Takes place immediately after the events of Avengers West Coast #62. Long story short - Wanda is in a very bad place: she and Vision have split up, she's lost her children, and she's just been abducted and manipulated by Immortus (wow, thanks for all that, Marvel). Mostly angst, and sibling love. (And Pietro's egocentrism.)

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Pietro taps his foot on the floor, his impatience growing by the second. His lips are drawn into a tight line, his body tense and alert; he tries to block out the sounds around him – Stark's strained humor, Cap's attempts at debriefing, some new girl's worried murmurs. Janet Van Dyne hovers on the periphery of his vision – openly concerned, her frown making her look much older than she is – but she doesn't say a word. He's glad. He has no time for any of them.

His only focus is Wanda; Wanda who's standing in Agatha's embrace, her face buried in the crook of the older woman's neck. They talk in hushed tones, taking comfort in each other's presence and it's taking days, weeks, months, years – but Pietro waits, because he knows his sister needs this.

It feels like a lifetime passes before they finally break apart.

His jaw aches from how hard he's been clenching his teeth.

Agatha looks at him from above Wanda's shoulder and a silent understanding passes between them; she needs you, the old witch tells him, as if he needs to be reminded, as if he isn't the only one on this godforsaken planet who knows how to help her. He stays silent. He leashes his anger like he would a volatile beast and stays silent because this is not about him.

She needs him to be calm.

When Wanda steps away from Agatha, she immediately turns in his direction; because this is what is left when all is said and done – she and him, the Maximoffs, like magnets drawn together, unsplittable. Nothing touches them as long as they have each other (this is how it was and this is how it always will be if Pietro has anything to say on the matter).

She smiles that smile for her friends, it's okay, I'm fine, the superficial smile, the lie that costs her a lot, only to make the others feel better. No one is fooled, but his formidable presence shuts them up. Cap looks around, his brows still furrowed in worry, then orders the East Coast to leave.

Wanda leans into Pietro's side and the world slows down to nanoseconds. He's aware of every twitch of her muscle, every shaky breath she takes. Feels the strength – the impossible strength that has allowed her to endure all those disasters – seep out of her body, until she's drained, until the only thing holding her up is Pietro. He gathers her in his arms (she's so light, she's not supposed to be this light – his brain screams), and speeds out of the room, the worried voices of Janet and Simon turning into nothing more than the swish of moving air and the staccato of two hearts.

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The shower is hot, blessedly so, and in the bright light of the bathroom he watches as the water washes the blood and grime down the drain. Wanda's back is pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped around her waist, holding her up. Slowly, with one hand he rubs shampoo into her hair, massages her scalp until he feels her body relax against his own. He rinses. Combs his fingers through her wet hair. He hears her sigh; then she tips her head back and rests it against his shoulder. His hands methodically skim lavender-scented soap across their bodies, work out the knots in the muscles. He tickles her, once or twice, to make sure she doesn't fall asleep. Double checks that all of the blood is gone.

After turning the shower off Pietro wraps her in a large towel and carries to her bedroom, aware that he's dripping water all over the polished floor and not caring one bit. With utmost gentleness he lies her on the bed, on top of the scarlet sheets. She looks so small there, knees drawn up to her chest, swallowed by the towel covering her body. Something gnaws at Pietro's throat, it bites – it's anger, and helplessness – because it's wrong, so fucking wrong; even when they were running for their lives, hungry and hunted – before the Avengers, before Magneto – she never looked this thin, this weak, this broken –

– and he – he should have been there, with her, if he'd protected her like he was supposed to none of this would have happened, it's all his fucking fault –

He takes a deep breath, grits his teeth. Needs to calm down. Wanda is already asleep, her wet hair spilling across the red pillows. The towel is probably soaked, makes her cold – he takes it away, and covers her with a blanket, and then another for good measure.

He counts his breaths in his mind. Dries himself off. Finds a pair of sweatpants in one of the drawers and puts them on – they're probably Vision's, but he doesn't have the luxury to be choosy so he bites the disgust back. He finds a nightgown for Wanda, but he doesn't have the heart to wake her up. Forces himself to count a hundred breaths. Then he climbs under the blankets, too.

