Denny’s. What was her name….” His brow furrowed in thought, and then his eyes lit up, one hand clenched into a fist and landing in the other. “Dottie! You look just like Dottie!”

Scarlet heard the name and flinched internally. Waitress or not, hearing that name just reminded her of her time in Westview and the woman she had forced to be named Dottie, when her real name was nothing like that at all. Just another in a long laundry list of people she had hurt. At least Dottie was still alive at the end of it.

But that was okay. It wasn’t, but maybe – maybe – the Time Stone would fix all of that. She just had to learn how to use it correctly.

“No one will recognize me.” Scarlet smiled, but the expression felt thin on the new face. She lowered her hand, and her face shifted back to the way it was always meant to look. “Anything else?”

Wong took a deep breath. He considered her. It felt a little like what Scarlet imagined being on trial might feel like – or what walking through a normal grocery store might have, after Westview. She’d read the papers. She’d seen how many of them called her a monster. It was….

They still called her a monster, actually. There was no was about it. This time, they just thought she was dead.

“You will be expected to use the same parts of the library that our normal students use and follow the same rules they do. No using your magic to try and unchain books on your own. No trying to get into the Sorcerer Supreme’s special stash.”

Scarlet raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you the Sorcerer Supreme?”

“Yes, but the books aren’t mine. They’re meant to—”

“So if you decided that—”

“Scarlet.” Wong coughed on the name. He still had trouble with it. Sometimes, she still had trouble hearing it. Scarlet made her think of the witch. But that was fitting, wasn’t it? For her to bear the name that had stained her? Wanda or not, she was still the Scarlet Witch, fully realized. Trying her best. She shook herself back to the present as Wong leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “There is nothing there of value to you.”

It was a lie. Scarlet could feel it in her bones, the lie of it all. There were books of value to her; she just wouldn’t be allowed to access them. Still, she nodded, a lie of her own. She was never very good at lying, but she could nod without having to hesitate, at least. “I thought….” She pressed her lips together, trying to consider how to word it. “I plan to train Wendy,” she said, choosing her words – her lie – carefully, cloaking it in things that were true so that it could be better hidden. “Would it be…. Would you mind if I stayed at Kamar-Taj for a week before bringing her to join me? That way, I will already have books selected for her, and she won’t be waiting on me to finish a book before she can study.”

Wong had, after a brief hesitation of his own, accepted.

It would be rough to wear her disguise for a week straight, but Scarlet wasn’t particularly worried about that. No. Mostly she was worried about leaving Wendy here, in their home, alone.

Which brings her back to now, staring at her younger self, her hands clasped together. “I plan to find books for you so that we can start our training together,” Scarlet says, and it’s easier to say it now because this part isn’t entirely a lie. “If you want, I can teleport back in the evenings so that you won’t be alone, but I thought a full week there might help ingratiate me to the others. They’ll be more willing to help us if they’re used to me.”

The lie is hard. She hates lying. The words taste wrong on the tip of her tongue.

Wendy nods, slow. “You’re leaving me,” she says, hesitant, “alone. So that you can train…so that you can train me.”

“Yes,” Scarlet hesitates with the weight of the lie. Then her head tilts to the side as she considers. “Actually,” she continues with the slightest of smiles. “I might have an idea that you’ll like.”

“Really?” Wendy’s tone grows wary, and she crosses her arms in a manner a lot like America when she’s put out. “What’s that?”

And that is how Scarlet’s house in the middle of nowhere ended up with housesitters for a week – and how Wendy ended up without Scarlet but with America and Kate, as well as Ash for a chaperone.

Scarlet can’t quell the feeling of unease as the others trek into her house. There isn’t a way to accurately pinpoint exactly what sets it off because there are far too many variables, far too many things making her anxious, both big and small. Ash is here as chaperone, sure, which means she shouldn’t have to be too worried about Wendy and America, but she doesn’t know Kate well enough to know whether she’ll be an enabler or try to be a distraction to Ash so that the others can get away to….

To what?

Scarlet shudders at the implications. And that’s just the start of things that could potentially go wrong. For example, what if they don’t have enough food? If it had only been a month earlier, they could have snatched some of the apples, but it’s far enough past the season that it isn’t reasonable to consider them. Plus, Wendy had scrambled up to the highest boughs to take the apples from them, too.

Now, sure, America has her sling ring, so they could be transported elsewhere, which would help, but the only one of them actually from this universe is Kate. And then they would have to go unsupervised because Ash looks like her and most of the world still considers her a monster, due to everything in Westview and what information they’d gathered from Kamar-Taj. Wong had been careful to try and keep her name out of it as much as possible, but it hadn’t mattered. The world had already turned against her, and it will take a great showing of good will for them to change their minds. Even then, it is so much easier for people to hate her for failing and forever hold that against her.

This, of course, is why Scarlet lives all the way out here. Away from people. Why she only teleports into stores and leaves money behind to cover her purchases without talking to anyone (and using magic to prevent the video cameras from catching her on screen). But she can’t – won’t – expect that from the girls.

Kate walks into her house with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder, one hand grasping the collar of a golden retriever. “Wow, Scar,” she says, eyes wide as she scans everything. “Your house is—”

“It’s boring,” America complains as she walks in, carrying nothing, hands shoved into her jeans pockets. She gives Scarlet a little head tilt of acknowledgment. “’Sup.”

“Don’t just stand in the doorway, America. We need in, too.” Ash shoves her gently forward, and America stumbles forward a bit. Then she gestures forward with one arm. “C’mon, boys. It’s okay. You can go in.” She doesn’t say it, but it lingers in the air between them all the same: Scarlet’s not going to hurt you.

It has been a month since America returned. It has been three months since America disappeared. And in those three months, Billy and Tommy have warmed towards Scarlet…slightly. Billy is still hesitant around her, careful to stay close to Ash in case his own fears overcome him, and Tommy keeps his arms crossed and scuffs the floor and acts like he’s tough because that’s easier than remembering the moment he was afraid. But he doesn’t really talk to her, and Billy still avoids her eyes.

“The boys have a room upstairs,” Scarlet says, “over to the right.” She ignores the look Wendy gives her. The room has always been there; she’s just kept it cut off from her other self. Wendy would have known if she’d counted the windows on the house, if she’d paid any attention to its construction to the outside. It isn’t like Scarlet had been hiding that it existed. She just hasn’t wanted Wendy to see it.

Scarlet places a hand on Ash’s shoulder as the boys rush past her and up to her room. “Thank you,” she says, meeting the other woman’s eyes. “I didn’t want to leave the girls here alone, and—”

“I know.” Ash pulls her into a hug and resting her head on her shoulder. Even with the physical affection that Scarlet has given Wendy over the past month, she still tenses when Ash hugs her. “I’m glad you’re finally going to Kamar-Taj,” she says as she steps back. “I learned so much from the Ancient One. I hope this helps you.”

Scarlet resists the urge to fiddle with the Time Stone, but she still looks down to where it hangs, hidden, at her chest. “I hope it does, too.”

Ash reaches over and lifts her chin so that their eyes can meet. “It will.” She searches Scarlet’s eyes for something, but Scarlet can’t guess at what that is. Whatever it is, Ash seems to find it. Or maybe she’s just trying to communicate her own intensity into Scarlet, which is a really odd choice. Still. She cups Scarlet’s face, nods once, and then turns away. “I’m going to get the boys set up, and then I’ll be right back.” She pauses just long enough to scan the living room. “It looks just like my house.”

“It’s not intentional, I assure you.”

Ash nods but doesn’t look back. “I know.” Then she moves upstairs.

“Um, can you shut the door?” Kate asks from where she stands in the living room, still holding onto her dog’s collar. “Lucky’ll try and run out there if you don’t, and I don’t think you have a fence, and you’ve got sheep.” Her tone holds a question at that last word, like she doesn’t understand why Scarlet would have a flock of sheep, and honestly, Scarlet isn’t sure why she has them either. It had seemed like a thing at the time, like it would fit the picture of who she was pretending to be, but she’s not so sure about that anymore. Kate continues without a pause for breath, “And if he gets out, he’s gonna go chase the sheep, and I don’t want to lose my dog, and—”

Scarlet shuts the door and raises her eyebrows. “Good?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Kate flashes her a brilliant smile as she lets go of her dog’s collar. The dog gives a quick look around and then wanders off, probably looking for the twins, although he doesn’t go upstairs. Kate sets her bag down next to the couch. “This is where we’re staying, right?” she says as she turns to Wendy. Then her eyes widen. “Oh! I didn’t introduce myself.” She holds out her hand. “I’m Kate Bishop. Archer. America’s best friend.”

America’s eyes narrow, and she gives Kate a shove. “No, you’re not.”

“Close enough.” Kate keeps her hand extended. “You’re Wendy, right? America’s talked about you a ton.”

“I have not.”

Wendy gingerly takes Kate’s hand in her own. “I’m Wendy. Starlight has…mentioned you.” Her gaze flicks over to America and then back again.

Kate’s eyes wide as she pulls her hand out of Wendy’s and whirls to America. “You’ve only mentioned me?” she says, placing a hand over her heart. “America, I’m hurt.” Then she blinks a few times before glancing back to Wendy. “America’s Starlight, right? Why do you call her that?”

“Long story,” America interrupts before Wendy can say anything.

Immediately, Wendy’s expression shifts, brows furrowing, stuck somewhere between confusion and annoyance. “It’s not that long.”

Scarlet takes a deep breath, seeing this all, listening to all of it – hearing the thumps of the boys as they seem to find their beds upstairs and waiting for the creak in the floorboards that would signify Ash’s return. She needs to go. She doesn’t want to go. The dog comes up to her and butts his head against her empty hand, and without thinking, Scarlet begins to pet his head. “Kate,” she says, “why did you bring your dog?”

Kate sighs as she begins to unroll a sleeping bag. “Clint says he’ll take care of him, but I know whenever I’m gone he tells one of the kids to do it, and they forget, and then Lucky’s wandering around snatching food from wherever he can find it, which usually ends up meaning he eats whatever the kids drop under the table for him, and I’m not around to stop them, and Clint doesn’t hear it, and I don’t know if Laura even notices, and then Lucky gets sick—” She cuts herself off and sighs again. “It’s safer for him here. Even without a fence.”

“Did you bring a leash?”

“Well, I was kind of hoping that you had a fence. I’ve never been here before, you know?” Kate gives America a side-eye as America collapses on top of the couch. “You could have told me she didn’t have a fence.”

“I didn’t think you were bringing Lucky.” America glances over to Scarlet and meets her eyes. “But I’m sure Wanda can put up a fence if she wants.”

Scarlet’s eyebrows shoot up. “Scarlet,” she corrects. There’s more she wants to say – like my house and domain are not meant to be arranged for your benefit – but it stops on the edge of her tongue. It feels petty. Childish. She’s certain that America would love the argument.

Arguing with a child helps no one.

America just waves a hand absentmindedly. “Whatever.” She glances over to Kate. “I’m taking the couch, by the way. You can take the floor.”

Kate gives her a shove. “You should respect your elders.”

“I don’t think you count as an elder.”

Scarlet ignores their bickering and glances over to Wendy, gauging her reaction. It’s been a month. She should be able to handle new people – new friends – and if it gets too overwhelming, she still has her own room upstairs. She can escape if she needs to. As it is, Wendy seems content to curl up in one of the armchairs and just listen in.

In the few moments before she leaves, Scarlet slowly moves over to Wendy. “Are you okay?”

“Mmhm.” Wendy nods as she sits further back in her chair. “It’s a bit like being around Pan and Pixie again, and the twins….” She hesitates and glances up. “That woman – Ash – she’s another of us, isn’t she? And she has kids?”

I had them, too, once, Scarlet wants to say, but doesn’t, just as she doesn’t say, and maybe soon I’ll have them again. Her fingers itch to fiddle with the cord around her neck again, but she keeps them where they are, hidden just beneath the edges of her shirt sleeves. “Yes,” she says instead. “Billy and Tommy.”

“And you already had a room for them?” Wendy searches her eyes, but it’s an innocent sort of thing. She doesn’t know because Scarlet hasn’t told her, and it’s been…. Honestly, it has been nice to be around someone who doesn’t know how far she’s fallen, to be around someone who doesn’t have that in the back of their minds as an in-built bias. Wendy doesn’t know, and so Wendy doesn’t hate her. Of course, Wendy was given other reasons to be afraid of her, but those had been neutralized easily enough.

Scarlet hesitates. She presses her lips together. This is the beginning of a much longer conversation that she doesn’t want to have to begin with and certainly doesn’t want to have right now, not with Kate and America bickering in front of them, not with America still glancing over her shoulder at them every now and again. “Yes. It’s a long story.” She looks down just enough to meet Wendy’s eyes. “An actual long story, not like America pretends her name is. And it’s not for mixed company.” Her gaze flicks out to the other girls.

Wendy nods. She has stories, too, that she hasn’t told. The memory exchange hadn’t been every memory, only what was necessary, only what was willing to be shared. Scarlet had kept much of hers hidden, but they’d found points of commonality – such as their birth, their brothers, their parents, and the bomb created by Stark Industries that had destroyed their lives. Past that….

“Will you tell me later?”

There’s no weight to the question. Scarlet knows that. Wendy doesn’t hold it against her when she keeps things hidden. Not yet. But she will in the future. Besides, she’ll find out eventually. The moment Wendy steps out into the rest of the world at large, she’ll see the magazines on the Avengers, about the new supers, comparing them to the old ones, tracking the rise or fall of the ones who were still around.

Westview isn’t the topic it used to be two years ago, but it still comes up often enough.

“When I get back.” Scarlet squeezes Wendy’s shoulder. “If anything happens—”

“I know, I know.” Wendy rolls her eyes. “Find Ash.”

