Work Text:
His name was John and he was beautiful.
He’d been looking for Wanda after being separated during the protests when he happened upon the stranger standing under the awning of the corner shop that both he and his sister frequented. He was smoking a cigarette, leaning heavily against the side of the building with a busted nose and a shirt that demanded peace; Pietro had paid him no mind as he ducked out of the rain, just one of many protesters out tonight. He wasn’t Wanda so he didn’t care.
He had kind eyes, the color green you only ever found in the neighbor’s yard; it was the first thing Pietro had noticed when he offered him a cigarette. His hair was wet, lanky like the rest of him, and the color of dry sand. He had a voice like the promise of thunder storms on summer days and a smile that brought out his own. They had talked about the weather, the protests, and the injustice inflicted on their people until the cigarettes were no more, until Wanda showed up frizzy haired, angry, and wet.
Then they met up again the next day and the day after that.
He whispered tales in Pietro’s ear of a better future, a calmer future, and how all their protest, shouting, and sacrifice would not be in vain. He radiated the hope and the optimism that had dimmed and then faded in himself when the need for revenge took over. He had calmed the storm that crashed between his ears, that warred and tore at his mind until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t be still, couldn’t stop reliving it.
He held his hand when they ran from tear gas and riot gear, and laughed until they couldn’t breathe from behind dumpsters in dirty alleyways when the police ran past them. He shared quiet kisses on foreheads, cheeks, lips, in beds that were hard, cold, and far too small for two people. He shushed giggling confessions and whispered not to wake Wanda in the next room.
His name was John and he had given him happiness when there was very little to be had.
Wanda had told him to be cautious, to remember that people were not always what they seemed to be, to not forget that there was a war on and that made people desperate, that war made people cruel. He had told her with a shrug of his shoulders that he was always cautious, that he had always been.
His name was John and he was a good man.
His name was John and Pietro thought he might love him.
His name was John and he snuck off into the night with all of their money.
His name was John and he left him alone to face down four officers with batons and anger on their faces.
His name was John and Wanda was right.
They were seventeen, hungry, cold, and homeless when Strucker had found them huddled for warmth in the back of an alleyway. They were seventeen and in need of a bath, food, and a decent pair of shoes when Strucker had found them and they had said yes.
Vulnerable, Wanda whispered to him later though the wall between their cells. It had been almost two years to the date but he didn’t think she knew that. She had said they were vulnerable, that they were young and desperate.
Vulnerability, she told him, made you weak and easy to trick with promises of helping their people, of ending a war, of getting their revenge. When you had felt powerless for so long, she would say, you would believe any promise to never feel that way again; to never feel as helpless as they did trapped in the wreckage of their ruined lives, as they did waiting for help and death at the same time, as they did watching their friends be beaten, taken, killed by police, by bombs, by illness, by life.
Vulnerability made you believe thinly veiled lies, made you stupid. Vulnerability meant you didn’t ask the right questions, that you were grateful just to be out of the cold; it made the torture seem worth it.
They hadn’t known it was Hydra but they should have known something.
There had been horror stories circling among the protesters and the homeless for months, rumors about men with accents and bad intentions, about scary military men stealing people off the streets and how they were never heard of again. They had thought it was Stark, was so steadfast sure that it was Tony Stark, with the United States military force in the palms of his hands and all of those deadly, life ruining, weapons he plastered his name on, for he was the only true monster they had known.
They fed into the bullshit about revenge, about being stronger, and warm, and healthy, safe. It had been the beginning of winter and they had nowhere to go, no warm coats, or money for food.
They had been desperate, they had said yes.
It wasn’t until the first Hail Hydra, when he was already locked behind glass and steel, separated from Wanda, that he truly realized just how big of a mistake they had made. He thought that she realized it as well.
They were twenty-one when they met Dr. Mason, some American physicist with a stupidly thick southern accent and thick wavy blonde hair the color of the sun. He had said he went to Harvard, whatever that was, like that meant they should give him the utmost respect (almost like they had the option to do otherwise). He wasn’t cruel or mean like the other scientists; the ones who poked and prodded, struck and stabbed, and cut open just to see what would happen, how loudly they would scream. He wasn’t cruel for the sake of being cruel, like so many of Hydra was.
He designed running shoes that fit perfectly and comfortably, that didn’t melt or fall apart when he ran, that lasted more than two weeks, and were blue because that was his favorite color. He designed a special triploymer cotton blend that didn’t thin out or wear into holes when he broke the sound barrier, that didn’t catch on fire mid-run.
His name was Graham, please; Dr. Mason made him sound old.
He gave him water with the chalky energy bars they forced down his throat. He told him jokes, wore geeky t-shirts under his lab coat, and made fun of Dr. List behind his back.
Pietro would never tell him, or anyone for that matter, but he liked him.
He liked the way his touches lingered; like that they were light and soft against his skin. He liked that he treated his injuries with care and that he sent the guards away when they practiced. He liked him even more when he let him sit in during Wanda’s session and how he didn’t hurt her when something went weary.
