A/N: Heee. Sooo, I wrote this frightening one-shot that is like, all angst and actually a little scary, now that I read it again. Actually, it's a LOT scary. But oh well. :D I hope no one hates me forever for this piece of insanity. This was originally posted on my LJ, and this version has some minor alterations from it. Just small word choice stuff. But I'd love to know what you all think. Please read and review!
Warnings: Wanda is psychotic. :P Set before Wanda gets her memories fixed.
PS: This story is not nice to Pietro. At ALL. D:
When Wanda Maximoff was angry or sad or particularly emotional, she could command the entire attention of a room. The line of her jaw was firm and angular, and she had a menacing glare that she could use to make anyone obey. She even had her own lackey, in a sense, as disgusting as that individual creature was.
Just like her father. Just like that monster.
Wanda clenched her fist tighter around the neck of the beer bottle, hating the thought. That monster. That evil, terrible man that had locked her away. She took an angry swig from her bottle, the alcohol intensifying her rage. But it was only her fourth bottle. She knew from past experience with Lance's beer that she could have ten before she passed out. Who cared how pissed he would be? Not Wanda.
She glared at the wall, hearing one of her empty beer bottles shatter accidentally at her fury. Thank God it was an empty one. Everything wrong and bad in her life was the direct result of her father. Even Toad was. If her father hadn't given her the same face shape that he had, then perhaps the filthy creature would not find her attractive. If only she had the same face shape as her mother had, with a pointed chin. Like Pietro. That lucky bastard.
Wanda clenched her teeth at the thought of him. Her brother. The boy she had shared a goddamn womb with, and he had not even tried to save her when she needed him the most. The traitorous little fuck. He didn't even care, did he? She had cried for him, for their father, for anyone to help her, to not abandon her, and what did he do? He just looked down at the wet floor, at his broken light up shoes and said nothing. Did nothing. Wanda knew for a fact that had it been her in his position, and the roles had been switched, then she would have pushed through her father and demanded that her sibling be saved. Father was intimidated by her. Even if he wasn't as much intimidated by Pietro, he still could have tried. Why wouldn't Pietro do the same for her? They had been friends, best friends even.
This was all Pietro's fault then. The fact that he didn't even try made this more his fault than their horrible father's. It made a lot of sense right now. It made more sense then it ever had before! In fact, everything was slowly making more and more sense, and Wanda knew that she ought to drink more often—it just cleared her mind and made everything make so much damn sense!
She laughed to herself, downing the last of her fourth drink in one gulp and starting on her fifth. What could she do to make her brother as miserable as she had been? They were a lot alike, if she stopped and really considered it. Except that he was a monster, just like their lousy father, and monsters don't have feelings or care or anything. He didn't care, just like Magneto. They were all monsters. Terrible, unfeeling, white-haired monsters.
She heard a sound at the doorway, and she whirled around, throwing out her arm to hex the being into the wall. It was 3 am. Anyone who came down here while she was drinking surely had a death wish. And was a moron for being up so late. Or early. Whatever.
"What do YOU want, Pietro?" Wanda asked viciously, storming over and fixing him with her dangerous glare, the intense, angry one she had inherited from their father. Pietro seemed relatively unfazed—he was probably immune to it. Asshole.
"I heard things breaking," he said matter-of-factly, moving his head back as she leaned slightly forward to inspect his face. "You shouldn't be drinking, Wanda."
"You can't tell me what to do," Wanda said, gesticulating wildly, and the kitchen table began to shake, almost as though it was having a strange seizure.
Pietro eyed the table nervously, apprehensive, just like he got every time she used her powers in the house. Ever since she had first arrived here and tried to impale him with that ski, he was nervous around her. "Okay, fine," he said, holding his hands up in a surrendering gesture. "What're you doing down here at this time of night, anyway?"
"Fuck you!" she spat, grabbing the front of his pajama shirt in two angry fists, shoving him hard into the wall. "I can be down here whenever I damn well please, and I can drink Lance's beer if I want. So shut up and get the hell out of here."
"Wanda," he said cautiously. "I know you're mad at me—"
"You don't know ANYTHING!!" Wanda bellowed, and the screen of the microwave cracked in half. Pietro stared at it for a moment before speaking again.
"Wanda, you have every right to be angry with me," he said, determined to get his point across. "But I wasn't the one who put y—"
"Shut UP!!" Wanda screamed, gripping the front of his shirt and simultaneously shoving him down to the dirty kitchen floor. There was a loud ripping sound, and Wanda looked at her hands, holding a strip of light colored fabric from his shirt.
"Wanda!" he cried in disbelief, looking down at his torn shirt. "What're—wha—ugh, fine!" He scrambled to his feet and put his hands on his hips. "Forget this; I don't know why I even try anym—HEY!"
Wanda had shoved him aggressively, spurred on by the alcohol and her rage. He didn't push back from a mixture of shock and the lack of a desire to harm her, so she shoved him again, this time hard enough to knock him backwards onto the aged kitchen table, and she began to slap and scratch at him.
