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This is me, now.
Empty.
Honestly, I don't think any of them quite understand.
None of them, least of all Stark, understand what Pietro was - is - to me. Even dead he is still my brother, present tense, because I live and I am his sister still.
Bonds like that don't fade, even with death.
(Mutti and Vati are still our parents, though they are dead. Pietro, dead, is still my brother.)
Breathe, Wanda, breathe. You've breathed choking dust and the smoke of burning buildings and gunshots since you were a child, you can breathe clean air.
I'm spinning out, I know I am. Scarlet spreading out invisibly, taking me from the person I don't want to be right now.
Wanda Maximoff. The twin without a twin.
I can't let myself do this. I can go catatonic for days if I do this, and there is no Pietro to pull me out now. He'd understand why, if he was watching now, but he wouldn't agree. I can imagine his voice, teasing, talking me through the tricks we'd worked out to keep me from losing myself.
("You can't lose yourself," he'd said once. "You guide us both and I protect us. We can never be less than our best.")
Question: Are we less than our best if one of us is dead?
I can imagine Pietro's answer; a laugh followed by a "Maybe."
Brother, brother, brother. Remind me how to live.
From the corners of my mind his memory rises.
Breathe, his memory whispers. Tell me the minds around us. What they think.
It's easy to find the minds. There are agents, but they are ants now. No. The immediate minds around me. Breathe, Wanda, breathe. There is no Pietro here to ground me now. He would want me to live on, so I must. He protected us. I can't throw that away. Breathe. Breathe. Count the minds.
- Snow and blood and winter winds. Natasha, the Widow.
- Orange databanks and green neurons over burgundy. Vision.
- A shattered temple, tired but fighting. Steve Rogers, the Captain.
- A purple orb, a hawk's eye watching from a perch. Barton, the archer.
- Lightning, stormclouds, stone foundations. Thor.
- Stark. No need to delve.
- Stark's friend. Ditto.
A distance away there's an eighth mind, Banner's, but it's getting farther. There's a ninth too, armoured and watchful, wary yet hopeful. I can take it's name from the minds around it - Fury.
That, I think, is enough minds for counting, Pietro.
- Snow and blood and winter winds. She wants her jacket back. I consider shrugging it off, passing it to her but I can't bring myself to. It's the last thing Pietro gave me.
- Orange databanks and green neurons over burgundy. Vision is thinking, counting the number of people in the lifeboats and in medical. He's also counting the dead. I duck out of his mind before I see Pietro. I don't think I can right now.
- A shattered temple, tired but fighting. He's still buzzing, like Pietro would after a fight. He's considering though, which Pietro didn't always do. I don't see him glancing at me and yet, inside his mind, I do. He thinks he understands, that his Bucky means he knows what I feel having lost Pietro. He doesn't. His Bucky is alive, and that gives him hope. My Pietro is dead, and I have none.
- A purple orb, a hawk's eye watching from a perch. He's calm, oddly. Not peaceful but he's calm. He's watching, watching everyone for emotion like a hawk watching for movement. He's not hunting us, though. It feels more like keeping an eye out. I think he's waiting for someone to break. Wanda or Tony? his mind weighs. Grief or guilt?
- Lightning, stormclouds, stone foundations. Thor is disillusioned with his Midgard, and with the people in it. He blames Stark - should blame me, I gave him the idea - blames human curiosity, wants to go home, wants to stay on Earth and see his Jane. Needs to learn about the stones, before all the worlds come tumbling down.
- Stark. Don't want to delve. His mind was armoured, when I saw it the first time, but now it's wide open, gold and red, not like his armour but like an infected wound. He blames himself - should blame m- ... no, maybe we are both to blame. His weapons, our vengeance. If we three hadn't been so driven maybe Ultron might never have been born.
- Stark's friend. Colonel James Rhodes. He's calm but not, midway between the Captain's battle-high and Barton's watching. He's focussed on Stark, like he expects his friend to break. Barton thinks Stark will break too. Wonder who breaks first?
Eight is out of reach now, and I know nine is not a mind I care to explore right now. It's watchful and wary and almost mercenary, and I can't handle seeing a mind weigh my value right now. Not without Pietro.
Without Pietro.
That is forever now. No more Pietro. No more hugs. No more of his hair in my hairbrush. No more of him pinching food from my plate only to give it back. No more laughter, no more trust, no more home.
No more Pietro, no more safety, no more brother.
No more twins, no Wanda-and-Pietro.
I don't want to do this.
I don't know if I can.
("We can never be less than our best," whispers Pietro's memory.)
Our best.
My best, now.
I can try my best.