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Pietro’s world is crumbling and falling apart around him, and the only thing he can think about is how blue the sky is today, and how this has been a long time coming. There’s no salvation, not for him, not in this godforsaken world—
The ground underneath him is trembling, and when he closes his eyes, he can pretend he’s still in Novi Grad, can pretend it’s still two years ago, can pretend Wanda is still alive.
But she isn’t, and he’s alone. Has been since that day, since the battle of Ultron, since his heart was ripped out of his chest and his sister’s voice that had been in his head all his life suddenly disappeared.
It’s almost funny, in a way. Ironic, even—of course the world would be unable to turn without Wanda. Of course it would all crumble beneath Pietro, slowly but surely, starting from the moment her heart stopped beating. It’s fitting, and Pietro can’t imagine a better way to go.
(For once in his life, Pietro doesn’t try to run away. He lies still on the ground, his eyes shut, awaiting his fate—for once in his life, Pietro stands still. He hasn’t done so since the fall of Novi Grad.)
.
There’s a presence in his head.
It appears so suddenly, he becomes aware of it so suddenly that his stomach turns, that he jolts awake. When he moves his hand, there’s grass beneath his fingers. His mouth is dry.
Where the fuck is he? Pietro looks around, but nothing makes sense—everything looks fine. There’s nothing crumbling, nothing falling apart, just a field as far as his eyes can see. His mind erupts in something, something scalding, something scarlet, something that floods him so suddenly and so completely that his skull feels like it’s splitting.
He knows it’s her even before he sees her. He doesn’t believe it, of course—how could he?—but he knows it’s her, knows it as intimately as he remembers the feeling of her hair between his fingers.
Wanda stands in front of him, and she’s in his head, and she looks older, her hair red instead of brown even though her roots shine through—she looks older. She looks like she had the opportunity to grow older. She looks as old as he does, just as it should be.
Pietro laughs, but is immediately shut up by a red blast that catapults him a few feet through the air, landing with a painful thump.
“Wanda!” he yelps. “Wanda, it’s me—”
She hits him again, this time with her bare fist, and her face is painted with a fury he has never seen directed at him before. It’s now that he’s sure it’s her. No one else could ever be this vibrant, this beautiful—his jaw hurts, nonetheless.
“Wanda—”
“Who are you?!” she growls, her eyes glowing red, the scarlet he hasn’t seen in so long—the scarlet that has haunted him every second he’s been asleep. “Who are you, why are you using him again—”
“Wanda—”
Once again, she blasts him away, but this time, Pietro gets to his feet quickly—quicker than she can see. She blinks, takes a step back. Pietro’s brain feels as if it’s on fire.
“It’s me.”
The way she straightens her shoulders, the way she warily glares at him—it all feels so familiar, yet so foreign, too. What is going on? Is he dreaming?
“Prove it.”
Finally, he notices what’s foreign about her (except for the fact that she’s older, and that the Wanda he remembers wouldn’t be caught dead in a pair of leggings this bright pink)—her accent is almost completely gone. This isn’t right.
“You can look in my head,” he answers immediately. He needs to calm her down—everything else can come after that. “I will not resist. I never have, have I, Wandika?”
Wanda’s jaw tenses at the nickname, and she steps closer, lifting her arms to look into his head—he knows this feeling, knows the low vibration through his skull like the back of his hand, but it’s so much stronger now.
Still, before she does that, he needs to know one thing, needs to clear up one suspicion he has, so Pietro clears his throat.
“Is this heaven?”
Wanda’s brows furrow, her eyes widening in bewilderment for a second, and she stops dead in her tracks.
“What?”
Now it’s Pietro’s turn to be confused. His mouth still tastes like the ash of a crumbling world.
“Because you’re dead.”
.
Wanda paces across the room. Pietro would laugh at it if the situation didn’t leave him so stunned—he’s the one who paces, usually. Wanda claws her hands into her hair that looks so much more silky than he’s ever seen it and pulls. Wanda looks at him, small looks of anger and disbelief and exhaustion and desperation crossing her face. Pietro can’t breathe.