"Wanda!!" he protested, struggling to maneuver away, but she somehow had him pinned to the old wooden surface. He raised his knee, trying to jab her away, and she raised a fist, punching him in the jaw that he had inherited from their mother, the cloth from his ripped shirt still clutched in her fist. "Cut it out!" he exclaimed, his voice slightly higher than normal. "What do you want from me? I'm sorry! I've said it a million times already: I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
"You aren't running away this time," she growled, snatching at his hand, tugging it roughly down and beginning to tie his wrist to the table leg with the cloth she had torn from him.
"Wanda!" Pietro seemed panicked now, making a pitiful attempt to pull his arm from her grip before she managed to successfully tie him. "Stop it—I said I was sorry!"
"Sorry doesn't make it better!" she growled, and then grinned at her handiwork. She grasped his ruined shirt and tore off another strip, easily overpowering his pathetic struggles and tying the other wrist to its respective table leg. She sat back, feeling delighted and only the slightest bit dizzy.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked, his eyes wide, watching her take a long swig from her beer bottle. "There's nothing I can do about it now—Wanda, come on… unite me…"
"No, no, no," Wanda hiccupped, shaking her head. "No, you're going to regret not helping me." She took another gulp from her fifth drink, and then smashed the bottle against his kneecap.
"OWW!" he shouted, reflexively drawing his legs up to his chest. "Wanda—for God's sake!! What did you expect me to do? We were only seven years old! Little kids can't say no to their parents!"
"I could," she said, her voice low. "I would have stood up for you, Pie."
"Did you ever think that maybe that's why he sent you away in the first place?" Pietro said carefully. "I know it's too late to—"
Wanda stared at him. "That's IT," she snapped, going to the counter, and grabbing several items, keeping her back to him so he could not tell what she was doing.
"Waaaaandaa…" he whined, yanking at his bonds, but she had tied him tight, and they were unrelenting. "Please, Wanda, untie me?"
She glared down at him, and then grabbed his ankle, pulling his leg out.
"Nononononoooo!!" he started to kick, but Wanda pressed her thumb into the pressure point, eliciting a yelp from him, and she managed to tie his ankle to the next table leg with a dishtowel, much to his dismay. He continued to struggle as she grabbed his other leg and proceeded to tie that one as well.
Smirking to herself, Wanda uncapped her sixth beer bottle and downed a fourth of it in one gulp. "Want some, Pietro?" she asked, and without waiting for a response, she pressed the mouth of the bottle to his lips, spilling the drink all over his face, barely getting any in his mouth. "God." She sneered at him. "You're supposed to drink. Where are your manners?" Rolling her eyes, she drank what was left, and then smashed this one on the table, dangerously close to his body, right at his chest level.
"You're drunk, Wanda," Pietro said nervously. "You need to lie down until the alcohol is out of your system—you're going to do something you'll regret."
"I will not regret anything," she snarled, leering at his splayed body, and then opening her seventh drink. She reached over to the countertop and lifted a kitchen knife, grinning at the sound of his gasp. "When I was little, in the asylum," she leaned up close to his face, brandishing the blade at his eye level. "I used to dream about all the painful, terrible things I could do to you once I finally had you trapped."
Pietro's eyes went wide and shiny. "Wanda…" he ventured, his voice several octaves higher. "C-come on… please, just go lie down and untie me."
"Do you think they'll miss you?" Wanda asked, sitting herself on the table beside him and drinking a bit more. "The boys here?"
"Wanda, please." His terror was practically tangible, especially as she examined the knife. It was a large blade, and it refused to shine in the dim light. She smirked. "Maybe I'll miss you, Pietro. Maybe."
"Wanda!" Pietro exclaimed desperately, struggling valiantly to break free. Obviously, the idea of his drunk and vengeful sister hovering over him with a knife was causing him some anxiety. "C-come on!! I'm—I'm your brother! You… you can't do that to me!"
"Did you think of that when you let father take me away?" she demanded, taking another long drink. "No, you didn't. You don't even care. You don't care about anyone but yourself. Bastard."
"I do care," he insisted. "Wanda, I do. You have to try and understand—"
"You have to understand," she told him. "I'm going to kill you. That way no one will ever have to worry about you betraying them or leaving them when they need you the most. You're not worth enough for anyone to really miss you. You're just worthless."
"I am not worthless," Pietro declared, the color rising up in his cheeks.
Wanda arched an eyebrow, and hiccupped. "I hit a sore spot, didn't I?" She smirked. "My poor, worthless brother. Going to die because he was such a worthless little boy."
"Here's a deal," Wanda offered, looking at her knife again, and then taking a drink to remedy her wooziness. "You want to be free, eh, Pietrooooo? I'll let you go. I'll let you go if you admit to me that you're worthless and no one will miss you." She hiccupped, spilling beer all down her front. Pietro watched her with his round eyes, not sure if she was being serious or not.
"Wanda…" Pietro murmured, his voice wavering. "Please… think about this… you need to sober up…"
Wanda smirked, raising the knife and bringing it down swiftly, snickering when he let out a frightened gasp. It had landed barely an inch from his cheek.