Scarlet shakes her head. “No. Find America. She has a sling ring, and she can get the both of you to me.” She presses her lips together. “Or somewhere else, if that’s safer.” It takes a moment to glance over everything again. It’s time to go. She knows it’s time to go. She has things she needs to do.

Ash comes partway down the stairs and meets her eyes. “Go,” she says. “I can handle everything here.”

It takes another moment.

Scarlet hesitates.

Then she nods.

“I’ll be back in a week.”

And then she’s gone.

Chapter 55: Part Four: Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Text

Scarlet arrives in Kamar-Taj with a different face and as much of a different body as she can manage without feeling incredibly uncomfortable in her own skin. She hadn’t teleported directly there – that would have raised questions that she doesn’t want to answer and Wong likely wouldn’t want raised in the first place – but instead close enough nearby that she could walk the rest of the way there within what she, at the time, considered a modest amount of time. It is too hot for the shawl she’d mimicked from those Wendy carries, too hot for the boots strapped to her feet, too hot for anything but the simple dress she wears – and even really too hot for that. She’s thankful, at least, that she’d pulled her now curly blonde hair back into a ponytail. It keeps it off of her neck. Still, Scarlet knows her skin will be sunburned in the morning. It’s burned now; she just can’t see it yet.

The courtyard at Kamar-Taj is full of sorcerers at various levels of their training. There are three groups – two in the far back; one teaching the simplest versions of the shields they had tried (and failed) to use against her the last time she was here, and one teaching even newer trainees the fine craft of using their brand new sling rings; and one group in the front, where they seem more inclined to train magical weaponry, how to infuse simple blades or shafts with magic to create a defensive weapon alongside their shield. There are less trainees with shields than with sling rings and even less in the group at the front learning the fine art of weaponry.

It is odd being back at Kamar-Taj after the last time she was here. The temple seems to have been fairly reconstructed, such that it looks almost the same as it did before her attack, but while the courtyard itself has been scrubbed clean, Scarlet can still imagine each and every body she had left behind, where they had landed, how burned and disfigured they had been. Only a few feet away, she had caused one of the sorcerers struggling to get away from her to disintegrate in his entirety, and at the time, she hadn’t even cared. He’d been in the way. He’d been annoying her. She hadn’t even thought about it; she’d just done it.

Sometimes Scarlet wonders just how much of that had been the Darkhold’s influence and how much of that had been her truest self, relieved at finally being able to let go. There’s a reason she doesn’t think about those things too often; there’s a reason that despite her desire to not think about them, they keep returning over and over again. (There’s a reason she feels so guilty, why she let America Chavez beat her bloody, why she’s kept herself exiled to her cabin in the middle of what once was Sokovia. She doesn’t trust herself around people. Now is no exception.)

Wong stands nearest the group with weapons, showcasing his own whip and likely explaining how it had helped him during his latest battles. As she moves closer to him, Scarlet overhears one of the trainees asking about the Scarlet Witch in an almost terror-stricken voice, like Billy when he would ask about monsters hiding in the bed or under the closet. She doesn’t pay attention to the trainee’s words – in fact, she isn’t quite close enough to make them out, other than hearing first her name and then her title – but as she draws closer to Wong, she can hear his reply.

“Whether the Scarlet Witch is dead or not is not our main concern. We must prepare ourselves against any possible enemy—”

“But what if she comes back?” the trainee asks, staring up at Wong with wide blue eyes. “What if she attacks us again?” A scar carves through one side of this trainee’s head, and the hair past it has either not grown back or has been shaved off. Scarlet reaches out, subtly letting herself feel his surface thoughts by pure instinct. Her eyes widen.

A survivor, then.

Wong meets the younger, shorter trainee’s eyes. “Then we will defend Kamar-Taj, just as we did before. But if the Scarlet Witch is still alive, I do not believe she will attack us again. She has more important matters to address.” He clasps his hands in front of him and gives a nod almost like a short bow. “Excuse me, I believe I have a new trainee we have a new trainee.” When he turns, he nods in Scarlet’s direction. “Welcome to Kamar-Taj. How might we help you?”

Scarlet pulls her shawl over her fingertips, regretting that she doesn’t have sleeves long enough to do so anymore, having shifted them away when she shifted her appearance – it is far too hot here for sleeves that long. Her head lowers, but she lets a flicker of scarlet pass briefly through her eyes, just enough that Wong might notice it, quick enough that the other trainees – who have gone back to their studies – might not. “I thought I might seek learning here,” she says, forcing her voice to sound demure. It’s the one thing she didn’t change, although she could have. She wanted something about herself to still feel familiar, to still feel right. “I hope that will not be a problem.” Scarlet glances up through her lashes – something that feels right to this form, to this shifting, although it would feel wrong as herself.

“It’s not a problem at all.” Wong seems to smile when Scarlet looks back up, although it is such a small thing she could be convinced that he isn’t. “Follow me, and I will show you what you need.”

The trainee who had questioned Wong gives them a curious look as they pass by. Scarlet resists the urge to scan his surface thoughts again, but just before they enter Kamar-Taj proper, she glances back just long enough to give him another look. He’s focused again on learning how to use his weapon – a simple shaft for what will be a magical spear. He twirls it about in his hands. Then, for an instant, he looks to the door, and their eyes just meet.

Scarlet doesn’t need to read his surface thoughts to know what he’s thinking as she raises one hand and waggles her fingers at him. When she turns back around, she mutters under her breath, just loud enough that Wong can hear it, “If there is a way to make sure that trainee of yours—”

“Kevin.”

“—Kevin and I aren’t alone in a room at the same time, that would be great.” Scarlet represses the urge to shudder.

Wong snorts. “I believe Kevin has more to fear from you than you do from him. If your illusion holds, then you have nothing to fear.”

Scarlet rolls her eyes and clenches her jaw. “Kevin looks at me like I’m a piece of meat to be consumed. I’m surprised none of your other trainees have mentioned him before.” She swallows once, hard. “If you don’t want him to get hurt, keep him away from me.”

“Is that a threat?” Wong asks, turning just enough to try and meet Scarlet’s eyes.

“No.” Scarlet continues to stare straight ahead. “It’s a consequence. If he so much as touches me, I will rip him limb from limb.” She glances up, then, finally meeting Wong’s eyes. “Trust me when I say that I’m being entirely reasonable and that some of your other trainees would likely thank me.”

Wong gives a slow nod. “I will let him know that you are off-limits,” he says, choosing his words carefully, “and I will check in with the other trainees. If there is truly such a problem, it needs to be addressed.”

“Then address it.” Scarlet pulls her shawl tighter about herself, half-regretting her decision to wear a dress with such a short length and half-angry with herself for the regret. “Now, where is the library?” At her words, Wong pauses, and Scarlet feels something inside her clench. Her immediate thought is that this whole thing was a trap, but she shoves that down. She isn’t an animal to be hunted. Still, she reaches out, tries to skim Wong’s surface thoughts, and finds nothing but an iron wall. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” Wong moves forward again, and Scarlet walks alongside him. “While you are here,” he begins again, still speaking slowly, still just as cautious with his word choice, his voice so low that Scarlet wouldn’t hear it at all if she hadn’t been trying to skim his thoughts, “it might be best to call you by another name.” When she opens her mouth to speak, he continues, “Other than Scarlet. We have survivors from the attack who are sometimes triggered just at the mention of your name.”

Scarlet’s eyes narrow. “Kevin mentioned it.” She glances up. “So did you. In a public space. Where anyone could have heard you.”

“I know my students.” Wong meets her eyes with a level gaze. “I know which ones still deal with their trauma regarding you and those you have killed, and I know which ones need to talk about their trauma to make sure that they are healed. I know my survivors. I know the paths they take throughout the day, and I know that many of those who cannot hear you mentioned have begun to avoid public spaces.”

“That’s healthy.”

“You’re one to talk.” Wong doesn’t back down from the way her gaze darkens as she returns it to him. His hands remain clasped together in front of him. “I know you won’t seek out those survivors, but I also know that some of them frequent the library. They find comfort there. Your presence will not bother them so long as they have something else to call you.”

Scarlet continues to stare at him. “You wouldn’t ask anyone else to change their name. If another woman named Scarlet – or Wanda, even – came here, you would speak with your survivors instead of this.” She spreads her hands out as a gesture to herself. “Why me?”

Wong’s expression doesn’t change. “Their trauma is your fault. If they knew who you were—”

“They don’t—”

“That isn’t the point.” Wong’s voice tightens, but again, his expression doesn’t change. His jaw clenches. “Perhaps this was a bad idea.”

As they walk, Scarlet can feel the Time Stone tucked beneath her dress, hidden behind another of her illusions, warm against her skin. She’s here for more than that, but it’s that which she feels, and it’s that which she is thinking of when she says, a little louder, so that more than just Wong can hear, should anyone be eavesdropping, “You can call me Jeannie.”

Wong’s brows shoot up, and one edge of his lips twitches. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jeannie.”

Scarlet lets out a sigh, grateful that he seems to have gotten the reference. She wasn’t sure that he would. Her eyes meet him, and her head tilts, as if to say, Is that good enough?

Wong gives an imperceptible nod. “You may not know this,” he says as he leads her down the hallway, “but I was the librarian before I became the Sorcerer Supreme. Let me get you started. I know precisely what you’re looking for.”

Somehow, Scarlet is fairly certain that he doesn’t. But she walks alongside him anyway. Books on witchcraft would be just as appreciated as those on time travel, though she won’t mention any of that to him.

“You don’t use your magic either.”

Ash pauses where she stands over the kitchen sink, a dirty plate in one hand and a washrag covered with soap bubbles in the other. She glances over her shoulder to see Wendy staring at her, fingers fiddling with each other. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she says. She gestures to the other side of the sink with one hand. “Would you like to join me?”

Wendy turns back to the living room. Ash can hear Kate playing with the boys and Lucky’s sometimes muffled bark. They’d been happy to have a dog again after having to leave Sparky behind. (She doesn’t like to think about this, but she hopes Dottie took him when they disappeared. Someone did.) America doesn’t seem to be making much noise, but then, from her experience, the girl is like that. Not because she’s quiet. But because she’s never settled.

“It’s fine if you don’t.” Ash turns back to the sink. She makes a final swipe of the first plate and sets it in the other side of the sink. “I can finish these on my own. Go spend time with your friends.”

“They’re not my friends,” Wendy whispers. She moves to the other side of the sink. “Starlight is – or she’s something else – but I don’t know Kate or your Lost Ones—” Her eyes widen, and she cuts herself off abruptly. She shakes her head. “They aren’t Lost Ones. I’m sorry.”

Ash has no idea what that means, but it must mean something important to Wendy. “It’s fine.” She nods to the plate she’s left in the sink. “If you would rinse and dry? If Scarlet’s anything like me, she keeps towels in the drawer just next to the sink.”

“Is that a joke?” Wendy asks as she opens the drawer and finds towels folded there. “We’re all the same person.” Her lips press together, and there’s no anger in her tone when she says, “We’re not, but…but we are.” She glances up. “Where did Starlight find you?” Her eyes focus higher up. “And why do you have a scar when Scarlet and I don’t?”

“I’m not sure Scarlet doesn’t have any.” It’s out easy as anything because Ash knows the scars she has where no one can see them, because she knows that some scars aren’t carved into skin but into the flesh of something far softer. As she starts in on the next plate, she finds that she isn’t surprised that Scarlet hasn’t told Wendy what happened. She’s unsettled by it, but not surprised. “My scar is from a fight with myself,” she says, focusing on the plate and the washrag in her hands and not the images going through her mind, of breathing but not really breathing, of someone else breathing and living beneath her skin, of seeing through eyes that were hers but weren’t, of that moment of seeing Xavier try to pull her out of the rubble of someone else’s mind, of seeing his neck snap—

Ash had come to in her own body with bare feet full of shards of glass, covered in the blood of her friends, forehead screaming not from the deep gash one of them had left behind but from the righteous anger of being taken over by someone who should never have been there and doing things she never should have done.

She’d thought of her boys, and she’d gone to spend what little time she would have left on that world with them.

(And still, the Scarlet Witch came for them—)

“Starlight found me when I cried out to Scarlet for help in one of her dreams,” Ash continues, still carefully avoiding the question that Wendy doesn’t know to ask and that, if Scarlet has not answered yet, she does not want to spoil. “I wanted my boys to be safe. That’s all.” She passes the plate to Wendy, and she offers her a comforting smile. “What did you mean when you said I don’t use my magic either?”

It’s a not-so-subtle change of subject, but either Wendy does not notice or she does not seem to mind. She runs the plate under a spray of cold water before beginning to swipe it dry. “Washing dishes – you could use your magic to clean them just like that.” She makes a tsk-ing sound with her tongue behind her teeth, so sharp that it sounds like a snap. “But you do this instead. Isn’t that a waste of time? Wouldn’t you rather spend it with your boys? Pixie always used her magic to—” Her eyes grow dark, then. She doesn’t continue, only glares at the plate in front of her, although Ash is certain she’s not really glaring at the plate.

If her hands weren’t wet, Ash would reach over and place a hand on her younger self’s shoulder. Instead, she says, “I wouldn’t call it a waste. Sometimes this is the only quiet time I get to myself.” She passes over another plate. “Besides, Tommy doesn’t have magic, and I don’t want Billy to use his as a shortcut.”

Wendy nods slowly. She sticks her tongue in her cheek and then keeps quiet for the next several dishes – more plates, forks, knives. There are so many of them that Ash doesn’t want everything to pile up. Eventually, when they are almost done, Wendy asks, “Can you fly?” She stares down at the fork in her hands, but she doesn’t move. “I used to dream about using magic to fly. Starlight said that dreams are windows are into the multiverse, and when we fell through, Scarlet flew up to meet us. Are we all able to fly?” Her brow furrows. “Not all.”