He explain to both of them, using a soft voice like they were skittish animals, that Wanda’s powers were as much a mystery to them as they were to her so it was not her fault if she blew every lightbulb in a fifty foot radius or shattered all the windows on the third floor instead of levitating a cup or stopping a baseball mid-air. And yeah, it was okay that Pietro laughed because it kind of was funny.
Wanda knew that he liked him because Wanda knew everything, but he still pretended like it wasn’t true when she raised an eyebrow at him over the man’s head as he tried to make him laugh again with lame jokes that John use to tell.
She told him to be cautious, to remember that he was still Hydra, remember what they had done to their people, to them, and that just because he didn’t hit him did not mean he should mistake it for kindness. He had replied that he knew, that he remembered, that he couldn’t forget, and that cautious was his middle name.
She told him she worried about him, to remember John and his broken heart. He had told her that Graham wasn’t John, that he was a good man, and that this wasn’t anything like that, obviously.
He would tell him as they observed Wanda in action how the energy that made her eyes flash red and created force fields from her hands was pulled from the universe, and how they weren’t quite sure how. He told him how like the universe, her powers tended towards chaos and disorder.
He explained his own powers to him, talking wildly with his hands and with an enthusiasm that didn’t quite match this place. He told him how the energy in him built up and that was why he crashed uncontrollably into the walls of his cells. Because his powers were strong and amazing, because he was strong and amazing, and couldn’t be contained in the body of such a young man; he’d tell him that one day he’ll be able to control it, maybe. That one day they would find the limits to his power.
Graham told him about potential energy from the other side of the glass. It was nighttime, he had sent the guards away, while sipping red wine from a plastic cup and eating what looked like take-out but Pietro didn’t know where he could have gotten it.
He tried to listen as he shook and paced the small space, as he snapped his fingers and jiggled his legs, trying to get rid of the energy, to stop from crashing so fast into the wall that he couldn’t brace himself for it, so he could sleep. Wanda was sleeping off a heavy sedative – strong enough to knock out Captain America – after her headache caused everything in the room to start shaking. He kind of wished she was awake, to sooth the storm in his head.
He told him how he and his sister had so much potential, how he had so much potential.
He told him how potential energy turned into kinetic energy. How a ball held over the side of a cliff had the maximum amount of potential (he and Wanda), how when it fell the energy turned into kinetic (the practice, monitoring, experiments), and when it hit the ground there was no more potential.
Pietro wondered what it would mean for them when they ran out of potential, when they hit the ground.
He told him that the pressure inside him, the inability to be still, Pietro, what was the potential of his powers. He told him how his body was in a constant state of movement, always moving to expel the energy before he couldn’t control it. How even in his sleep he was twitching, tossing, and turning.
He told him that he it was running out of potential energy when he passed out mid-run, and that it was kinetic energy that caused him to skid thirty feet across the concrete track.
He told him if he wanted to, he could let him out, let him pace the length of the lab, and that he could have the rest of his Chinese take-out if he wanted it. And Pietro, because he was impulsive, hungry, starved for attention, for kindness, shook his head yes despite knowing that it Strucker came down the stairs like he sometimes did they’d both be done for.
They talked, Petro finished off the noodles from the bottom of the carton, he ran back and forth until he was lethargic, tired, and content, and they talked.
He told him about his parents, and the building collapsed, about John, being homeless, his hair turning white, and Stark. He talked more than he should have, saying more words than he had said in years.
Graham had listened, had nodded at all the right moments, had passed him smiles when needed, and didn’t get annoyed when Pietro forgot some English words. He was the perfect listener, pushed for lighter stories, for the time they let him and Wanda into the town and they had been so excited that they spent all of their money on candy, how they danced in the rain, and fell asleep in the grass at the park.
He spoke lowly of his fears for his sister, how he didn’t know how much more she could take or what they did when he was not allowed to follow. He talked about how her powers scared her and how her being afraid made him afraid. He admitted that he feared more that she’d end up like the rest of them, like all those people who were dragged through those doors and left in body bags. He didn’t know what he would do without Wanda.
Graham had listened and he had comforted.
Graham had said he’d do whatever he could to make sure that she was okay, that she got better, stronger, and the revenge they both craved so much.
Pietro’s gratitude, his thanks, died on his lips when the heavy gate at the top of the stairs slid open, and he froze in his spot.
He didn’t have time to react before he was on the floor and the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth, before a stupidly thick American accent was shouting over the roaring in his ears.
Graham had his gun.
Graham was standing above him with his gun pointed at him.
Graham hit him again, then again. Graham had kicked him hard.
Graham had accused him of trying to escape, of faking injury to get the door open then trying to make a break for it.
Pietro forgot, forgot Wanda’s warming, forgot that not hurting someone didn’t mean they wouldn’t, didn’t mean they cared. It didn’t make them kind.
Pietro forgot until Strucker was standing above him, with three other officers, and Graham, Dr. Mason, standing a step behind them, with his blood on his knuckles and a grin on his face.
He was told escaping would not be tolerated.
That he was lucky, for his sister’s sake that Dr. Mason had been able to stop him.
