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“…oh, no, you can’t be serious. That’s a death wish! It’s insane!” Shuri said.
The words keep going through Wanda’s head on a loop.
Death wish. Insane.
Death wish. Insane.
Well, for her, sanity has left the building the moment she gained the power to manipulate reality, then fell in love with an AI. Shuri? Teenager genius moonlighting as a princess of the most secluded country on the planet, barely just coming back from being turned to dust by a space grape. Steve? He stepped into a metal coffin and came out a superhuman, able to lift a tank and survive 70 years of accidental cryogenic freeze.
They’re superheroes. They get killed, they walk it off.
She steps closer to Steve and gently takes his hand. “It’s Bucky,” she whispers, and Steve looks at her, his eyes bright.
“I can’t fail him. I can’t. Not again Wanda, never again.”
In the whirlwind of preparations - it’s shocking, really, that they’re able to pull it all off in less time than it’d take her to drink a cup of her favorite sencha - she doesn’t really stop to think about what the procedure itself is going to be like. Now, she’s standing next to a forcefield, an old man - her Captain, her friend - strapped inside, and she realizes she’s not ready for this.
None of them are.
She notices, almost detachedly, that there’s red tendrils curling around her wrists, and she forces herself to push them back down, inside. There’s nothing she can do here. This is Shuri’s domain.
Shuri’s hands are shaking where she’s inputting the final lines of code into her console. She went into full-on scientist mode, focusing on what needs to be done, not on the fact that she might be about to kill Earth’s first superhero. Her Brother’s soulmate.
Steve… He’s trying to keep it together so hard. His breathing is steady, his heartbeat went back to normal after that initial spike that got Shuri looking at him in alarm, but Wanda doesn’t miss the look of terror on his face when the straps go around his arms and legs. Is this like back then, 80 years ago? The person in charge of that procedure was a foreigner too, doctor… Arskin?
He’s told her about it, one of those nights after Ultron, when she was shaking so hard after having woken up from a nightmare about-
… He’s told her about Project Rebirth. That it was his choice. That it was the only way to do his part. That he was ready to die, knowing that at least his contribution would mean the procedure might be perfected for the next candidate. That if he lived, he’d get to go after Bucky.
(She wondered, then, who exactly this Bucky person was to him. She didn’t ask, but the stories he told her, the obvious fondness, the longing… Looking back at it now, it’s so obvious, how he felt. How he feels.
She didn’t know then, that Bucky would become one of the most important people in her life. That he’d give her her twin brother back. That he’d be the rock she built her new life on. He was just Steve’s childhood friend back then.
It feels like a lifetime ago.)
There was a metal coffin and dozens of VIPs observing, that first time. Now, there’s only two terrified girls and a barely visible glimmer of a forcefield. Did he act brave and stoic then, too? Was he afraid?
She steps closer, putting her hand on the forcefield where he can see it. The terror in his eyes recedes a little when he focuses on it, and she smiles for him. It’s shaky, but it’s the best she can offer him, and he’s visibly grateful for something to focus on that isn’t the serum running through him.
Can he feel it already?
“Wands, step back, please,” Shuri says finally. “I don’t know what the accelerated process will be like, I don’t want you getting any second-hand radiation.” She turns to Steve. “You can still change your mind, you know? Say the word and I’ll get you out of there, no questions asked.”
Steve laughs hysterically. “No. No, I can’t. Bucky’s out there, dying. You know I can’t leave him like that. Go ahead, press play.”
Shuri sighs. “Okay. We’ll be right here, where you can see us. The whole thing should take 15 minutes, I know it’s longer than Erskine’s procedure, I’m hoping that’ll make the process more bearable. I… I don’t know what’s going to happen, Steve. I’m sorry, I don’t. But I’m praying Bast helps you through it.”
Steve nods, and she presses the final few keys.
Wanda knows right away that this is going to be the longest 15 minutes of her life - and she spent two days in a bombed building, next to her parents’ torn bodies, waiting to die. Turns out, waiting to die yourself? Way easier than watching your mentor, your friend, in absolute agony.
He’s trying to keep it down, but the sudden way he goes rigid gives him away. The way his hands curl into fists, nails digging in so hard there’s blood staining the straps holding them down. He’s defiantly not making a sound - still acting tough, still trying to protect them - but he’s gritting his teeth so hard she’s worried he’ll break them. Then tears start streaming down his face, and she can’t help herself.
She lets the tendrils unfurl and go to him, into his mind, hoping to soothe, to heal, to ease him through it. Shuri shoots her a sharp look, then nods when the red wisps of air don’t seem to interfere in any way with her readings.
Wanda takes a deep breath, then dives in.
It’s like a hurricane - she’s torn in a hundred directions at once.
Pain.
Fear.
Pain.
Longing.
Pain.
Self-doubt.
Pain!
Regret.
PAIN!
She’s distantly aware that he’s started screaming, that she’s whimpering along with him, that Shuri’s holding her where she’s collapsed on the floor, frantic, trying to get her to break the connection-
- then she pushes through and there it is, the eye of the storm, the quiet, innermost sanctum.
The absolute, agonizing chaos outside makes this place seem perfectly tranquil. It’s Wakanda? Except it’s not. It’s Brooklyn? No, that’s not it, either. It’s some sort of army tent? She stops trying to make sense of her surroundings and focuses on the one constant.
Bucky.
Bucky, reading a comic book and smiling softly.
Bucky, laughing with Natasha.
Bucky, bickering with Sam about maize porridge.
Bucky, dancing, sweaty and exhilarated.
Bucky, cooking and humming along to the music on the radio.
Bucky, red-eyed, holding a bony hand and begging, “Don’t leave me, punk, don’t you fucking dare leave me like that, you promised me, please!”
Bucky, grinning, saying, “You can have your dibs, okay?”
Bucky, drawling Stevie in so many ways. Exasperated. Amused. Angry. Fond.
Bucky, yelling, “NO, not without YOU!”
She senses then, she’s not alone. She feels, more than sees, Steve coming closer and touching each of those memories softly, reverently, shuffling through them, then pulling them around himself like an embrace.
She feels the storm recede. It’s still there, still going strong, but the quiet center seems to grow, become less like a small clearing and more like a sturdy hut, protecting its occupants from the tempest outside.
She realizes, with a start, that Steve’s going to be alright. That she’s intruding on an intensely private moment, pushing in where no assistance was in fact needed.
She draws back slowly, steeling herself against the onslaught. It’s worse - so much worse than before. She can feel Steve’s agony, she can feel his body breaking apart and re-knitting itself. She knows that a regular person shouldn’t be able to survive it.
She also knows he’ll pull through this. For Bucky.