“Yes,” Ash says, hesitantly. She glances over to Wendy and considers her, curious. “Is something wrong?”

Wendy shakes her head. “No.” Then she shakes her head again. “I mean, yes.” And then, finally, “I mean, no, because nothing’s wrong, except that everything’s wrong. But that’s what life is now, so nothing’s more wrong than it has been.” She sighs, places the last of the dishes over to one side, and then interlaces her fingers. “I’m not supposed to be here. I don’t think you are, either. But we’re here. It doesn’t feel right.”

Ash nods slowly. “But it doesn’t feel wrong either.” She swallows once and looks up, past Wendy, struggling to find the words for what she wants to say. “When I was your age, I still lived at Kamar-Taj.”

“That’s where Scarlet is now.” Wendy’s brows furrow. “That’s where Pixie trained.”

“Yes.” Ash presses her lips together, still considering carefully. “My teacher, the Ancient One—”

“They were Pixie’s teacher, too.”

Something in the way Wendy says that makes Ash grow even more hesitant. She notices how Wendy tenses at her words, hands clenching into fists on the edge of the sink. Instead of pushing further, she crouches down. Wendy’s shorter than she is, but not by much, and standing like this, it makes her shorter, but it allows her to look up. “Tell me about your Pixie.”

Wendy stares at her. “Scarlet’s never asked about her. She touched my mind, and she learned everything she needed to know.”

“I’m not Scarlet,” Ash says, her voice soft, “and sometimes, when we have gone through something horrible, it’s good to be able to speak what’s happened out loud.” She tilts her head back in a gesture to the table, using magic to pull the chairs out for them. “If you want to tell me, I’m all ears.”

Wendy glances over to the chairs. “You used magic.” She stares down at Ash again. “You didn’t need to use magic for that.”

“You’re right. I didn’t.”

Wendy presses her lips together. She glances over to the chairs. Then she glances to the living room, where the others are still gathered. She seems to be searching for someone – likely for America, who must have been there for part of this. But it only takes a moment for Wendy to nod gently. “Okay,” she says, fingers tightening on the fabric of her shirt. “If you want to know, I’ll tell you.” Her lips press together, and her eyes flash darkly. “But it isn’t a happy story.”

Ash stands and moves over to the table, sitting down in one of the chairs. “I don’t think any of us has a completely happy story, Wendy,” she says, “but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth telling.”

Wendy nods once as she, too, sits at the table. Her gaze flicks out into the living room again. “They won’t interrupt us, will they?”

“I can’t promise that,” Ash says, “but if they try, I will still be willing to listen to you. Whenever you’re ready. Even if that means waking me up in the middle of the night.” She presses her hands to the middle of her back and stretches. “Don’t worry. I’m used to it.”

“Scarlet says that, too.” Wendy stares at the tablecloth, not really focused on it. “She says she’s there whenever I need her.”

“That’s because we care about you.” Ash says it before even thinking, but she doesn’t need to think about it to realize it’s true. She reaches over and places a hand on Wendy’s shoulder. “I don’t know where you’ve been, and I don’t know who you’ve been, but I know where you are now, and I know who you are now, and who you are now is someone I want to spend time with and someone I want to know better.”

Wendy nods, taking that all in. She continues to stare at the tablecloth, although she doesn’t shrug off Ash’s hand. “Pixie was my best friend,” she begins. “At least, that’s what I thought.”

And as she continues, Ash listens.

She listens for a very long time.

Chapter 56: Part Four: Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Text

America Chavez has spent the past month living with Clint Barton and his family, with Kate Bishop, and with Ash Maximoff and her family. She’d lived with Clint and Kate before, but Ash had only joined them when she left. To be honest, she’s still not sure how they all fit in that single house, and the answer is that, really, they don’t. Ash and her boys don’t even really have a room so much as they took up the living room, pulling out the sofa into one large bed that they all just barely fit on, and somehow, in the two months that she was gone, they’d rearranged some of the furniture in the living room so that they could keep their clothes somewhere. She hadn’t been around for the shopping trips that entailed, if it even had, and honestly maybe she should have been more grateful that she even still had a room to share with Kate, since the other girl seemed perfectly fine with the idea of moving into the living room and giving up her room for Ash and the boys.

In the time that she has been gone, the other two families have learned to coexist under the same roof. Laura and Ash chat over morning coffee while their children play; they take turns making breakfast in the mornings or dinner in the evenings (lunch is usually sandwiches or leftovers, when there are leftovers); and they’ve neatly divided up the homeschooling schedule – Laura is better at math and physics, Ash is better at literature, and whenever Laura teaches history, Ash sits in, too, so that she can pick up on anything that is different between her universe and Earth-616. Once America returned, she started sitting in on the history classes, too, but for a different reason entirely.

For all that America thought living with Ash would feel awkward, it didn’t. It hasn’t. America might be frequenting Scarlet’s house more than either would really like, but Scarlet set up limits to when America was allowed to be over (and penalties if she tried to be there when she wasn’t allowed). It was to protect Wendy, sure, or maybe it was a petty attempt to keep the two of them apart, not that it worked if it was. America had expected living with Ash to feel the same way that she suspects living with Scarlet would feel, but it hasn’t. There’s no tension there. She’s just…another person.

Seeing her with Billy and Tommy, though. Seeing the way she pulls them into a hug and kisses their foreheads. Seeing them in the early mornings when America wakes up from a nightmare and finds them all conked out on the couch without even pulling the bed out, the television returned to a menu screen for whatever old black-and-white television show they’d had playing before they fell asleep. Even just seeing the way Ash looks at them with fondness when they beg to go outside, or when they’re playing with Lucky, or when they’re just being themselves—

The honesty with which Ash is a mom to her boys pierces America in a way that she couldn’t have expected, and she doesn’t know why. She’s never really understood why. If she examines it, she feels that same sort of piercing ache when she sees Scarlet and Wendy together, felt it that very first morning when they were cooking breakfast and talking with each other like they were…like they were family, even though they’d only known each other for – for not even a day – the familiarity of it, the openness of it, that immediate sort of—

It stings.

America doesn’t know why. It isn’t like she wants another mother. She has her moms – or, well, she had her moms, and she needs to go look for them again so that she can find them – and Wendy…Wendy has dreamed them, which means something, but she doesn’t know what.

It’s just….

Sometimes, she feels so lonely.

America sits on the edge of Scarlet’s couch, feet flat on the floor, staring at the screen in front of her, controller in her hand. She shoots Kate a glance and then smirks. It’s probably better to keep her eye on the screen, but she wants to see her expression. She presses the button.

“No! Blue shell?! Really?!” Kate’s eyes widen, then she shoots America a glare. “How dare you—”

America sticks her tongue out at her as she maneuvers Yoshi faster, zooming past Kate. “And that is why you don’t pick Waluigi—”

“Waluigi is the best, and it is a shame that he’s never been put into Smash Bros—”

“He just doesn’t want to fight his friends,” Wendy interrupts from her perch on one of the armchairs, a book in her hands. She isn’t really paying attention to what they’re doing, and she turns the page as she speaks, just glancing up to glimpse the screen. “Racing and…sports? You said they play sports? That’s not the same as punching someone in the face.”

America remembers blood on her knuckles, remember the satisfying crunch of Wanda’s nose with the first hit—

She closes her eyes, trying to get the image out of her mind, and in that moment, Yoshi runs off the track and into the water. It doesn’t matter. Her breathing is heavy. She takes a deep breath, counts the way that she is supposed to when she’s having a panic attack, only she isn’t panicking, not really, she’s just—

“Starlight?” Wendy’s voice cuts through everything. “Are you okay?”

“Mmhm,” America lies. She screws her eyes tight. “I’m fine.”

Kate nudges her with her elbow. “You’re losing.”

America’s eyes snap open, and she tries to focus on the screen again. “Yeah, just means I’ll get another blue shell. Just wait. I’ll get my spot back.” She glances up from the screen just enough to meet Wendy’s eyes. The other girl has closed her book over one finger and is staring at her curiously. “Really, Wendy, I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“You worry about me,” Wendy counters, but there’s no menace, no malice in her voice. “I think it’s only fair that I do the same for you.”

“That’s not how that works.” America turns back to the screen just in time to see Waluigi score first place.

Kate grins. “See? I told you. Waluigi is the best.” She nudges America again.

America just scowls. “If someone hadn’t been distracting me….” She shoots a glance up at Wendy, whose eyes widen.

“It’s not my fault!”

“No, it’s not.” Kate nudges America with her elbow a third time. “America here is just a sore loser.” She places her controller down on the coffee table in front of them. “You want to play? We can hook you up. It’s a lot of fun.”

Wendy stares at the controller curiously. “I’ve never played before,” she says. It’s not that there were no video games in Sokovia – there were, absolutely, and even some just like this – but Wendy and her brother were orphans. They hadn’t had the money to buy these sorts of things, and although Pixie could have provided it for them when Neverland began, that was dropped in favor of the lifestyle they’d ended up living, running through the wild, overgrown, abandoned places and making it their own. She glances up again. “I don’t know how.”

Kate immediately scoots over, pushing America from one cushion to the next, and pats the seat next to her. “It’s not hard! We can play together, and then if you’ve got the hang of it, we can all play together.”

Play together? America thinks, and she turns just enough to see Wendy sliding into the seat next to Kate, to see Kate putting the controller in Wendy’s hands and covering her fingers gently with her own. She stops looking and makes sure to focus on the screen. Fire pulses low beneath her skin, but she doesn’t know why.

“See, this is the button for going forward,” Kate says, pushing on one of the buttons beneath Wendy’s fingers, “and this is for stop—”

Wendy’s brow furrows. “I thought the entire point was to go so fast that you get to the end first.”

“Well, it is, but sometimes you use the stop button to do a really cool sharp turn so that you don’t run off the road because it’s faster than trying to use the joystick…uh, this thing.” Kate moves the little stick with her left thumb, and Wendy moves hers to just touch it. “It doesn’t always turn you as fast as you’re driving, and if you’re going fast and don’t turn, then fwoom.” Kate makes a hand gesture forwards. “Off the road. And then Toad has to pick the car up and save you and put you back on the road, and that takes so much more time—”

“This is really very complicated,” Wendy says. “You said it wasn’t hard.”

“Well, it’s not.” Kate places her hand back over Wendy’s. “This is the button for using an item – so, like, if you see those fancy boxes in the middle of the road, you want to hit them, because then they give you an item you can use to attack the other drivers. Or protect yourself. Or just give you a speed boost.”

Wendy glances up at Kate. “How do I know which items protect me? I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Oh, you sweet summer child.” Kate pats Wendy’s head affectionately. “No one really gets hurt. It’s just a game.”

Wendy grimaces at the head pats. “All the same, I would really rather not—”

“Can we just play already?” America asks, the barest hint of a growl rumbling in her throat. “She can teach you all the buttons and everything, but you don’t really get it until you’re playing.” She grits her teeth together and stares at the screen.

Kate blinks a couple of times. “Um, yeah. Sure.” She gives Wendy a smile. “You’ve just got to pick your driver first. You can pick their car and stuff, too, but, like, if that’s a little more than you want to think about right now, it’s mostly just all design and what looks cool. The character’s the important thing.”

“Important?” Wendy stares at the screen, at all of the characters and all of the potential choices, and her eyes widen. “How is it important? Are some of the characters better than others? Do I need to pick the best character?” She looks at Kate again. “Is….” She glances briefly to America, who still stares straight at the screen and not over at them, and then back to Kate. Her voice drops to a hush. “Is Waluigi really the best?”

“No, he is not,” America growls immediately. “Boo is the best character, but he’s not even in this game, which is such a sh*tty—”

“Starlight.” Wendy reaches over and places one hand over America’s. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.”

Kate gives her a look. “You don’t sound fine. You sound mad. It’s just a game.”

“I said I’m fine.” America still doesn’t look away from the screen. She’s tense. Not anxious tense, angry tense, but she doesn’t really see a reason to be angry. She’s not mad at the game. It’s a stupid game, and she and Kate have played tons of times, and they both win, and she’s never felt this upset before. Not with Kate, anyway, and she knows she’s upset with Kate, she can feel the anger bubbling in her direction, but she can’t figure out why, and that just makes her even more frustrated. It’s a horrible little cycle. “Just…keep explaining.” She can feel Wendy staring at her, but she doesn’t look at her. Somehow, she knows that won’t help.

“Okay,” Kate says, stringing the word out and rolling her eyes. She turns back to Wendy. “So the characters are more about playstyle, like, how you play the game. They’ve got different stats for how heavy they are, how fast they are, and stuff like that, but it’s not that one is overall better than the others, just that one is better for how you play. And you don’t know how you play yet, so any of them could be good. So just pick whichever one you like better and try them out, and if you don’t like how they handle, you can try someone else next time.” She grins. “That’s the best thing about games like this, playing around with characters and picking who feels best. Only I always pick Waluigi anyway because he’s actually the best.”

Wendy moves through the characters, tapping the joystick once to move from one to the next then tapping it once to get to another. “I thought you just said there wasn’t a best.”

Kate shrugs. “I lied. It’s totally Waluigi.”

America turns just enough to stick her tongue out at Kate, but she sees Kate’s grin and turns back. She stares down at the controller. “I normally main Yoshi, but if you want him….” Her voice fades off.

Wendy stares at the screen. “Which one is Yoshi?”

“The little green dinosaur,” Kate answers. She moves the joystick, holding it down, until it lands over a character who looks just as she described. “This one.”

“Oh.” Wendy looks over the screen and then starts moving the stick one block at a time away from him. “I think I know which one I want.”