“What did you see?”
She doesn’t answer, just continues pacing—her restlessness is contagious, and he starts bouncing his leg without consciously noticing he’s doing it. They’ve always been in sync.
“Wanda, what did you see?”
Couldn’t have been something he doesn’t know, it’s his head, his memories, after all. His feelings, his thoughts, his desires. Still, she isn’t talking to him. Why isn’t she talking to him? She’s here, they’re together after two years, and Pietro is sure this is either a dream or a miracle, but still—
“I’m not dead,” she says suddenly, and Pietro’s eyebrows furrow.
“I saw—”
“I know what you saw!” she snaps, and she looks tired and raw and so lonely like he’s never seen her before. “But that wasn’t me—”
The confusion in his stomach unfurls, fills every cell of his body, his leg now vibrating at a speed that is barely visible. His sister’s back is turned to him, yet he can see the way her shoulders slump—she’s feeling Pietro’s emotions. She’s reacting to them. She always has.
Wanda turns around to him, and by now, only the exhaustion is visible on her face. She slumps down onto the couch next to him, and finally, there’s no distance between them anymore—her head falls to his shoulder. This is how things should be.
“Sorry. A lot happened, and I—” Wanda sighs, and he reaches out to play with her hair in the way he always has. “Well, it doesn’t matter. You’re—the Wanda you saw die, that wasn’t me.”
Pietro frowns, but before he can speak, she continues.
“I know. I look the same. You look like him, too.”
Him? His mouth goes dry. It can’t be—
“In this universe, you died,” Wanda says firmly, and Pietro feels like he’s falling. “You were killed by Ultron seven years ago in Novi Grad.”
“Seven yea—” Pietro swallows. “You do not look five years older than me.”
Wanda laughs dryly at his words, and that’s because they have done this thousands of times before—little jokes during serious conversations. Trying his hardest to make her smile when all she wants to do is tear the world apart. Everything clicks into space, everything is right, so how—
“That’s because I am not. I was dust for five years. Difficult to explain.”
Pietro decides he doesn’t need to hear about it yet. Instead, he shifts, pulls her into his arms, and she leans into his touch. Her hair smells like strawberries.
“So this is… like, a different universe?”
Wanda breathes in deeply, her fingers clawing at his shirt with such intensity it hurts, but he doesn’t mention it. This desperate loneliness he has already noticed flares up between them—what has happened to her in those years he was gone? How could he have let this happen?
“Yes. Your universe naturally came to an end. I just don’t know why you’re here now.”
Pietro does know. There’s never been much need for words between them, but it’s been two years—two years apart, and now reunited under the weirdest of circumstances. Despite it all, the woman in front of him is Wanda, his sister, the other half of his soul. If she wasn’t, if they were not destined to be together, the bond that had been broken when she died in Novi Grad, the band that has woven them together all their life, wouldn’t have reappeared the moment he came here. Pietro reaches inside of him, grips the bond with his hand, and it’s tangible, it’s real. Wanda presses herself closer to him.
I am here because you needed me here, Wanda, he thinks.
“Our memories up until Ultron. Are they the same?”
Wanda reluctantly moves her head from his chest, looks up to him instead with those green eyes he could never forget about. Her eyes are rimmed with red. Pietro will never leave her side, ever again.
“Yes. They’re identical. The universes only differ from the point of the battle in Novi Grad.”
Pietro’s thumb brushes over her cheek, and his gaze drops to her lips. She parts them gently, seems to understand, because she always does -
“Even concerning—”
Wanda doesn’t wait for him to finish his question. Instead, she presses their lips together, and for the first time in two years, Pietro feels complete. All other things are secondary—everything else can wait just a moment longer. She will explain, they will figure it out, he will ask what happened to her while he was gone, what state the world is in. But for now, it’s just them. For now, Pietro simply holds her, because that is what she needs, because that is what he needs, as well.
They collapse into each other, just as they have countless times before, and the universe has finally corrected itself.