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Pietro wakes like a bullet. Consciousness slams into him—or he slams into consciousness—and he shoots from the bed. He wakes, realizing he wasn't awake a heartbeat ago only after his feet hit the ground. His legs buckle, and within a second heartbeat, he collapses on floor.
His vision blurs, his mouth is dry, and all at once, his mind registers the pain: His muscles scream, every nerve in his body burns with electricity, and he's ripped several IVs from his arm. He decides against standing again just yet. Leaning against the bed, he takes a deep, steadying breath, and waits as his vision clears.
Pietro untangles himself from the IVs and tosses them on the bed behind him, glancing around the room. He's in a cabin, he thinks—one room, save for the bathroom on the opposite side of the bed. On the far side of the cabin, there's a little kitchen, as well as a table with two chairs. Between the kitchen and Pietro, someone has arranged three couches in a u-shape to create a living room.
Absent from the cabin: anything that might connect Pietro the outside world. No TV, no computer, no radio.
Pietro allows another minute to rest before forcing himself to his feet. His legs shake, but he takes slow, deliberate steps, and manages to stay upright.
He's closest to the bathroom, so inches his way there. When he reaches the sink, he dips his head and drinks straight from the faucet. He hasn't felt this thirty since—well, since Hydra first started their experiments. He tries to pace himself, but slow and steady has never been in Pietro's wheelhouse, even before he let mad scientists play with his DNA, and he gulps the water like a man who hasn't had water in a year, which—
—how long has he been here, wherever he is? He studies his reflection in the mirror for any sign of how much time has passed. His hair has been cut, so he can guess he's been out at least a few weeks, and he supposes it's a good sign that someone took the time to do that.
His muscles have atrophied, but he isn't malnourished; and he thinks he looks about the right age, how he looked when…
… when he died, Pietro remembers. How could he forget? It comes back to him, the spray of bullets, the pain, choking on his own blood. How—how?
Pietro unbuttons his shirt, his fingers clumsy and slow, and finds—
Nothing. Faint scars, he can barely feel them when he runs fingers across his skin. How? His heart races, questions piling up like mountains.
Turning, he leaves the bathroom and discovers a pair of windows near the door. Bolstered by his fear or the water, Pietro quickens his pace, and pulls the curtains aside. Outside, the world is white. Snow stretches as far as he can see, and it's falling in heavy drifts. It's evening; the sun has already disappeared behind the trees.
In the kitchen, he finds a pantry stocked with non-perishables—enough food to feed himself and Wanda for a year.
Wanda. Fear bores through Pietro's heart, terror like he felt all those years ago, buried beneath rubble and waiting to die.
He closes the pantry, hoping the refrigerator has something he doesn't have to cook to eat, and spots a set of kitchen knives near the sink. He smiles. One lesson he's learned: Someone keeping you alive doesn't guarantee they won't try to kill you.
He examines the knives, debating which will make the best weapon, but just as he reaches for one, he hears, "Probably shouldn't do that, Maximoff."
He turns, and the Black Widow raises her gun.
Pietro stares, and Natasha stares back. He glances at the door. He hadn't heard her open or close it, but even from the kitchen, he can see that it's locked. He's relieved—as far as he knows, the Avengers are still his allies—and also a little unnerved.
"Come on, Maximoff. Do me a favor and step away from the knives."
He does as ordered. Pietro has seen Natasha in battle, and even if he hadn't, Hydra provided a list of deaths connected to the Black Widow that terrified him a little, super speed or not. "Where are we?"
Natasha shakes her head. "Not yet. First, come around to this side of the counter and sit down."
Pietro complies, edging his way around the counter. Inside, his instincts are at war—fight-or-flight—and as he stands in front of Natasha, he feels a little like a radio station that's just barely there. Like he's flickering in-and-out.
He remembers this sensation.
As his powers emerged, restlessness ate at him. It grew and sharpened until he couldn't keep still. His mind raced, his body bounced around that little room like a ball. In time, his body adjusted, and he learned to control it.
Natasha senses it. He tenses, determined to keep his distance from her, but he's losing the battle. He knows it. "Maximoff—" Natasha warns, aiming her gun at his chest. But it's too late.
Despite his efforts, he rushes toward her. Natasha fires the gun—once, twice—and the impact thrusts him backward.
He collapses, his powers settled for now, and the world goes black.
This time, he comes to gradually. He opens his eyes, surprised for the second time that night to discover that he hasn't died.
Sitting hurts only a little less than Pietro expects it to, but when he glances down at his chest, he finds no evidence of a bullet wound. His clothes aren't even torn.
To his left, Natasha sits at the table. "Non-lethal," she explains. "A gift from a friend."
"You have strange friends," Pietro says, and Natasha smiles. Or at least he thinks she smiles. "Where are we?"
"Alaska."
"The Avengers have a cabin in Alaska?"
"SHIELD has a cabin in Alaska—although technically, this was built for the Hulk."
"SHIELD no longer exists."
"Says Hydra?"
"Good point," he says. Natasha offers him a hand, and he pulls himself to his feet, thankful his legs seem sturdier now. He takes the seat across from her. "What happened to me?"
She hesitates—assessing, considering. "You died."
"Somehow, I think the story must not end there."
"We brought you back to New York. We wanted our doctor to remove the bullets, prepare your body for burial. It took Thor and Vision to pry Wanda away from you."
Relief washes over Pietro. He's imagined life without Wanda, and he's certain he couldn't survive it. "She's alive."
"She's a pain."