“Oh, you can, you know, you can push down the joystick. You don’t have to just keep single tapping it.” Kate places her thumb over Wendy’s and gently holds the joystick down. “Like this. You’re going to want to do that when you’re racing, because you have to keep it pushed forward or to go forward. If you just press the go button, you don’t actually move. This is what makes you move.”

Wendy nods slowly. It’s all a little bit much for her, but she’s trying. She moves the joystick, trying to do what Kate did, and makes it stop just over a little red hooded figure with a white mask. “This one. He’s cute.”

“Oh, so you picked Shy Guy.”

Wendy’s eyes widen, and she looks over to Kate again. “Is that bad? Did I pick wrong? Should I pick someone else?”

“You can’t pick wrong, Wendy. You’ve never played.” America’s tone sounds harsh, even to her, and she hates herself for it. She’s not mad at Wendy. Really, she’s not. She’s just…something.

“Sorry,” Wendy says immediately, lowering her head to look at the controller. “You were having fun, and I’m making that hard.” Her fingers run easy over the buttons that she still doesn’t really quite understand but is willing to learn. “I can go back to my book, if you want. I was at a good spot anyway—”

“No, you’re fine.” Kate cuts her off. “America’s just being weird. She’ll get over it.” She doesn’t push them faster through the next choices, but she does ask, briefly, “Do you want to look at the designs for this stuff, too? There’s some cool stuff in there if you want to look.”

Wendy just shakes her head. “No, I think Starlight wants to play. You can teach me about it later, though.”

America sighs. “Wendy, that’s not what I—”

But then the race is starting – one of the easier ones, the easiest ones you can do in a Mario Kart game, because it wouldn’t really be fair to throw Wendy immediately into the deep end – and America has to focus on the game. Or, really, she doesn’t have to focus because Kate is still teaching Wendy how to play, and Wendy is absolutely horrible, which is fine because she’s new at it, and the NPCs are so easy to beat that America could lap them a few times without having to worry about it. Every now and again, she takes a chance and glances over to Kate and Wendy, who are holding the controller together. Wendy’s glancing down at the buttons a lot, making sure she’s pressing the right ones, but Kate is slowly guiding her.

America takes first – despite the pot shot blue shell Kate throws from behind (despite Wendy saying she doesn’t want to attack anyone and Kate groaning that that’s how you play the game) – and Wendy comes in dead last because she kept getting turned around and going the wrong way at first. By the end, she’s at least kept on the track and moving forward the right way, but it’s a steep learning curve for someone who has never played a video game in her life before ever not even once.

When they’ve finished the race, America leans back on the couch. “You wanna go again?” Of course, they didn’t set up for one individual course, there are others after it in the cup, but it’s still a moment for Wendy to change her mind if she wants.

Wendy stares at the screen. She looks down at the controller she and Kate both hold together. Then she looks up at Kate. “Am I causing you any problems?”

Kate’s brows shoot up. “What? No! You can keep playing. Maybe if we finish the cup, you won’t be last.” She grins. “And if you’re comfortable enough after that, I can play, too. It’s more fun when everyone gets to play.”

“I’m…not sure about that,” Wendy says hesitantly, “but if you want me to keep playing, I will.”

Kate stares at her. “Do you want to keep playing, Wendy? You can stop if you’re not having fun. It’s really about having fun, you know.”

Wendy presses her lips together. She considers. Then she nods. “I think I’m having fun,” she says, still hesitant, “but I think I will have more fun if I play enough to know what I’m doing.” She blinks a few times. “That’s how this works, right?”

“Exactly.” Kate grins, and she nudges America with her elbow. “C’mon. Next race.”

America presses the buttons, but she catches herself thinking that maybe she should just leave the two of them to play together, since they’re having such a good time. She doesn’t say it. That would be…. She doesn’t know. It’s like she’s here and part of it, but she’s not really part of it. And that feeling of loneliness hits again.

She just shoves it down and stares at the screen.

Later, after Wendy’s learned enough to play on her own (and has slowly climbed up the ranks from dead last to somewhere in the middle), after Kate has soundly beat America again a few times (and been soundly beat herself), after Ash has stopped on the stairs, bleary-eyed, and told them that it is very late and they should probably get some sleep (which really means that Kate’s loud commentary has either been keeping her up or woke her up), and after Wendy has taken her book and gone upstairs to her room (which she hadn’t done last time, but she says she needs a break, and America respects that, despite the slight churning in her stomach which suggests that her own mood is the reason for it), America stretches out on the couch, hooks her hands beneath her head, and stares up at the ceiling. It’s different than staring up at the stars, but she can still make her own constellations if she tries hard enough.

Kate curls up in her sleeping bag on the floor in front of her and yawns, covering her mouth with one hand, but still speaks through the yawn. “Why’d you get all pissed earlier?”

“I wasn’t pissed,” America lies. “I just wanted to play the game.”

“Mmhm.” There’s a tone of disbelief in Kate’s voice. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with Wendy, would it?”

“No,” America snaps, but that’s enough of an indicator for her to understand that yes, it probably did have to do with Wendy. Which doesn’t make any sense because she wasn’t mad at Wendy, she was mad at Kate. “Wendy was fine.”

Kate nods once. “So I was the problem.”

America rolls her eyes. “No.” She curls onto one side so that she faces the back of the couch. “I wasn’t mad, alright? You were fine. You were both fine.” It’s easy to lie, even when she knows that Kate doesn’t believe her. Lying is really just another form of running away, and America is very, very good at that.

“Do you like her?”

“Shut up.” America turns and shoves one of the pillows off the couch onto Kate’s head.

Kate just giggles. “You do.” Her eyes widen, and she sits up straight, staring at America. “Is that why Scarlet took your mouth? Did you kiss her? Dude, that is so weird—”

“It’s not weird, okay?” America faces the back of the couch again, covering her ears with her pillow. She knows that it’s weird. She knows very much that it’s weird because—

“You literally kissed Wanda. That is definitely weird.”

“Shut. Up.” America turns to glare at Kate. “Wendy’s not Wanda. I mean. She is, but she’s not, and it’s not weird, and quit looking at me like that.”

Kate just continues to stare at America with a goofy grin on her face. “I mean, Wanda’s hot, so, like—”

“She’s not Wanda.” America gives Kate a shove. She crosses her arms and stares at the ceiling again. “She’s just Wendy. Like Ash is Ash and Wanda’s Wanda. Wendy’s Wendy. They’re not the same.” Sometimes, saying that, thinking that, she feels like she’s lying to herself. Sometimes, she doesn’t. Right now, it feels like a lie.

Kate leans forward, resting her head on her knees, and considers America. “Why do you keep calling Scarlet Wanda? She doesn’t use that name anymore.”

It’s a complete change of subject, but America doesn’t mind. This one is easier. “Scarlet makes me think of the Scarlet Witch,” she says, and while she isn’t in the least bit hesitant about it, she still doesn’t quite want to admit it. “The Scarlet Witch is – was – terrifying. She tried to kill me. She tried to suck out my power and kill me, and I heard her kill a lot of other people, and she’s…she’s terrifying, Kate.” She turns to her friend. “You have no idea how scary she can be when she’s like that.”

“I saw her with the Illuminati.”

“Yeah, but that’s not the same. You saw her try to save Billy and Tommy, and you saw her fall, and you saw her….” America shakes her head. She doesn’t even remember all of it. She’d just been so scared to be there again, and even though she knows now that when Wanda pushed her through, she was trying to save her, all she had seen – all she could see – was the Scarlet Witch, attacking her again. The same image as in her worst nightmares. (No. Not the worst ones. In the worst ones, she is hunting the Scarlet Witch. She doesn’t have good dreams. The ones with Wendy have disappeared.) “It hurts me to call her Scarlet, so I don’t, and I don’t think it’s fair to expect me to call her that. She’s just Wanda.” She stares at the ceiling. “I don’t have to be scared of Wanda.”

Kate nods, slow. “You don’t have to be scared of the Scarlet Witch anymore, either. They’re actually the same person, you know, not like whatever’s going on with Ash and Wendy and Scarlet not being the same person.”

“I know.” America leans back and stares at the ceiling again. “Can we just not talk about it? I’m tired.”

“Yeah, okay.” Kate curls up into her sleeping bag again. “I just can’t believe that you kissed Wanda.”

“Shut up! It’s not the same!”

But Kate grins anyway. It’s not the same. But it’s still fun to mock America for it – and, more importantly, if she uses this at the right time, it could win her a race. That’s what jokes like these are for, anyway.

Chapter 57: Part Four: Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Text

Wong assigns Scarlet a room at Kamar-Taj, but for the first few days, she doesn’t use it. Rooms are for sleeping in, and while Wong allows her (and not just her, but any trainee) to take books from the library to their room to study privately, Scarlet doesn’t take advantage of this. It feels too much like hiding away. Besides, none of the books he suggests have anything to do with time travel or the Time Stone (for obvious reasons). She doesn’t think he would let her remove those from the library for personal study. Best to stay in the library and study there; that way, if she studies something unexpected, at least her presence is expected.

When people are used to someone being in a location, they tend to not pay them much attention. Scarlet wants to become background to the other people at Kamar-Taj, and to become background, she needs to be a constant presence. Just Jeannie, still in the back corner, with her stack of books on witchcraft. No one needs to worry about her.

Of course, Scarlet does pour over the witchcraft she can find and the books Wong suggested for her. There isn’t really a fine line between sorcery and witchcraft; there’s a much thicker barrier – witches are born with inherent magical ability that flows out from them, whether they wish it to do so or not, whereas sorcerers train to find the magic within themselves and often use it to call upon creatures or powers that are beyond them but which they can harness.

It’s almost like the talent vs. study argument in schools: witches have magical talent that sorcerers do not, but that doesn’t make them better. A good sorcerer, studying as much as he can and making connections that others don’t, can far and away overpower a witch who tries to rely solely on her talent. It’s taking the two together that makes a strong magic wielder – a witch, born with so much talent, who then strives to study and apply that talent, can by nature usually go farther than the average sorcerer. But not every witch wants to be a witch, and so their talent goes to waste. Every sorcerer wants to be a sorcerer, and so their talent, what little of it there might be, does not.

And as the Sorcerer Supreme – in this case, Wong – is the head of the sorcerers (not necessarily the most powerful, but usually so), the Scarlet Witch is the head of the witches (definitely the most powerful, as she does not need runes or incantations to focus the inherent magical ability that all witches have). Between the two, the Scarlet Witch would reign supreme.

Scarlet doesn’t want to reign over anybody. She wants to learn the runes and incantations that the other witches of her age have learned so that she can better focus powers that she has rarely been able to completely control. Study not out of necessity – she doesn’t need what the other witches do – but out of personal desire – sharpening her own magic and putting it more squarely under her control.

It’s only when the sky becomes quite dark and most of the other trainees have gone to their own rooms that Scarlet begins to peruse the library’s other books. Even without the Time Stone nestled against her chest, she would wander. Perhaps it would be with a little less purpose, but she would. Here – a library full of books on magical power both like and unlike hers, books that she could have had access to at any point in time prior to this so that she could have learned—

Scarlet can’t think like that. When she thinks like that, she just gets mad. And not the kind of mad that flickers scarlet in her eyes or at her fingertips (which is good, since she can’t do any of that in the library, lest one of the survivors notice exactly who she is), but one that sits just in the center of her chest and gnaws at the shards of her heart. It makes her want to shut all of the books and leave Kamar-Taj. It makes her want to attack Kamar-Taj again because someone, one of them, should have known, should have TRIED—

And it becomes even worse because she knows that in Ash’s universe, the Ancient One had found her early. She knows that she was taught in that universe. And what else happened in that universe? Oh, right, Vis was alive. Her boys were alive. She was a mom. And all due to a choice that wasn’t even hers to make, one made by people so far away and above her that—

Scarlet can’t think like that, and it’s easier to focus on something else when she has something else she wants to focus on anyway – time travel. Time Stone. Rewriting the rules of the universe to get what she wants.

Putting it that way, it sounds like she’s doing something wrong. She doesn’t think about that, either. Sometimes it’s just easier to not think.

And when everyone else is in their rooms, trying to get some rest before their next day of study or training, Scarlet remains in the library. Reading. Searching. Trying to find exactly what she wants and what she now believes she needs – although that need is perhaps born entirely from the stone hidden against her skin and not from any genuine necessity.

What Scarlet has forgotten, though, if she ever really, truly knew it is this: the human body is not made to go such extended periods of time without rest. It slowly begins to shut down. It hallucinates if pushed too far. Scarlet, who has spent so much of the past several months dreaming (and dealing with the exhaustion that the body gets from spending too much time unawake), doesn’t even consider that.

Which is why, when she is halfway through one of her books (not one dealing with time and the potential magic that can control it, but another one on witchcraft that she found while she browsed), Scarlet rests her head and closes her eyes and thinks to herself that it will just be for a minute.

It is not for just a minute.

Scarlet dreams.

In her dream, she both is and is not herself.

The Time Stone hovers in a black expanse in front of her. It is free from its cord, free from the golden shell barely containing it, and despite the fact that there is no other light in the void, it sparkles, gleams. Perhaps the light comes from the stone itself, casting everything that isn’t black in a soft, pulsing green light.

Scarlet raises a hand cast in green light. She turns her hand this way and that. Then she tries to will her own chaos magic into appearance, if only to give herself something else to see by.

Nothing happens.

This does not frighten her.

Scarlet steps towards the stone, one hand outstretched, and when she grips it, she feels that same green light pulsing beneath her skin, trickling through her veins, illuminating them with a sickly green light. It feels like dying. It feels like living.

She grins.

