Chapter Text
Peter could still taste the blood in his mouth every time he closed his eyes. He could hear the guns, feel the bullets he should have been able to avoid if he’d only seen them coming, if he’d just been a little faster—
So, I guess Pietro’s memories are here to stay for a while.
He checked his watch; 4:30 am. Too early to wake and too late to fall back asleep.
The small cell, made of eight-foot-long walls that reached to the ceiling, offered no room for running. The amount of pressure that had built up in his legs, jaw, and back over the days he’d been with SWORD since the Hex ended was honestly criminal.
What am I even doing here?
A stupid question, really—he clearly didn’t belong in whatever universe he’d been thrown into. That made him a threat, apparently.
Peter turned over in his bed, thoroughly uncomfortable. Nauseatingly so, in fact. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He’d have to wait for some pain meds for his tension in the morning. The nurse didn’t work that late, and he seriously doubted the SWORD guards would be helpful.
He’d had enough of these bad moments over the past week to know he’d be okay. But when the moments came they hit him hard. Peter always tried to keep quiet and not cry about it because he’d wake up Wanda in the nearby cell—and really, him breaking down on her is the last thing she needs.
I made things so much worse for her by being in Westview. I don’t know how she’d forgive me.
Peter took another deep breath. The hollow, anxious weight in his chest remained.
Maybe I don’t deserve to be forgiven. Maybe I hurt her too much, even if that witch was inside my head.
Peter rolled over and stared at the ceiling. By some small mercy, he was placed in a cell that coincidentally had a window nearby. There weren’t any stars out. No light to be seen.
I can’t believe I’m a screw-up in both timelines.
Honestly, being awake and alone with his thoughts going a million miles per hour into the darker parts of his psyche wasn’t exactly the definition of a good time. But since Westview (no, since Agatha) being awake was better than getting sleep. Although he wasn’t aware of the physical pain in his sleep, his mind was at its worst then— it was an unfair trade-off where he couldn’t win.
Peter would close his eyes most nights and see Agatha across from him in their Westview home. Her telepathy wasn’t caring like Charles’s, or cautious like Jean’s. Agatha’s telepathy was like a bucket of dry ice directly to the brain. She wasn’t polite about her mind control. She clawed at memories that weren’t hers to keep and she tore them apart for her own manipulation.
Your immense power combined with an already fragile psyche….. My dear, you’re perfect for this job. She’d say. I can’t wait to pick your brain apart.
Peter wished he could forget. He felt a sob build up in his chest and he knew he couldn’t think about Agatha’s control. I’m free from all of that. Free to do what I want to do.
….Except clearly that’s all one big lie, isn’t it? Peter stared at the walls of his cell. They aren’t any more interesting than the ceiling was.
The clock on the wall neared six am. Shades of pale blue and gold started to appear outside the window, and Peter felt a familiar ache in his bones. He wanted to run. Man, he just wanted to run, but his cell is no bigger now than it was when he first woke. He’d have to hope someone would let him stretch later in the morning.
Peter finally fell asleep at seven in the morning in spite of the tension in his body, but not before hearing Wanda in the next cell over let out several quiet but jagged sobs, whispering to herself, “my babies”.