Pietro smiles, remembering a pig-tailed Wanda—in the days before the bombs fell—making every effort to get under his skin. "Nothing has changed in the time that I've been… asleep, then."
In answer to his unspoken question, Natasha says, "Ten months." He's missed their birthday. She sees his flinch. "Sorry. According to Dr. Cho, as she removed the bullets, she kept thinking she should check your pulse. She doesn't know why. But she did. It was faint, but it was there."
Pietro swallows. There's something Natasha doesn't want to say, and it has him inching toward the edge of his seat. His right foot taps. His body wants to move. "Why did you bring me to the Hulk's cabin, Natasha?"
"I think you should sleep," she says. "This cabin has cameras that feed into another cabin a few miles away. When I saw you were awake, I sent word to Steve, but he won't extract us until the storm passes. You'll need your strength."
"No," Pietro pleads. "I can't—" He catches himself reaching for Natasha and pulls his hands back. "I need to know."
Natasha sighs, and it's like a curtain drops. Suddenly, he can see her exhaustion, and it makes him take notice of other things: She looks older than he remembers—more than just ten months older—and there's a scar on her collarbone that can't be more than a few months old.
She has no protocol for this, he realizes, and so she returns to her default protocol: withhold information. Keep holding all the cards. "Coming back won't be easy," she says. "We only have theories on how you survived, so there'll be tests, but that won't be the hard part. These days, the world changes a lot in ten months."
"You have died, too?"
"Undercover," Natasha says. "Life goes on without you, even for people who care about you."
"Wanda doesn't know I'm alive." He doesn't need to ask. He knows. If Wanda had any hope he was alive, nothing would keep her from him.
"You died. We know you died because she felt it. She tore a swarm of Ultron's soldiers apart. We don't know when your heart started beating again, but she didn't feel it. She couldn't sense you."
"You brought me here to protect her?"
"We brought you here to protect all of us. Dr. Cho drew some of your blood. She thought she might find some clue, and she did."
Here, Natasha hesitates again. "Tell me," he insists.
"Wanda told us you struggled more with your powers than she did."
Pietro nods. "Much like you saw tonight."
"For whatever reason, Wanda's physiology adapted better to Hydra's experiments. To stabilize you, Hydra synthesized a variation on the super soldier serum. Dr. Cho thinks that the serum was triggered when your heart stopped, but we still don't understand it."
Pietro knows what happened to Bruce Banner; Hydra wanted their weapons to know their enemies. And now, he understands why he woke up in a remote Alaskan cabin. "You were worried the serum changed me."
"We couldn't know. We couldn't even guess if you would wake up. Our people have been monitoring you from the other cabin ever since. But we took turns, too—Steve and me, that is—and our operatives had explicit instructions to contact us if your condition changed. That's why I'm here. A spike in your brainwaves."
"You aren't afraid the serum changed me?" Pietro asks. He glances at his hands, wondering if he should see some difference.
"We won't know until Dr. Cho runs her tests, but I doubt it has. If it had, the this thing—" she gestures to her gun— "wouldn't have slowed you down anymore than a bee sting would."
"Actually, Wanda and I are allergic to bees."
This time, Natasha definitely smiles. "Noted."
Natasha threatens to lead Pietro back to his bed at gunpoint, but she doesn't need to. Though he's done little more than talk, he's exhausted.
They share the bed—apparently, the Hulk needs a king bed, so they aren't lacking for space—and it's nice. Growing up, Pietro and Wanda often slept on twin mattresses on the floor of whatever foster home they were in. Even with Hydra, he was rarely without her. After months in a coma, he doesn't know if he wants to fall asleep alone.
Natasha fills him in on a little of what he's missed, even tells him about his namesake, but as she talks, he realizes none of her stories include the Hulk.
"Did something happen to Banner?" Pietro asks.
For a moment, it's quiet, and he wonders if she's fallen asleep. "He left."
When Pietro turns on his side to face her, he finds that she's curled on her side, facing him. "I thought…"
"So did I," she admits.
Outside, the storm must have broken. Moonlight pours through the window. Come morning, when the sun bears down on them, he might regret leaving the curtain drawn. But tonight, the way the moonlight frames Natasha, he can't imagine it.
Pietro understands how rare this is—Natasha unguarded… vulnerable. Before tonight, he's only known her in battle, and the way Barton talks, she doesn't like people to see much more than the assassin.
Natasha whispers, "I'm fine. He wasn't the first. He won't be the last." He wonders whether she means loving Banner or losing him—he hopes it's the former. "The worst part was waiting months to know he's safe."
"He'll come back," Pietro says. Of this, he's certain. Banner may fear the Hulk, but he knows he's saving lives, and he won't turn his back on that forever.
"Probably," Natasha agrees, and Pietro sees that she's right: she is fine.
When his eyes meet hers, she holds the stare. He doesn't know what he sees there—a challenge, perhaps; or maybe the same unexplainable longing he felt earlier that night, when he caught himself reaching for her hands.
This time, Pietro doesn't hesitate. He closes the gap between them, reaching for Natasha. She lets him. One hand settles on her waist, the other beneath her chin. Still, she holds his gaze, as if daring him to kiss her.
He doesn't know what will come of this—he doesn't even know what each of them wants to come of this—but he knows he wants this. Here. Now. And he knows that, however much Natasha might hate to need anything, she needs him to cross the line.
So he does.
If he kisses her like a man brought back from the dead—well, he is. And If she tastes like life itself—and if nothing compares to this, not even racing a train—then maybe he doesn't need to justify how right this feels.