A soft weight lands on Scarlet’s shoulders, and she snaps awake. Her head pops up. As she straightens, a deep blue woolen blanket falls from about her, landing on the floor with a mumph. She blinks, staring at the blanket, and then leans over just enough to pick it up. Her fingers run over the soft wool, thumb pressing along the stitching, and then she glances up, looking all around her.

She catches the barest glimpse of another trainee passing through the library, heading away from her.

One that she recognizes.

Scarlet’s jaw grinds against itself. She stares at the blanket. Then she sighs and pulls it about herself, tucking it like a hood over her fake blonde hair as she continues to read.

Six people maintain Scarlet’s home while she is gone.

Of those six, five have frequent nightmares.

America doesn’t wake Kate up with hers – she hasn’t for the past month – because she is quiet when she has her nightmares. They set her heart pounding as rapid as rain on a tin rooftop during a thunderstorm, but she’s the only one who can feel that. They send sweat to her forehead, they make her feel like she is so hot, or they make her shiver so bad that she needs more blankets, but that’s not something loud. And when she wakes from one of those hunting dreams, she breathes and she breathes and she breathes and she calms herself until she can rest again.

The four upstairs, however, all know about each others’. Mostly.

It is almost impossible not to know.

The first night they are there, Billy and Tommy both, seeming to have the same dream, stampede from their room on one end of the hall past Wendy’s room to the one where Ash slumbers. They curl up in bed with their mother, needing to reminded that it is she who is here, not that other woman who looks like her, needing to run fingers along the scar left behind on her forehead, needing to curl up against and into her so that they can calm enough to rest.

Even if Wendy hadn’t heard them going past, the very next night she wakes from a nightmare of her own, one that she cannot put words to, and moves from her bedroom without thinking about it, without realizing that it isn’t Scarlet in the room next to hers until she sees the twins curled up in bed with their mother. The twins, by this point, have already dozed off, but Ash remains awake just long enough to gesture for Wendy to join them, too.

Somehow, the bed is big enough for all four of them, but then, Scarlet had created a bed meant to hold not just herself and her twins but Vision, too. So it only stands to reason that they could all fit with a little room to spare. (The boys, of course, are confused to find Wendy in bed with them, but they aren’t scared of her. She tells them she won’t tell the other girls that they hid with their mom if they won’t tell them about her. It’s easy to get them to agree, though. The boys love Wendy. They love her stories.)

It should have been possible to make it through the week without Ash dealing with her own recurring nightmare. When the boys are in bed with her, they calm her and act as a preventative measure, and she dreams with no terror. Perhaps it isn’t so odd that Wendy has the same effect, although Wendy is less likely to join her without the boys present. She’d expected the boys to have more nightmares here than at Ciint’s house, and to that effect, she’s mostly tried to stay awake until they’ve joined her.

But the boys grow used to their surroundings much more quickly than Ash expected, perhaps because it is so much like the home where they once lived with her before being thrown into first the Illuminati’s cells and then this entire other universe, and Wendy doesn’t cling to her as much as she does to Scarlet, not that this bothers Ash at all.

Unlike the others, though, Ash’s nightmares do not leave her quiet.

“Nonononononononono—”

Wendy screws her eyes shut. She keeps them screwed shut. But the word keeps getting repeated like an old alarm through her bedroom walls, and she can’t stay asleep like this. Even in Neverland, whenever any of her Lost Ones had a nightmare, she’d known. Something of how unsettled they were woke her. She knows now that it was an underlying effect of the magic she hadn’t known she had, letting her unconscious mind skim the surface of those around her, those who allowed themselves to be vulnerable to her, or perhaps, more accurately, those she allowed herself to be vulnerable with.

Skimming dream surfaces means trusting that whatever the other person dreams won’t harm her; in some cases, their good dreams help her relax, but in others, their bad dreams wake her up. Wendy doesn’t know this consciously, but she’s felt its effects. Just like she’s feeling them now.

Wendy sits up in bed and opens her eyes, pushing her hands through her long brown hair. It really shouldn’t surprise her. They’re all Lost Ones here, even if it’s more complicated than that. She, Ash, the twins, and America have all become displaced from their own universes – which means their universe has lost them – and Kate….

It seems to her that Kate’s parents have lost her, too, if they’re still alive. (And if they’re not…. Well, isn’t that simply another form of lost?)

Wendy isn’t quite fully there as she moves out of her bedroom and towards the source of the sound. As she does, it shifts from just that one word, repeated over and over, to something high-pitched but not quite loud enough to be considered any sort of keening. When she moves into Scarlet’s bedroom – what is currently Ash’s bedroom – she finds the other woman curled into a ball, sitting upright, but still asleep, head low against her chest, hands behind her neck and holding it tucked down, rocking herself. Her eyes don’t glow, but there’s something soft and scarlet wreathing her fingertips as she rocks.

“Ash—”

“No, go away, it isn’t me, she’ll kill you, I don’t want to kill anyone—”

At first, Wendy isn’t even sure that Ash is still asleep, but as she moves closer, she notices that her eyes are shut as tight as can be. She’s gentle as she moves into the bed next to her and, although she hesitates, she gently wraps an arm around her shoulders. “Ash, it’s okay,” she murmurs. “You’re not alone.”

Ash doesn’t open her eyes, but she turns and hides her face in the crook of Wendy’s neck. “Help me, please,” she whispers, and where her closed eyes are pressed against Wendy’s skin, they leave tear stains. The scarlet wisps fade from her fingertips as she clings to her younger self.

“It’s okay.” Wendy rubs a hand gentle along Ash’s back just as she’s done with so many of her Lost Ones before – most of them younger than she herself, but she had done this same thing with Pixie more times than she would like to admit. Pixie hadn’t been crying then, though, and now she wonders if all of that had only been an act just to steal magic from her. It doesn’t matter. Ash isn’t acting. “I’m right here. You just need to wake up. Can you wake up?”

“She won’t let me—”

Wendy’s brows furrow, and she stares at Ash. “Who?” she asks, not expecting to get a clear answer from her older sleeping self. “Who won’t let you?”

Ash doesn’t answer. She just clings tighter. “Please, just let me go, I didn’t do anything to—” Then she snaps up. Her eyes jolt open. She stares around at everything unseeing, eyes wide and flickering with scarlet, her breathing rapid.

“Ash, Ash, you are okay. You’re safe here. It isn’t bad. You’re okay.” Wendy searches her eyes for some sort of recognition. She takes her other self’s hands in her own and gives them a little squeeze. “I’m right here. You can feel my hand, right? That’s real. You can feel that, and that’s real. Whatever you were dreaming about wasn’t—”

Wendy stops herself before finishing the sentence. She can’t say that it wasn’t real. If dreams are windows into the multiverse, then maybe it is real. Or maybe it was real at some point, some real thing that happened in Ash’s life just as so many of Wendy’s newest nightmares are, real things that happened, just twisted and twisted until they’re somehow….

Worse isn’t the right word. She’s not sure there is a right word.

Ash takes a deep breath. She blinks twice. The scarlet fades from her eyes. “Wendy.” There’s the barest hint of a question in her voice, but it doesn’t last. Her eyes widen again, startled. “Wendy.” She meets her eyes. “What did you hear? Did I say anything? What did I say?”

Wendy blinks twice. That is…not what she was expecting Ash to say, but that’s…. No, it’s not fine, it’s weird, but she’ll roll with it. “You were scared about killing someone, and you wanted help. You said someone was keeping you from…from something, but you wouldn’t say who.” It isn’t in her lie. Not to herself. Not to Ash, who isn’t herself but is, in some way.

Ash seems to relax. She searches Wendy’s eyes. Hers are red, but the tears are gone. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, “if I woke you up.”

“I’m used to it. So many of my Lost Ones used to have nightmares all the time.” Wendy gives her a little smile. It’s weird because Ash is older, but the thing is if so many people younger than her had nightmares, then why would she expect anything different from people older than her? If she has nightmares, it stands to reason that Ash does, too. “Are you okay?” she asks. “Do you need me to stay with you?”

Ash shakes her head. “No,” she says. Her fingers move to the comforter, and she tightens her hands on it. “I think I would prefer to be alone, please.”

“Oh.” Wendy blinks twice. “Okay.” She stands up, hesitating just long enough to rub Ash’s back gently. “I’ll, uh. I’ll leave you alone. But I’ll be just next door if…. If you want me or….” Somehow, this just feels awkward. She lets her voice trail away and starts to head out of the room.

When she makes it to the door, Ash says her name, “Wendy?”

Wendy turns back. “Yes?”

Ash presses her lips together and then looks up just enough to meet her eyes. “Next time you hear me having a nightmare, don’t come in here.” Her gaze drops to the comforter again. “Thank you for trying to help me, but you can’t help me with this one. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Wendy bites her lower lip. That doesn’t make sense. When she has nightmares, she always wants someone to comfort her, whether that’s waking up with someone or being able to find them after. But if Ash doesn’t want that….

Wendy just nods. “Okay. I’ll…I’ll leave you alone.”

“Thank you.”

The door shuts softly behind her as Wendy returns to her room. She feels confused, but she doesn’t want to ask Ash about it. She’s certain that the other woman wouldn’t explain things if she did.

It’s unsettling, and she doesn’t like it. She’s not sure that she can.

Her bedroom is empty and lonely. Instead of returning there, Wendy decides to go downstairs to join Kate and Starlight. Halfway down the stairs, she hears Ash move from out of her bedroom and carefully walk down the hallway to the twins’ room. That doesn’t make sense either. Why would she go there if she wants to be alone?

It’s a secret, and after everything, Wendy doesn’t like secrets. She’s just not sure there’s anything she can do about this one.

Chapter 58: Part Four: Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Text

“Will you play a game with us?”

Wendy startles. She’d holed up in her room after breakfast instead of spending time with everyone else, citing that she’d needed some space. This isn’t exactly untrue; she had needed her space. Even in Neverland, even spending the evenings and early mornings in the tree with all of her Lost Ones, Wendy had been able to get away by herself whenever she wanted, whenever she needed. In fact, that was part of what she’d been doing when she’d found Starlight. Living in Scarlet’s house when it was just the two of them isn’t a problem; they each have their own separate spaces and are very good about giving each other space (sometimes too good about it).

But right now? In a house full of five other people? Sometimes Wendy needs space just to breathe.

The thing is – this time isn’t just about space. It’s about trying to process everything that’s going on: America being angry with her for some reason she doesn’t know, Ash having nightmares but not wanting any sort of comfort, a variant of herself having children – twin boys! – and Scarlet already having a room set up for them—

It isn’t a lot, really, but it feels like a lot. Especially since this is also the first time Wendy has met Ash, the boys, and Kate. That is a lot all at once, and she’d needed some time to herself both to think about all of that and…and just to be away from everyone else. Which sounds rude – and maybe it is rude – but….

Wendy closes her book over one finger and leans over the side of the hammock. The twins – Billy and Tommy, she knows their names, but she tends to think of them as one singular unit – stare up at her from below. Tommy scowls and nudges Billy. “Leave her alone. She doesn’t like us.”

“I only just asked her!” Billy frowns at his brother. “She might still play with us anyway. And she tells us the best bedtime stories! People who don’t like us wouldn’t do that.”

Tommy glares at his brother. “That Dottie lady used to tell us scary stories and then grin menacingly at us. I’m pretty sure she didn’t like us.” He crosses his arms. “She was even in that group that wanted to kill Mom. If she liked us, she would’ve liked Mom, too, and she wouldn’t have wanted to kill her.”

Billy’s frown deepens, and he scuffs the toe of his sneaker along the floor. “I guess you’re right. But her stories weren’t very good, and hers are really good.”

Wendy doesn’t know what to say to that. She’s never met a woman named Dottie, and thinking about a group of people who wanted to kill Ash is just another bit of information into the already too much that she’s gotten over the past few days. She shoves it to the back of her mind. “I like you,” she says, because that’s something she can say and it isn’t untrue. “What did you want to play?”

“See? Told you she would play with us!” Billy grins first at his brother and then beams up at Wendy. “We wanted to play Mario Kart! Mom won’t let us play much—”

“Dad used to,” Tommy says, still scowling.

“But she’s taking a nap, and Kate and America went somewhere, and Tommy always beats me, so I thought—”

“You thought you would ask me so you could have someone to beat?” Wendy asks, brows raising.

“No,” Billy says as his face falls. “I just thought it would be fun to have someone else to play with.” He looks down at the floor and twiddles his fingers together. “You don’t have to play with us if you don’t want to.”

Wendy doesn’t even consider it for a moment. She jumps out of her hammock and lands neatly in front of them, propping both of her hands on her hips. Then, reconsidering that pose, she kneels in front of them. “I would love to play with you.”

Billy grins up at her and takes her hand. “Let’s go then!” he exclaims. “I don’t know when they’re gonna get back, but Kate said they’re getting that new Avengers game, and they’re going to want to play then, so we have to play while they’re gone!”

Wendy’s halfway down the stairs, being pulled by him, before she asks, blinking, “Who are the Avengers?”

Tommy shrugs. He’s already sitting on the couch, having sped past them the moment Wendy agreed to play. “I don’t know either. They wouldn’t tell us. I think they’re like the Illuminati, only they don’t want to kill Mom.”

“Who are the Illuminati?”

Billy comes to a stop so abrupt that Wendy stumbles forward the slightest bit. He glances up at her, eyes wide. “You don’t know who the Illuminati are?”

Wendy shakes her head. “We don’t have anything like that on my world. Just Neverland and the Lost Ones. And those two weird people who kept trying to kill Ultron.”

Billy’s eyes widen. “Why would you want to kill Ultron?”

“Uh, because he’s evil and wants to destroy the world?”