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He wakes up to warmth; warm arms around his chest and warm legs tangled between his. Lavender-scented hair tickles his chin and for a second he drifts in the familiarity of this feeling – home, this is what home feels like – but remembrance is merciless; and memories come back, blunt and too soon. He opens his eyes.

Wanda shifts drowsily in his arms. It's still dark outside, but Pietro can't tell how long they've been out – it could have been minutes, or days, although he doubts they'd be left alone for so long. His muscles still feel sore though, and some of the deeper cuts haven't completely healed, but it's fine as long as he's not bleeding all over the sheets.

"Pietro." With her face pressed to his chest, her words come out muffled, "I had the most terrible dream."

Her breath is so warm against his skin.

He moves one of his hands to her hair, combs his fingers through the dark locks in what he hopes is a soothing manner. Wanda cranes her neck so she can look into his eyes. Suddenly, he wants to run away. "Please tell me it was just a dream."

"I'm sorry, love."

His sister shakes her head and her green eyes glaze over. He wishes desperately that he knew the right words to say; wishes he were a different man – a man who fixed instead of destroyed, a man who knew how to take away the pain.

(He knows he's none of those things. Never will be. There's no kindness in his blood.)

He drops his hand from her hair and moves it to her cheek. Wanda's breath is shaky, reminds him – bizarrely – of a bird; she belongs high above, in the sky, away from this cruel earth that seems to have brought her nothing but pain. There is a whole galaxy of new beginnings stretching in front of them; he could take her to the Moon, or farther – far enough to forget this wretched place ever existed. They could run away and build themselves new lives, find hope and happiness and maybe –

He catches the first tear with his thumb. Swipes it away. He doesn't try to catch the others.

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It's minutes, hours, days, weeks of holding her in his arms while she cries; of murmuring meaningless words of comfort into her hair, of pressing his lips to the crown of her head and rubbing soothing circles on her back. When she finally quiets it's because she's fallen asleep again, and Pietro feels as bone-tired as if he'd run across a sea without preparation; there's restlessness in him, too – a cruel combination – and he can't nod out, no matter how hard he tries. He runs down to the kitchens, grabs as much food as he can carry, tries to fix them some dinner. He ends up sprawled on the armchair next to the bed, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in hand while he waits for Wanda to wake up.

When she does her eyes are red-rimmed, but dry – which is good, at last, and her hair sticks out in every direction like a misshapen halo.

She eats, and drinks, and showers, and dresses.

She tries to smile at him.

(She's lying.)

Pietro curls his fingers around her wrist and tugs her to him, until she falls into his lap; soft lavender hair and yellow satin of her dress, her dry green eyes gazing at him expectantly. Waiting for his move. He can feel her mint-tinged breath on his lips.

"Wanda," he says, and shudders inwardly at how undone just this one word makes him – it's always Wanda, Wanda, Wanda in his subconsciousness, and the ever-urgent question if she's safe, his sister, more precious than anything – "talk to me."

She reaches up, curves her hand around his cheek. His stubble digs into the softness of her palm. "I don't want to talk."

"You're hurting." She doesn't bother lying about it; only leans forward, until their foreheads are touching. "I want to make it better."

"You already have," she whispers.

(It's not enough.)

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She may be thinner, her hipbones may dig uncomfortably into his skin (which strangely reminds him of Crystal), but some things are unchangeable – some things are forever, like the way they fit together, like pieces of a puzzle. He's made so many unforgivable mistakes – but they don't seem to matter anymore, here, in this place, where he finally feels like he belongs again; where he feels loved; where he feels whole.

"Thank you," Wanda says softly, "for being here." She runs her fingers through the silvery hair on his chest, and he feels like an overgrown cat under her touch.

He hasn't always been there for her, he knows, and it pierces him through every time he thinks about it, how he has failed as a husband, as a father, but most of all as a brother, who has sworn to always protect his sister from harm. Mistakes. So many, piling up, painting his conscience black. But Wanda is still here, the only one who's never given up on him. The only one who's always forgiven him.

He could try all his life and still not deserve her.

"My sister," he says, catching her hand in his and raising it to his mouth. He presses his lips to her palm and maybe, just maybe, he sees the spark in her green eyes, again. "I love you."

They breathe, together.