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we protect what is ours.
[ It’s rounding on 6 AM when they get the official call: intruders on the grounds.
Their team had still been in the Repair and Rebuild stage when they were summoned from New York to Wakanda by the king’s—their quiet feline friend’s—discreet SOS two days prior. Wanda occasionally lingers over the realization that, despite how many times they assemble anew, they will always be repairing and rebuilding after the domino chain of disasters last year. Their very special brand of family feuding has left them licking wounds in solitary spaces that may never quite heal.
But they can come together to protect one of their own.
That’s what James Buchanan Barnes is, now.
It has thus been two days of minimal to no sleep, and although this is nothing new for Wanda (migraines, nightmares, memories), it sets her on a sharper than usual edge to consider she’s muscling through this with a new partner to keep in the periphery of her bloodshot eyes.
Because that’s what Barry Allen has become—to their team, tenuously, but particularly to her. The Flash is an asset, a fellow weapon, a force composed of lightning and timeline fabric and tangible whiplash, and he’s a friend to them, certainly. Steve wouldn’t have considered asking him to accompany them to Wakanda if the entire unit didn’t already think of him as a surrogate member of their justice-hungry little squadron. But Barry Allen—
—he’s hers. He’s hers, and he’s never been to the African continent despite the periodic stays she and the others have had there (under T’Challa’s protection after the Raft; hiding and recuperating; returning to run surveillance), and she doesn’t let him out of her sight for one millisecond, as fast as he moves. She’d had a rhythm with Pietro once they clawed their way into their abilities, instinctively formed and augmented atop the bond they were born with, and even in times when he’d found ways to flicker out of her immediate grasp, she had always developed complementary methods to cede him off at the pass, reign him in with a thought—or simply latch on and be carried off with the tide.
Wanda finds her own rhythm with Barry; theirs is a singular sort of cadence, both up close and on the battlefield. Her red flares of kinetic energy, rage and determination in turn, know instinctively how to tangle with the golden traces he leaves in his wake, stay linked, keep them webbed together. As fast as he is, she monitors him with a racing heart, keeps pace. He knows when to breathe for backup without giving anything away; she knows when to simply hold out her hand because, in the next blink, he is going to sweep her up so they can arrive together at the next destination of dire need.
The instinct is every bit as strong, natural, as it was with her brother. To Wanda’s dismay, however, it also comes with the echo of her fear and despair at the greatest loss she’s ever known after the death of her parents. The wound that chiseled out a hole in her so deep she nearly caved in after it—nearly followed Pietro into the abyss with a numb and welcoming smile.
This will not happen again, she tells herself—not to Barry. It will not happen again because she will not survive it (he’s laced flares of gold around her core, molded himself there in such a way that it has altered her own shape, and it has nothing to do with sibling affection yet everything to do with family), and not surviving is simply not an option. She has two feet, and she will stand and face down the unrighteous with her family, including Barry, until the whole world falls away.
She has two feet, and she uses them to stride noiselessly down the corridors toward the perimeter of T’Challa’s fortress, an arm’s length away from Barry. Her mental nets cast themselves sharply out around them, reaching for any unidentified presence, ready to strike and defend—the cobra coiled. Her fingers twitch at her sides, silent red signals hissing and fading. ]
We will start at the east tower. Work clockwise.
[ Wanda doesn’t pull her eyes from their path, but her thoughts direct themselves vehemently in his direction beside her, a warning: Do not venture too far on your own. We need a headcount, first. ]
Their team had still been in the Repair and Rebuild stage when they were summoned from New York to Wakanda by the king’s—their quiet feline friend’s—discreet SOS two days prior. Wanda occasionally lingers over the realization that, despite how many times they assemble anew, they will always be repairing and rebuilding after the domino chain of disasters last year. Their very special brand of family feuding has left them licking wounds in solitary spaces that may never quite heal.
But they can come together to protect one of their own.
That’s what James Buchanan Barnes is, now.
It has thus been two days of minimal to no sleep, and although this is nothing new for Wanda (migraines, nightmares, memories), it sets her on a sharper than usual edge to consider she’s muscling through this with a new partner to keep in the periphery of her bloodshot eyes.
Because that’s what Barry Allen has become—to their team, tenuously, but particularly to her. The Flash is an asset, a fellow weapon, a force composed of lightning and timeline fabric and tangible whiplash, and he’s a friend to them, certainly. Steve wouldn’t have considered asking him to accompany them to Wakanda if the entire unit didn’t already think of him as a surrogate member of their justice-hungry little squadron. But Barry Allen—
—he’s hers. He’s hers, and he’s never been to the African continent despite the periodic stays she and the others have had there (under T’Challa’s protection after the Raft; hiding and recuperating; returning to run surveillance), and she doesn’t let him out of her sight for one millisecond, as fast as he moves. She’d had a rhythm with Pietro once they clawed their way into their abilities, instinctively formed and augmented atop the bond they were born with, and even in times when he’d found ways to flicker out of her immediate grasp, she had always developed complementary methods to cede him off at the pass, reign him in with a thought—or simply latch on and be carried off with the tide.
Wanda finds her own rhythm with Barry; theirs is a singular sort of cadence, both up close and on the battlefield. Her red flares of kinetic energy, rage and determination in turn, know instinctively how to tangle with the golden traces he leaves in his wake, stay linked, keep them webbed together. As fast as he is, she monitors him with a racing heart, keeps pace. He knows when to breathe for backup without giving anything away; she knows when to simply hold out her hand because, in the next blink, he is going to sweep her up so they can arrive together at the next destination of dire need.
The instinct is every bit as strong, natural, as it was with her brother. To Wanda’s dismay, however, it also comes with the echo of her fear and despair at the greatest loss she’s ever known after the death of her parents. The wound that chiseled out a hole in her so deep she nearly caved in after it—nearly followed Pietro into the abyss with a numb and welcoming smile.
This will not happen again, she tells herself—not to Barry. It will not happen again because she will not survive it (he’s laced flares of gold around her core, molded himself there in such a way that it has altered her own shape, and it has nothing to do with sibling affection yet everything to do with family), and not surviving is simply not an option. She has two feet, and she will stand and face down the unrighteous with her family, including Barry, until the whole world falls away.
She has two feet, and she uses them to stride noiselessly down the corridors toward the perimeter of T’Challa’s fortress, an arm’s length away from Barry. Her mental nets cast themselves sharply out around them, reaching for any unidentified presence, ready to strike and defend—the cobra coiled. Her fingers twitch at her sides, silent red signals hissing and fading. ]
We will start at the east tower. Work clockwise.
[ Wanda doesn’t pull her eyes from their path, but her thoughts direct themselves vehemently in his direction beside her, a warning: Do not venture too far on your own. We need a headcount, first. ]