Tommy’s eyes narrow, and he levels a glare at her. “Our dad’s part Ultron,” he says. Then his brows furrow. “Or something like that. Ultron came first. Then Dad. Like a more refined Ultron. They’re not the same, though, I don’t think. Ultron has all the bots that he can control, but Dad’s the main body. But Dad’s not Ultron. He’s…something else. But still connected to him. I think.” He shakes his head and looks up at her. “And if Dad’s not evil and the Ultron bots are good, then Ultron can’t be evil either. He doesn’t want to destroy the world! He wants to help keep it safe!”

“Yeah, that’s what he was supposed to do,” Wendy growls. Her eyes narrow. The idea of Ultron being good – worse, the idea of another version of herself having children with some other version of Ultron – feels very…wrong. It feels wrong. She feels sick. Her throat is all sticky, and her stomach is churning. Actually, it’s worse than that; Ash knows about Ultron and Pixie because she’s told her, but she never once said anything about having his kids. Or. Kids with whatever part of him the twins’ dad might be. And she still doesn’t know what happened with Scarlet, although Scarlet at least said she’d explain when she got back from Kamar-Taj – which might only be a few days away, but that’s starting to feel like it’ll be much longer.

All of this – all of it – is making her very distinctly uncomfortable.

She doesn’t want to think about it. She’s not going to get to not think about it, because now every time she looks at either of the boys, she’s going to think about Ultron and being married to Ultron and having Ultron’s kids, and then she’s going to feel sick, and—

How does that even work? Ultron’s a magitech robot? Can he even have—?

“Do you not want to play with us anymore?” Billy asks. He stares up at her with such large eyes that—

No. She can definitely tell him no. But she can’t control what other versions of herself have done in other universes, even if it does make her sick at her stomach.

“Billy,” Wendy says hesitantly, “do you know who I am?”

“Of course, I do,” he says, staring up at her but now suddenly confused. “You’re the scary lady who looks like Mom’s daughter.”

Wendy blinks twice. “I’m…I’m the what now?”

“You know, the scary lady who looks like Mom,” Billy says. “This is her house. You live here with her. You look kind of like her, so you’re her daughter. Right?”

Wendy shakes her head. “No. I’m not. I’m….” She considers it for a moment. They haven’t explained everything to the twins. They don’t know who Scarlet really is, which means they don’t really know about the multiverse, even though they might know about other worlds. If they don’t know that Scarlet and Ash are different versions of the same basic person, then telling them that’s who she is, too, won’t mean anything. Actually, it’ll just make everything that much more confusing.

If the twins don’t know about the multiverse, what’s the closest thing to the truth?

“You know what?” Wendy says. “You’re right. I’m her daughter.” She moves over to the couch and plops down onto the cushion just next to Tommy. “Let’s, uh. Let’s play Mario Kart. I call Shy Guy.”

Tommy just sticks his tongue out at her. “Shy Guy’s the worst. I’m getting Wario.”

Billy settles onto the couch next to her. “He’s always Wario. When he and Kate play together, they tag team everyone. It sucks.” He looks up at her. “Maybe you can tag team with me?”

Wendy gives a hesitant nod. Right now, there’s so much going on in her head that tag teaming with Billy seems like the least of it. It’s simple. She can do that.

And not think about the rest of everything else, please and thank you.

Scarlet keeps the blue woolen blanket. She wraps it around her as she continues to study in the library at Kamar-Taj and finds that it makes her much more comfortable than she’d been before. Not that the library was uncomfortable. Only that sometimes there is a chill, and the blanket helps with that. And it certainly makes the hard wooden chairs softer.

It also makes it easier for her to doze off when she gets overcome with exhaustion.

The next time Scarlet awakens in the library, she finds a still steaming mug of lemon ginger tea sitting on the table next to her. She stares at the mug, glances around to see if there’s anyone nearby who it might belong to, catches the glimpse of another trainee walking away from her (and, yes, she recognizes him this time, but she doesn’t want to acknowledge it), and then looks back at the mug. It’s clearly meant to be for her, although she doesn’t like to think about the sorcery that must have been involved to keep it that warm until she awoke.

Before she lifts it to her lips, Scarlet runs a simple spell over it, just to make sure it doesn’t have anything within it that will harm her. She’s still wary with the first sip, but nothing happens. It seems to be just fine. It tastes fine. It burns her tongue, but that’s more her fault than whoever kept it warm.

She appreciates the gesture, just like she appreciates the blanket.

That’s unsettling.

The third time it happens, there’s another mug full of fresh lemon ginger tea, along with a ham sandwich. Wanda stares at the sandwich, licks her lips as her stomach rumbles, and then pushes both the plate and the mug away. She can sense the same trainee’s presence behind her, and she mutters just loud enough to be overheard, “I don’t eat pork.” While she returns the book she’s been reading (more on witchcraft – history, more than actual practice, and this one mentions a coven being destroyed in Salem in the 1600’s, which reminds her of Agatha) and finds another one (witchcraft, again; runes and the composition thereof and how to combine and recombine them into their own sort of language), the sandwich and now quite too chilly tea are replaced with another sandwich – turkey, this time – and more lemon ginger tea in a completely new blue mug.

This time, there’s a note next to them. Sorry, it says. I’ll do better next time.

Scarlet runs her fingers over the note. She uses the same spell to make sure that nothing has compromised her tea or her food, and once she’s certain she’s safe, she relaxes enough to eat. The note stares at her the entire time.

She begins to use it as a bookmark, holding her place in the books on time travel when she hides them under stacks of books on witchcraft.

The fourth time, Scarlet wakes before the trainee disappears entirely, and she reaches out, grabbing the sleeve of his shirt and holding him fast. “Kevin,” she murmurs, accent thick and normal and unimpeded, not even turning to face him, “I believe you were told to leave me alone.”

The sleeve between her fingertips loosens. “You don’t leave,” Kevin says. “Dozing off in the library sucks. Trust me, I know.” He moves to the other side of the table when Scarlet drops her grip on his sleeve, and he straddles the chair across from her. “I used to do that all the time when I first got here. Sara gave me that blanket so that I could keep warm.” He nods to the blue woolen blanket. “Her mother made it.”

Scarlet doesn’t want to ask because she doesn’t want to know, because she doesn’t want to be having this conversation, because she doesn’t want to be talking with Kevin, and because she doesn’t want to be talking to a survivor. He doesn’t know who she is, and while he isn’t looking her like an object but instead like…like a fellow student, one who deserves to have someone look out for them when they make poor choices (she’s not making poor choices, for once), he still….

He wouldn’t be talking to her at all if he knew who she was.

“Who’s Sara?”

Kevin’s face falls. He glances down to his hands, and his fingers fiddle together. “She destroyed the Darkhold, and it killed her.” His eyes narrow. “She sacrificed herself to try and defeat that witch, and Wong – the Sorcerer Supreme – thinks it’s just fine that she might still be alive out there somewhere.” His teeth grit together.

Scarlet takes in a deep breath. She blows across the lip of the still steaming mug of lemon ginger tea Kevin had left for her. A tap of her finger for the spell, and she knows that it’s fine to drink. She takes a sip. “Trust me,” she murmurs, “revenge won’t make you feel better, and it won’t fix anything.” She glances back down to her book. “Thank you for the tea.”

Kevin looks at her as though he wants to say something more, but he decides against it. Within a matter of moments, he leaves. Probably to go train with one of the other groups. Wherever it is doesn’t matter.

Scarlet remembers Sara – not by image, because she has no idea what the woman had looked like, had only seen her crisping burned corpse once the Darkhold had consumed her with its dying flames – and she fiddles with the black cord around her neck.

Soon, she hopes. Very soon.

Chapter 59: Part Four: Chapter Twenty

Chapter Text

Scarlet loses track of time.

She doesn’t stay at Kamar-Taj past a week. It still hasn’t been a week. She’s at least that aware of time. But she stops keeping track of when it’s light out and when it’s dark, and if you asked her what day it is or where exactly she is within the week that she’s spending at Kamar-Taj, she wouldn’t be able to tell you. She doesn’t know. She isn’t paying attention anymore.

Kevin only stops by her table once more. He settles across from her with a book and two new mugs of lemon ginger tea, hands one across to her, and keeps the other to himself. Every now and again, he sips at it idly or turns a page in his book. Somehow, he must have thought that their previous conversation gives him leave to come back, though Scarlet had never suggested such a thing.

Scarlet isn’t afraid of him. In fact, after a few moments of silence that don’t feel too terribly tense, she glances up, runs a finger around the lip of her mug, and asks, “Why are you here, Kevin?”

“Hm?” Kevin’s brows furrow. He doesn’t answer at first, seemingly too interested in whatever book it is he’s studying, and after too much silence, he finally looks up. “Am I bothering you? I’ll move, if I am.”

“No, not here.” Scarlet gestures to the table. “But here. At Kamar-Taj. Why did you come here?”

Kevin shrugs. “I suppose I could ask you the same question.” But he doesn’t. Instead, he sets his mug carefully on the table and grips the edge of his seat. “My mom was a witch,” he says, voice quiet, “but I didn’t inherit any of her powers. She’d had a coven at one point, but someone – some other witch – had come in and started taking them in a direction she didn’t like. She must have left just in time, because when I tried to reach out to any of them, they were all dead.”

Agatha, Scarlet thinks immediately. She doesn’t say it, though. It wouldn’t be of any use to him, and she doesn’t want to think of herself as the one who set him on another path of revenge to a witch that is just fine as she is. As much as Agatha deserves punishment, Scarlet doesn’t want her to die.

Not yet, anyway.

But Kevin continues, unaware of any of this. “Mom never found another coven. Her magic grew weak. During the Battle of New York, she tried to help as best as she could, but….” His voice trails off. “She didn’t die then, but she died as a result of it. Took a few years. Right before Ultron. Which was probably for the best, you know? After everything, she didn’t deserve to see that.” He isn’t focused on Scarlet, but his eyes search the table in front of them. “I came here after, thinking maybe I could find a way to bring her back or to find a way to get in touch with whatever magic I might have had or…or something. I think Mom would have liked to think of me as a superhero, even though I’m not.” He shrugs. “I started studying and studying and….”

When Kevin doesn’t say anything else, Scarlet searches his face. There’s nothing bad there. Nothing menacing. She sighs. “I’m sorry about your mother.” That isn’t what he needs to hear, but it’s what she can say. She’d tell him it’s a good thing she got away before Agatha found her, but. But.

Kevin just nods once. He doesn’t glance up as he asks, “Why are you here, Jeannie? You’ve been…you’re reading a lot on witchcraft, and you haven’t been out training with us. Are you a witch?” His forefinger rubs against the table, tracing lines into it. He starts to ask something else, but he stops himself.

“Something like that,” Scarlet admits. She glances up slightly, not really focused, trying to choose her words carefully. “I was born with power, but I didn’t know that I had it. Once I did, I couldn’t control it, and I kept hurting people with it. Keep hurting people with it. I thought maybe, if I came to Kamar-Taj, I could learn better. Maybe I could fix things.”

Kevin’s brow furrows, and he looks up. “Fix things?”

Scarlet shrugs. “It’s an idle hope. Like how you wanted to bring your mother back to life. I’ve known that hope, too.” She doesn’t ask if Kevin ever found such a spell. If he had, she doesn’t think he would still be here. Not after the attack. Her hand cups her still warm mug, letting the warmth spread into her skin. “I’m not sure it’s even possible. But maybe….” Her voice trails off, and she lifts the mug for another sip.

For a moment, Kevin starts to reach out, as though to place one of his hands on her own in a comforting gesture. Then he thinks better of it and stops, pulling his hand back. “Even if you can’t fix things, I’m sure that learning the runes will help you. Just as long as you find a coven, too. They’ll be much better for you than Kamar-Taj.” He sighs and leans back in his chair. “A lot of witches are hiding now, though. There was a witch going around and killing a lot of them, and then after the Scarlet Witch’s attack here….” He shakes his head. “They’re not very well liked.”

“Thank you, Kevin,” Scarlet murmurs. Her head tilts to one side, and her fingers move about idly. She wants to pull out the oh-so-familiar scarlet wisps so that she can play with them about her fingers. It would be comforting. Her lips press together, and for a moment, she considers staying where she is. This isn’t so bad.

But she didn’t come to Kamar-Taj to make friends with survivors of her attack.

Scarlet slowly pushes back from the table, gathering a few of her books in her arms. “It was nice talking with you,” she says, not quite lying, “but I think I will do better studying in my own room. Rest in my own bed instead of on a table.”

Kevin doesn’t move, only looks up at her. “Have I bothered you too much?”

Yes, Scarlet thinks immediately, and then No, not really, and then I just don’t want to talk with anyone right now. No matter who they might or might not be. She yawns and covers her mouth with one hand. “I’m just tired.”

“You should get some rest.”

Scarlet smiles at him, and Kevin gets it. He snaps once. “Right. Going to your room. Smart idea. I’m just—” He gives a shake of his head. “I’ll leave you alone.”

See that you do, Scarlet thinks as she turns away from him. It isn’t him at this point. She just doesn’t want any distractions.

When she makes it to the room Wong assigned to her for what feels like the first time, Scarlet places the books on the floor and then sits cross-legged on the mattress beside them. She sets a barrier around her room, places runes near the top so that no one else can use magic in there, and then lets the illusion changing her form fall. She sighs as she settles into her own skin. Then she pulls the Time Stone out from under her shirt and holds it gentle in her hand.

The Time Stone glows a bright green. Scarlet turns it about this way and that, probing it with her own magic, but nothing happens. She holds it tight in her hand and tries to do something – anything – that might suggest she can use it for magical purposes. But there’s nothing, not even the faintest shift in its glimmer.