"Please, Wanda…" he breathed, and she impulsively lowered her face to his, pressing a wet, sloppy kiss against his mouth and simultaneously yanking the knife out of the wood of the table. He wrinkled his nose up, looking completely mortified. "What the—"
"That was for goodbye," she informed him, trying to shake the dizziness out of her brain, raising the knife up to his face, watching his wide eyes fix on the point of the blade fearfully. Chuckling to herself, Wanda lowered the blade to the very tip of his nose, pressing the point lightly against him.
"Wanda!!" Pietro cried, squeezing his eyes tight shut. "Stop… please, don't!"
Wanda laughed at him. This was what he deserved. He deserved some fear, some pain… everything she had felt. Then they could be like real twins again, after they had been through the same things. "You want to be free, don't you, Pietrooooo?" she smirked, loving his expression. "You know what to saaaay."
"Wandaaa…" he said helplessly, his voice too tiny to be entirely ordinary.
"Yes, Pietro," she said, lowering the blade so that it grazed his trembling lips, and then brushing it down along his jaw, putting an extra amount of pressure against the point of his chin.
"Wanda, stop!" he implored. "I already told you I was sorry! Why are you doing this to me?!"
"You know why," she said flatly, and the blade cut lightly into the flesh of his neck, receiving a wounded cry in reaction. Wanda rolled her eyes; it was only a little cut. "You're such a pansy," she told him, leaning right into his face. "You really are nothing." She smirked at his hurt expression, then took another drink of beer.
"Shut up!" she hissed, the blade haphazardly digging into his collar bone. She pressed the point against the middle of his chest, not deep, but enough to make him bleed and really frighten him. He whined quietly, like an injured animal, and Wanda arched an eyebrow, her eyes looking at the blood on his pale, pale skin, contrasting him so intensely. She watched his eyes squeeze together, and she watched big, wet tears come spilling out, rushing down his face, racing to his chin. He was crying. Just like she had for weeks, for months even, when she had been locked up. But… it was so different when he did it…
When Wanda had cried, she had cried loud, choking sobs, fearful sounds that were heard all the way from one end of the asylum to the other. The world practically trembled when Wanda Maximoff cried. But Pietro. He cried soft, meek little whimpers that made his skinny frame shiver from the effort, and he tried to look away, ashamed. The world was unaware when Pietro cried; only Wanda was aware. And he was embarrassed of himself; Wanda let the world see her pain, shameless—but Pietro was shamed. He was different, and Wanda put her hand against his cheek, her vision blurred by the number of drinks she had consumed and her own very unexpected tears. She had never seen him cry before.
This was supposed to be satisfying. She was supposed to feel a tremendous weight off of her shoulders and feel free, but right now, she just felt sick and sorrowful and slightly sobered. Why couldn't he wear his heart on his sleeve like she did? Why couldn't he beg and plead for mercy like she did? Why couldn't he stop their father from taking her away? Why?
They were different people. Maybe if it had been her in his shoes, she would have pushed her father and tried to rescue her twin, but Pietro was different, and it was all proven in how he cried. His quiet, whispery tears—he would never be the one to take a stand against someone big and powerful like their father. Wanda's loud, shameless sobbing—she would do such a thing.
There was no satisfaction. Just a gnawing pain in the pit of her stomach, a tremor of sorrow in her heart, and of course, the dizziness in her head. Her own lip quivering, Wanda dropped her knife on the dirty floor with a clatter and wiped at his tears with her own tremulous, unstable thumbs.
"I'm sorry, okay?" he said, his voice small. "I—I give in… I'm… I'm worthl—"
"No," Wanda interrupted, her thumbs still on his cheeks, resting just below his eyes. "Monsters… monsters don't cry. You're not a monster." She looked into his unsteady gaze. "You're just… you're just Pietro."
He was just Pietro. And she was just Wanda. And they were just… different. That was all there was to it. She frowned, feeling slightly woozy again, but she managed to reach up and untie his right hand. As soon as it was free, he reached up to his neck and touched his injuries, his mouth forming a silent O at the sight of the blood on his fingertips, however little it was.
Wanda blinked, frowning at the binding on his left wrist. Somehow, this was becoming really complicated. Pietro reached for his other hand, and Wanda tried to swat him away unsuccessfully. He managed to untie his own wrist, and he sat up, hurriedly undoing the strips that kept his ankles attached to the table.
"Pietro," she said, biting her lips, wiping her own eyes with the hand that had once been threatening his life, feeling sad and bitter and angry and dizzy. "I think—I don't—I don't know…"
"Go lie down, Wanda," he said, still sounding oh so small. He scooted off the table and tentatively touched his fingers to his neck again, eyeing the blood. Then Wanda felt a whoosh of air, and he was gone.
Wanda sat on a chair, and draping her arms across the wooden kitchen table, she let out a long, heavy sigh. Along with the exhalation of air left her wrath, her sorrow, and her consciousness.