He told them that he hadn’t tried to escape, that he wouldn’t escape, not without Wanda, and if he was they wouldn’t have been able to catch him.
They didn’t listen, didn’t care to listen.
Wanda didn’t say anything about the bruises on his face or the tell-tale signs of cracked and broken ribs; she didn’t have to.
Dr. Mason had been promoted to another base.
There was talk later of Captain America taking it out months later.
Pietro hoped he died.
His name was Graham and Wanda had been right once again.
He had first seen him when he knocked him on his ass in the snow.
He was twenty-three, cocky, and excited to be outside the facility for the first time in years.
Barton was old, had a cool jacket, and hair the color of dust in sunlight.
And really, it was the best way to make an entrance, was it not?
Life was funny sometimes.
One day you worked for Hydra.
The next it was a giant robot.
Then it was Captain America.
He had to push down the anger, smother it beneath decency and heroics, because he was standing across from the man that took his parents, that ruined his life. He was standing across from the man that had made him vulnerable, easy to manipulate, made Hydra’s torture seem worth it, and he was expected to be civil, be nice, show kindness.
He let the fires of his rage that had kept him warm for so many years, be drown out by the iciness of his self-hate. By not seeing, once again, that Ultron was just Hydra with a different name, that he, like them, was not an advocate for peace, that they weren’t helping anyone, that they played a part in ending the world. By falling for it all over again, but instead of out of desperation, vulnerability, it was revenge, and that somehow made everything feel so much worse.
Self-loathing washed out the rage, only to leave him cold, empty, and numb.
Life was funny in a hopeless sort of way.
One day, Tony Stark kills your parents. One day, you say you will get your revenge, will get them justice.
The next day you’re standing in front of him, the next day you are saving your homeland with the man that took everything from you.
There was a fight before they got on the jet; he listened in numbly as the man who threated his sister removed a shard of glass from his arm.
The man with the bow and arrow, Barton, was arguing with the Captain that they were just kids and you don’t take children into war with you.
It was the wrong argument, Pietro thought. They had not been kid for a long time.
Barton mentioned his own children, two with another one of the way. He asked Captain Rogers if he’d put them on the front line too like it was the same thing.
It wasn’t, they weren’t children, and they had started this mess. They had agreed to come, and even if the Avengers said no, they were still going.
Barton acknowledged, only after Rogers had pointed it out, that yes, he and Wanda did have the choice to make, that they had choices for the first time in forever. He had pleaded in a way that did not sound like pleading, for the Captain to talk to them, at least let them know they did not have to do this, for they were still children in his eyes.
They had told Steve no, a definite resounding no, to his weak suggestion that they not go protect their home. He left in understanding. Barton left in understanding and an unquestionable determination that he was going to protect them, like they would need it, like they were worth it.
Wanda had said as they sat side by side, shoulder to shoulder, hand and hand, as the jet soared through the air, heading into a war that they had help start, to be cautious, to stay safe, and to remember that they only had each other left.
He had told her that he would stay safe, that he would not leave her alone in this world, that he loved her too much to do that. He told her he would be cautious, but they both knew he had never known how.
He wondered if she knew because Wanda knew everything even before she could read minds, just how all of this would end.
Barton’s name was Clint; they were supposed to call him Hawkeye in the field.
He called him old man because he kept calling him kid, and because, yeah, it was kind of funny.
Barton had children, and a little one on the way.
Barton talked about renovating his dining room and making a swing set for his children.
Barton had protected Wanda, had helped Wanda when he was not there.
Barton fought among metal men and raging beast with only a bow and arrow and bones that were so easy to break.
Barton was brave, stronger than the rest of them, a good father, and a good man.
Life was funny in a kind of awful way.
It was chaotic and disastrous, but the universe, like energy, like entropy, tended towards chaos and when had his life been anything but disastrous?
There was the ting of copper in the air that had not been there before, the taste of blood in his mouth, and Barton had a look across his face like he had just felt his heart snap in two, like John had left him to the police, like Graham had used him for a promotion.
“You didn’t see that coming?” he shuttered, his voice going in and out inside of his head and he wondered, as he stood in the chaos of the universe, feeling the energy that built up in him leave, feeling the potential spill like blood from his body, how much of that was said out loud.
Pietro had found himself bleeding for blond men before, for good men before.
This, he thought as he dredge up enough of the seeping energy to smirk at the old man, like he had a lifetime ago when he knocked him off his feet. This time, it’s not so bad.
At least this time it was of his own free will.
Barton would live; three less children would have to go without a father.
One more mother would be able to wrap her arms around her child and see them off to another day.
It was okay, he was okay.
He could accept this.
His muscles had stopped twitching, his hands had stopped shaking, his feet stopped tapping for the first time in all of his memory; he couldn’t make his eyes look away from the shock on Barton’s face. He couldn’t feel the jackhammer of his heart; he couldn’t feel anything but the world moving around him.
He was still, an unmoving force in a world that was turning far too fast on its axis.
Had it always been this fast?
He was out of potential; this was what zero felt like.
This was the ball hitting the ground.
‘Hmm, so this is what stopping feels like.’
He couldn’t say he cared much for it.