Scarlet sighs again, tucks it back under her shirt, and brings back the illusion that shifts her into someone else’s form. Just in case, she thinks to herself – not that someone will try to enter her room without her permission, but that, waking up to a pounding on her door, she might forget to bring the illusion back up.

When she closes her eyes, Scarlet hopes she will dream, again, of her boys.

Unfortunately, she does not.

Well.

Not in the way she wants.

Wendy and the twins are just finishing one of the Mario Kart cups when a star-shaped portal opens up in the room next to them. America walks through with a blank expression, and Kate follows her, a plastic shopping bag in one hand, and a scowl on her face. “You didn’t have to take us through dino world, you know. I was perfectly fine living in a universe where dinosaurs did not exist. Why couldn’t you just—”

“I already told you, the golden sorcery circle won’t bring me back into the house,” America snaps. She already on edge, teeth gritting together, and she flops down onto the couch next to Tommy as the portal shuts. “Having fun with Mario Kart?”

“I won.” Tommy should be grinning, but he isn’t. Instead, he’s scowling. “Again. They’re both horrible at this.”

Billy frowns at him. “I’m not horrible! I’m—”

“I’m just gonna take this.” Kate turns the Switch off, and despite the groans of frustration from both of the boys (but not Wendy), she pulls out a thin box from her plastic bag, opens it, and pops a new game into the console. “It’s supposed to catch us up on the events after Thanos, and it’s supposed to have the stuff with me and Clint, so maybe I’ll be in this one.” She moves back to the couch and sits next to Billy, snatching his controller. “C’mon. I gotta play this. Sorry.”

Billy crosses his arms. “You’re not really sorry.”

“You’re right,” Kate says with a shrug. “I’m not.”

“Billy! Tommy!” Ash’s voice calls from the kitchen. She’d woken up while they were playing with Wendy and left them to the game while she started dinner. “I could use your help in here, if you’re done with your game!”

Tommy groans, but Billy jumps up. “We’re done!” He moves in front of the others as he goes to grab his brother’s hand. “C’mon! Mom said she was going to teach us how to—”

“I don’t care what she’s going to teach us; I wanna see the new game—”

But Billy drags his brother out of the living room and into the kitchen before he can finish what he’s saying.

Kate hunches over her controller, staring at the screen, and Wendy finds herself intensely interested. The boys had mentioned the Avengers – and the Illuminati, who this game isn’t about – and as the name splashes across the screen in a stylized font, she finds herself wondering just who will be in the game. If Kate thinks she’ll be in it – and Clint is supposed to be in it – then maybe Scarlet will, too.

Different people flash across the screen, several of them ones Wendy doesn’t recognize, and then Clint flies by in a stylized costume. She has to squint when she looks at him; he doesn’t really look like himself at all. Half of his hair is shaved off. He looks mad. Why does he look so mad? In fact, now that she’s looking at it, they all look mad. Or constipated.

“Hey, that’s Stephen!” America exclaims as a man with a neatly trimmed beard, blue clothes, and a bright red cape flies across the screen, his hands held up within gold circles similar to the ones Wendy had seen Pixie make in Neverland. She can’t help but shudder, no matter how excited America is.

“Oh, yeah. I forgot you knew Strange. He’s kind of strange, isn’t he?” Kate looks over to America and grins.

America just sticks her tongue out, crosses her arms, and then leans back against the sofa with a scowl. “He’s cool. I just haven’t seen him in a while, that’s all.”

The title – The Avengers – splashes across the screen again. Kate clicks a button, and it takes her to a screen asking if she wants to start a new game. She rolls her eyes. “You would think they’d just start it without asking. It’s a new game. I don’t have a save file. Why don’t they just—”

“Sh.” America reaches across Wendy and bats Kate’s arm. “It’s starting.”

The screen goes black. Then it starts to shift. An image of a little town in the suburbs slowly appears on the screen, and a sign that looks like a postcard moves into view. It reads Welcome to Westview! and has a neat little drawing on the back of it. Wendy thinks it’s pretty cute. Then the screen shifts again, showing the road into town, and a woman in a black hoodie with reddish brown hair standing just outside of it. She holds her hands out to either side of her, and scarlet wisps begin to form in each of them. Then the screen freezes on that image, and the words THE WESTVIEW ANOMALY appear bright white against the background.

“Oh, sh*t,” Kate whispers.

Wendy stares at the screen. She blinks a couple of times. Then she leans over to Kate. “What’s the Westview Anomaly?”

The screen starts to shift, but Kate quickly presses a button, pausing everything. She turns to Wendy, but before she can say anything, America glares past her at Kate. “You didn’t check what was in the game before you bought it?”

“I just thought it was going to have me in it—”

Then America’s glare sweeps over to Wendy. “And you don’t know what any of this is, do you? She didn’t tell you. She didn’t tell you anything.” As she speaks, her words get tighter, and her hands clench into fists. She pushes off of the couch and walks back and forth, wanting to run, forcing herself to stay. “This is such bullsh*t.”

Wendy’s eyes widen. “I’m sorry, if I did something—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong!” America can’t stop the yell as it leaps from her lips. “It’s everyone else that’s wrong here!” She gestures to Kate. “She should’ve known better than to get a game that…that this,” she starts, “and it shouldn’t even matter because Wanda should have told you! She got so mad at me for not knowing anything after coming here, and she’s had you for a month, and she hasn’t said anything!”

Wendy blinks a couple of times. “Hasn’t said anything about what?” she says, her voice soft. “What am I supposed to know that I don’t know?”

Kate moves in front of Wendy, almost protectively. “If Scarlet hasn’t told her,” she says, “I’m sure she has a very good reason for—”

“Yeah, she just doesn’t want to look bad!” America grits her teeth together. She glares at Wendy over Kate’s shoulder. “You wouldn’t even live here with her if you knew half of what—”

Scarlet wakes up.

Her eyes widen. Her heart beats rapid in her chest. She stares around the room. The runes are still up. The books are still in place. She drops the illusion over herself, maintains the one that hides the Time Stone, and teleports away without a second thought.

Unlike the sling ring gateways they teach at Kamar-Taj, Scarlet’s magic allows her to teleport directly into her own house. There’s no room to teleport directly between the fighting children – although she hesitates to call Kate a child in the same way that she refers to America and Wendy as such – but she appears behind the couch, eyes flashing with the traces of her power as it fades away. “America,” she says, voice firm. “Stop.”

America turns and glares at her. “Of course, you show up.” She growls, her voice low and loud and angry. “You show up just to keep Wendy from finding out about your sh*t.” She starts to move towards her, one hand clenching into a fist. “That’s awfully convenient—”

“America, I said stop.”

Scarlet reaches for her magic, for just enough to hold America in place, not to take her mouth again, even though she wants to do that, because that wouldn’t be right. No matter what she wants Wendy to know or not know, it wouldn’t be fair to America to take her mouth again. Not when she’s angry with her. Not when she has every right to be angry with her.

But when Scarlet reaches for her magic, she finds something else, something deeper, something resting right at her chest.

Scarlet reaches for that instead, and when her eyes blaze with magic, this time they blaze a bright, blinding green.

Instead of something small to hold America in place, a wave of bright green moves out from her, spreads out and out and out, and everything – everything – stops.

Scarlet stands still. She blinks twice. America isn’t talking anymore. It doesn’t even look like she’s breathing. That…that can’t be right. She slowly moves away from America, examining her, and then glances to the others around her. They aren’t moving either. In fact, everything looks like a freeze frame, like pressing pause in the middle of a television show, right at just the best possible moment.

Or, in this case, the worst one.

Scarlet takes a deep breath in. “Ash?” she calls, moving away from the girls in the living room and into the kitchen. But Ash isn’t moving either, and neither are the boys. Everything is frozen.

In that instant, Scarlet reaches for the Time Stone and finds it warm in her grasp.

Oh, no. Her eyes scan the room. I didn’t mean to—

Scarlet teleports away, back to Kamar-Taj, brings the illusion for herself back up, and leaves her room. There’s no chatter in the hallway. But that’s okay. Maybe everyone is doing something else. She tries not to rush to the courtyard, where there are normally a lot of groups training, but she walks faster than normal. She expects someone to stop her, to say something to her, but no one does, and when she gets to the courtyard—

They’re frozen, too. Kevin, even, with his spear thrown into the air. It, too, is frozen in place, not falling.

Scarlet tries to steady herself with a breath.

Again. I’ve screwed things up again.

She holds the Time Stone in one hand.

Now, how do I fix this?

Chapter 60: Part Four: Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Text

There are rooms in Kamar-Taj where Scarlet has not gone, which of course only makes sense, given that she has spent so much time in the library and avoided most other areas entirely. There are books she has not read, which also only makes sense, given that she hasn’t yet been there a week and the library is especially expansive. (Some of the books are written in languages that Scarlet knows she does not know, and yet somehow, she can read them without concern. It’s…odd, but she’s grateful for it.)

All of this is to say that, with time frozen as it is, Scarlet takes advantage. She moves into a room where she is not allowed and she takes books which she has not read and she sits with them wherever she wants and she reads them whole.

The Sorcerer Supreme might have his own private library, but that means nothing once there is no one available to prevent Scarlet from reaching his stash.

Scarlet runs the fingers of one hand along the Time Stone dangly, unhidden, around her neck, and she reads. Every now and again, she closes her eyes and reaches out for that well of magic that she’d felt before, when she’d told America to stop, but it isn’t there. She can’t reach it. She’s tried to say something that might prompt the Time Stone to restart time – Start and Move and Unfreeze – but nothing’s worked. Not so far.

She can’t be sure how long time is stopped.

She reads and she reads and she reads and eventually she dozes again, just like she has before, because there’s only so much she can read running on the anxious energy of doing something wrong again and freezing the world with no known way to start it back up again, and she has been so tired for so long and Wendy helped with that because Wendy forced her to be active but now she’s here and she’s alone and she’s so tired and the exhaustion wears thin—

This time, Scarlet doesn’t dream.

Scarlet closes her eyes and she knows that she’s dozed off, she knows that time has passed – or, at least, it’s passed for her – but there’s no way of knowing how much time because it isn’t passing for anyone else. The lack of a dream scares her. She’s not sure how to put into words how much it scares her.

She doesn’t seem to be getting hungry, either, and that terrifies her, too. Every now and again, when she feels like enough time has passed (and there’s no way to know, so she times it by book – halfway through a thick book, after the completion of a smaller one), she forces herself to get up, makes her way to the kitchen with another book in one hand, and reads spells and magical theories and histories while making something to eat. She has to eat, even if she isn’t hungry.

The stack of books Scarlet’s read grows taller and taller next to her. She doesn’t even bother to put them up. She just reads.

As she does, her fingers flick from one place to another – either running along the stone around her neck, which continues to gleam with a bright green light, or moving in the air next to her, letting the scarlet wisps of her own power play between them. It is a comfort to know, even with everything as it is, that she can call on her own abilities and use them here. Not that she intends to direct them anywhere else. It is more like stroking the fur of a favored pet than anything; Scarlet sits, and she strokes her own chaos magic, and she finds herself calm.

And eventually, she finds it.

The Book of Cagliostro.

Albeit, missing a few pages, but it seems as though the rest of the book has the knowledge that she seeks.

There’s no way of knowing just how many books Scarlet read or how much time she spent reading. There’s no way to quantify what she learned while she did. Her head aches. But she can fix this – she can fix everything, not just this.

Scarlet takes a deep breath. She is the Scarlet Witch. She is forged, not born, and she has no need for runes or incantations. She is prophesied to either destroy the universe or to rule it. As she thinks these things, she lets her form shift – not to her truest self, but to that image she maintains as the Scarlet Witch, the one which she believes the magic will most respect. The tips of her fingers turn a deep black, as though stained with ink. Then she closes her eyes, having read the warnings, and reaches out to the Time Stone.

She flees to the past.

With her eyes closed, Scarlet sees two long timelines.

One reaches out from the center of her chest, and it pulses a deep scarlet against the black void surrounding her. It stretches forward towards what she does not know and does not want to know, with lines breaking off every which way and stretching out into infinity, and it stretches backward towards what she has already experienced, one singular line with others chopped off the way she’d pretended to prune the apple trees in her orchard while she waited for Strange to come.

The other stretches from the Time Stone itself, and where hers pulsed scarlet, this one holds steady, a bright green glow against the backdrop of the black void. For a while, the two lines, stretching backward, run parallel to each other. Then there is a sharp pivot where they break off. Running forward into the future, sometimes the lines run parallel, even where the breaks into infinity occur, and sometimes they do not. In some cases, the bright green light seems to stop abruptly, not simply breaking off into the unknown, and Scarlet finds that worrisome.

Scarlet is not interested in the future. She is interested in the past, and she wills herself to follow those parallel lines until they reach the sharp break. Her heart tells her to follow her own line, pulsing scarlet with the rhythm of her heartbeat, but she is curious. She glances along the line stretching out from the Time Stone and thinks—

I have Time now. I can come back at any point to this place, and I can fix my mistakes whenever I want. I want to go back.

But I want to see.

Something along the Time Stone’s line calls to her, and Scarlet, in spite of herself, follows.

The first time Scarlet leaves the Time Stone’s timeline and enters the past, she finds herself in an abandoned building overrun with plants. Her image, too, has shifted, although she hadn’t noticed it in that void with the timelines; she is no longer in any particular image she wishes to maintain – not that of the Scarlet Witch, not that of the magic-abandoned farmer with her orchard, not that of any of the selves she showed in Westview. Instead, she looks as herself – her truest self – a mother, frazzled with longing. Her costume has disappeared, replaced with jeans and a striped t-shirt beneath a trench coat length olive green hoodie – the way she looked before everything went wrong, before the Snap, just before she and Vision were attacked.

Before.

Her feet are bare, and her fingertips are no longer singed. She looks…normal, except for the bags under her eyes, except for how hollow her cheeks are, except for how exhausted she looks.

But Scarlet is not as interested in how she looks as she is in the place where she has found herself.

Sokovia looked exactly like this after the Snap, after she’d returned from Westview. She and Vision had never been able to finish excavating all of the rubble before the Snap, although she’d tried. Funny, how they’d searched for her after breaking the Accords, but no one other than Vision ever thought to check the country she’d once called home. She’d spent most of her time there, trying to fix one of her earliest mistakes, so that Sokovia might, eventually, be inhabitable again. If only she could clear everything out, give it a flat base to start from, people would move back. New people. Good people.

They hadn’t finished, and when she’d returned, it had looked like this. Five years later – eight years after the initial destruction – and the rubble was completely overgrown. Without humanity to curb it back, the earth won.

Eventually, Scarlet had flattened everything out anyway, covered it with the illusion of an orchard, and began her studies. But for a little while….

A young woman who looks almost like a young Strange, with her dark hair and her brilliant blue eyes, if not for the contortions of her face mimicking Agatha’s exactly, right down to the slope of her cheekbones and the furrow of her brows, stands with the Time Stone held aloft over one of her hands. It glows a bright green, and her eyes – which were blue to begin with – glimmer and sparkle with the stone’s magic. The green overtakes them, and she turns to Scarlet.

For a moment, it seems as though the woman sees her. Or perhaps she is looking through her instead, looking through a woman who shouldn’t be there in the first place, who slowly moves around the abandoned building and runs her fingers along its walls.

“Further,” the young woman who looks like Strange says.

Scarlet doesn’t understand. “What?”

The young woman points past Scarlet, along the bright green line that still shows against the backdrop of whatever universe she has found herself in, and she says it again, “Further. You must go further.”

Scarlet doesn’t know if the woman herself is saying it or if the Time Stone is saying it through her.

Either way, she does what she’s told, and she moves further into the past.

The last time Scarlet leaves the Time Stone’s timeline and enters the past, she finds herself in a room that looks to be somewhere inside Kamar-Taj. There’s a window off to one side, and she can see glimpses of the rest of Kamar-Taj through it, which confirms her suspicions more than the general aesthetic of the room itself. This is one of those rooms she’s never been in; it looks like a cross between the library, an office, and her own room here. There’s a cot on one side and a desk in the back and a wall covered with bookshelves full of books on the opposite side.

Scarlet is alone in the room, which seems odd, until there is a brilliant green flash and another person appears just behind the desk. The person wears soft golden robes with a black waistband similar to the ones Wong wears, and a scar winds in an intricate circle around the back of their bald head. They clasp their hands behind their back as they face the window. It takes a moment before they glance over their shoulder, see Scarlet standing there, and then smile. “Wanda.” Their voice is soft and encouraging. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“How?” Scarlet’s brow furrows. “How did you know I would come?”

They turn to face her, and the same black cord dangles around their neck that now dangles around Scarlet’s, with the Time Stone surrounded by a golden trapping. A small smile plays around their lips as they nod to her. “I see you have it now.”

“Who are you?”

“The Ancient One.” They do not move from behind their desk, and for a moment, Scarlet sees them – doesn’t imagine them, literally sees them – collapsed behind their desk, one hand on their bald head, staring at papers scattered before them. Then there’s a flicker, and the Ancient One stands behind their desk again, smile still playing about their lips. “I’m glad to finally meet you.”

“There’s a world where you save me,” Scarlet says, choosing her words carefully, “but it isn’t this one. Why have you been waiting for me?” She moves slowly around the desk.

As she does, the Ancient One turns to face her but otherwise does not move. “You’re the one who followed the Time Stone’s past; that means you might be more willing to have a conversation with me.”

“Might be more willing to listen to you.”

“That, too.” The Ancient One gestures to the chair next to them. “Would you like to sit? Or are you in a hurry?”

Scarlet considers this. She has the Time Stone. She can leave at any time. She doesn’t really need to worry about time right now. Her lips press together. The Ancient One took Ash in, but not in this timeline. In this timeline…somehow, somehow, Pixie ended up with the Time Stone – will end up with the Time Stone. Somehow, in both timelines, as in hers, something happens to the Ancient One. In Scarlet’s timeline, they died. She suspects that is what happened in the others as well, but she can’t be sure.

“I’m in no hurry. I have all the time in the world.” Scarlet moves to the cot instead and sits on it. Just as hers is at Kamar-Taj, this one is the bare minimum. It’s more comfortable than the wooden chair would be, but not by much. “What do you want to say?”

The Ancient One finally moves from behind their desk. They gesture to the cot. “Do you mind if I sit with you?”

Scarlet bristles. Ash might know the Ancient One – her Ancient One – but Scarlet has never met them before. She doesn’t feel quite comfortable with them, and even now, she can feel them gauging her hesitation and silently…not judging her for it, but filing it away. Not to use against her, necessarily. Just as something to remember. “It’s your bed,” she says. “I’m not going to keep you from sitting here.”

The Ancient One nods once, acknowledging how Scarlet doesn’t quite answer her question, and then sits gently on the other edge of the cot. “What do you know of the multiverse?”

Scarlet wants to tell them off immediately. She knows plenty about the multiverse. She knows that there are infinite universes, and that in all of them—

No. That isn’t true. She knows that isn’t true.

“I know that I believed I had my children in every other universe but mine,” Scarlet says, staring down at her hands, at the rings on her fingers, on the wedding and engagement rings thin on her left ring finger, as she thinks about the Wanda with Erik and Magda, as she remembers Wendy, frozen in place, “and I know that that isn’t true.”

The Ancient One nods. “It would be quite impossible to be true,” they say, and they lift one hand into the air, showcasing a golden line that pulls out of their chest and pulses with their heartbeat, just as Scarlet’s scarlet line had pulsed with hers. For a while, their golden line runs parallel to the bright green one Scarlet followed back to this point, and then it breaks off abruptly.

But where Scarlet believes she knows the Time Stone’s timeline, she can see from this point, it could be different. There are other lines that branch off of the Ancient One’s first golden line, and each of those lines branch off, again and again and again. In some of them, the green line runs parallel, and in others, it moves in another direction entirely. Scarlet’s eyes narrow. “The Time Stone’s line should come directly to me,” she says.

“On the path you’re on, yes,” the Ancient One says, “it does. But I still haven’t chosen my path yet, and while one version of me has a path which leads to yours, a near limitless number of other versions of me don’t.” They nod to the line. “Let me explain.” They gesture to their outfit. “You see this robe that I’m wearing?”

Scarlet nods once.

“If I choose to wear another one like it tomorrow, the path goes one way, but if I choose to wear it with a white sash instead of a black one, then another branch splits off.” They point to where one of the branches split – to where multiple branches split. “If, in that same moment, I choose to wear jeans and a t-shirt instead of my robes, that, too, creates another path. If I decide not to wear anything at all, that splits another path. Do you understand?”

Scarlet nods again, slow. “Do those really change the day’s outcome? Your life’s outcome?”

“The me who chose the white sash is not the same me who chose the black sash and is certainly not the same me who would choose to walk around in the nude.” The Ancient One smiles with amusem*nt. “We might be similar – the me who chooses the white sash and the me who chooses the black sash might be very, very close – but we are still fundamentally different people. Black looks better against the gold than the white does. It would take a change in my thinking for me to consider wearing the white instead. The me who chooses the white had that change in thinking, and the me who chooses the black does not. Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” Scarlet says, hesitant, “but thinking about all of this makes my head hurt.” She lifts one hand and presses it to her forehead, which had already hurt before she’d taken this trip, before she’d found herself in the void with the two lines.

The Ancient One smiles. “Let me simplify. When you came here to visit me, you were given two timelines, just like I was. One version of you – the one who is here with me – chose to go into the Time Stone’s past. But there is another version of you who chose to go into your own past, one who chose to go into your future, one who chose to go into the Time Stone’s future, and one who chose to give up – alone with many, many other options you could have made at that moment.” They clasp their hands in their lap, leaving them there, not reaching out as though to attempt to comfort Scarlet. “You are the culmination of all of the choices you made but also the culmination of all the choices everyone around you has made.”

Scarlet’s brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

“Say that I choose to wear the gold robes with the black sash.”

“Not this again,” Scarlet mumbles, but when the Ancient One raises an eyebrow, she gestures with one hand. “You’re fine. Keep going.”

“One of my students, Agatha, also has a variety of choices that I have no control over. So there is a timeline where nothing I’ve done has changed, but she has a purple outfit; another where I’m the same, but she has a blue outfit; another where hers is red; and so on and so forth.” The Ancient One shows those splits from her timeline, but these are of a different color entirely, showing the different options that Agatha might have made. “That’s why we say there are an infinite number of universes, because there’s a split not just for my choices but for every other choice everyone else might make.” They clasp their hands in their lap again. “There are other versions of you who may have made no different choices but who have ended up on an entirely different path simply because someone else made a choice that affected how her life turned out.”

Scarlet nods. “I’m the culmination of my choices and the choices of everyone else in my timeline.”

“Yes.”

Scarlet’s gaze moves from the timelines and back to the Ancient One themselves. “Why are you telling me all of this? What does the theory of the multiverse have to do with me?”

The Ancient One takes a deep breath. “I believe that you – the you who is here with me – is on a precipice. From what I know of your situation, from what I’ve seen with the Time Stone, you want to go into your past to change things. To fix them. Am I right?”

“Yes.” Scarlet doesn’t even hesitate. “I want to make things better. Maybe I can’t fix everything, but I can….” Her fingers clench and then relax as she stares down at them. “I can fix some things. I can keep people from dying. I don’t have to trap people in a city of my own making. I can keep my husband, my kids. I can do all of that.” She looks up. “Are you telling me that I can’t?”

“Not at all,” the Ancient One says. “Some version of you is able to do all of that. But an almost limitless number of versions of you won’t.” She meets Scarlet’s eyes. “That is what I’m trying to tell you. You can choose to go down that path and be stuck in time loops over and over and over until you find your perfect world. You might be the version of you who accomplishes it on the first try, or you might be the one who doesn’t accomplish it until the three millionth try, or you might be the one who never accomplishes it at all but keeps trying over and over and over, refusing to let herself fall.”

Scarlet’s eyes grow dark. “Some version of me succeeds.”

“But there’s no assurance that version of you is you.” The Ancient One stares off into the distance. She pulls up a scarlet timeline. “Some version of you has already started down all of those loops, because some version of you didn’t go into the Time Stone’s past but into her own. Some version of you is already stuck in those time loops. And some version of you has already succeeded.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?”

“Because another version of you decided that what she has – no matter how broken and dysfunctional it is – is better than being the version who gets stuck in infinite time loops.” The Ancient One turns back to Scarlet. “I’m here to hopefully convince you to be that version of you.” Their lips press together. “Some version of you will be. And some version of you won’t. One of you will listen and hear what I’m saying. It doesn’t have to be you. But it also will be you.”

Scarlet holds up a hand. “I’m confused. I’m so confused.” She takes a deep breath and stands up. “In simplest terms, you’re telling me I have a choice – and that no matter what I choose, I will also have chosen the other. Some version of me, after this conversation, will get everything she wants. But there’s no assurances that I will be that me.” The words don’t make sense as she says them. Scarlet isn’t even sure that she is following them.

But a small part of her is.

“You’re telling me that if I go into my past, I’m more likely to go through another hell of my own making than to succeed.”

“Yes.”

“But even if I choose not to do that, another version of me….” Scarlet’s voice fades away. No. It’s better not to think about all of those other versions of her. It’s better to think about her. The Ancient One said she was standing on the edge of a precipice, and that precipice is accepting things as they are and being the her who chooses that or trying to fix everything and being the her who chooses to pursue that.

That if she chooses to go back, that doesn’t mean she failed.

“It’s not about what you get,” the Ancient One says, voice gentle. “It’s about which version you want to be. Which version you choose to be. Regardless of all the other ones.”

Scarlet nods, slow. “Can I look into the future?” she asks. “Can I see what will happen to me if I choose to go back?”

“Of course, you can,” the Ancient One replies, “but you could get lost in trying to figure out which choices will lead you to the future you most want. Time is not a straight line. It’s a complicated loaf of bread where if you put just a little bit too much of any ingredient, everything can go wrong. But everything can go right. And someone will always want to eat it, no matter how burned it has gotten.”

Scarlet turns back and meets her eyes. “That’s not a great metaphor.”

“I didn’t say that it was.” The Ancient One shrugs and stands. They hold their hands out. “May I?”

Scarlet glances down at their hands. She takes a deep breath and lets it out. “You may.”

The Ancient One takes her hands in their own, softer ones. “I hope, no matter what you choose, that you are happy with your decision. There is no wrong choice here. No wrong you. So please, as you go, don’t worry.”

Scarlet stares at them. “You told me I could end up in another hellscape of my own making, but I shouldn’t worry.”

The Ancient One smiles. “Of course. One of you – maybe many of you – won’t end up there. To the you who doesn’t, don’t worry.” Their smile broadens, as though they are amused with a very cruel joke they are making. “If I were you, I wouldn’t linger here too long thinking about it. Gut instinct usually does better for these sorts of things.”

“You don’t have to tell me that. I’ve already decided.” Scarlet removes her hands from the Ancient One’s. She examines the person in front of her again, and her head tilts to one side. “You are a very interesting person, Ancient One. I’m not sure it was a great pleasure to meet you.”

The Ancient One gives a little forward nod of their head. “I never said it would be.”

“Some version of you did.”

They glance up, their eyes sparkling. “You know, you’re right. Some version of me did.”