AN: Keep in mind that, in this PTO-inspired rendition, Bucky does not have a facial deformity or wear a mask. Wanda is primarily MCU, but is somewhat inspired by the comics.

Before the Folies Bergère was a cabaret music hall, it had been an opera house. Of course, at the time of its inception, it had been known as the Folies Trévise. It had only lasted three years as such, before the original owner went bankrupt, and the new owners took over and began immediately to cater to a more mainstream taste.

James Buchanan Barnes had liked the original owner, as naive as the old man was to believe that opera was still a vital and growing staple of French culture. In truth, the world was changing, and, while the new owners included the occasional operetta or comic opera for appeasement, the Folies Bergère was now the home of popular music acts, pantomime, acrobatic troupes, and bastardized vaudeville sketches.

James scoffed as he watched from his perch above the chandelier. The domed ceiling had included a hidden door panel to provide easy access to the artist who painted it. Since then, nobody had reason to come up there. James had bored holes into the panel for easy spying, but the ceiling was so high, and the glare of the chandelier so bright, that he could often open the panel and sit without anyone being the wiser. This was his chosen pastime today, as the owners and managers, Bisset and Durand, reviewed acts for the following week's lineup. The Folies Bergère kept acts on a rotating basis, with a few spaces to add in new and traveling acts, depending on what fresh absurdity was being murmured about on the streets of Paris.

James, of course, was here to review the acts himself. Whatever illusion of control the managers below grasped for, it was well known in this theater that they were nothing more than marionettes on strings. James was the reason operettas still graced the stage of the Folies Bergère. He had decided when the opera house was sold that the new managers were in need of a firm, guiding hand, and thus the Opera Ghost was born.

The Opera Ghost didn't ask for much, really. A few francs of rent and some say in what appears on his stage wasn't too much. The Folies Bergère was his home, after all, and he'd been here longer than either of those fools. What occupied his stage at present was enough to make the blood boil. Scantily clad women flounced about for no particular purpose, kicking their legs in time, while a man in a tailcoat and tophat engaged in physical comedy at center stage. It could be worse, he supposed. He'd heard talk of a professional fartiste performing at a theater just down the way.

Today, though, James had not left his self-made prison underneath the music hall to be a patron of the opera.

He spotted her standing just before the stage, watching the spectacle with an unreadable expression. The other magicians came with an entire entourage and an ego to match, but not her. She had no stage crew, no assistants, and her act had musical accompaniment only because the Folies Bergère provided it. Perhaps this was why she wasn't a favorite of the managers, despite the reactions she always garnered from the crowds that came to see her. It was no matter what the managers wanted, though, because she had captured the attention of the Opera Ghost.

The first night that La Sorcière écarlate performed, she was given a measly fifteen minutes. What she had managed to accomplish with that fifteen minutes was nothing short of miraculous, and James had been left to think about it for days afterward. The crowd, of course, had been blown away by the strange effects tied into her show - where did the red light come from? From where was she being pulled as she levitated? - these were all questions the newspapers had sought to answer. James, rather, had been more entranced by the performer than the tricks. She was an expert performer, and her act held all the rhythm and emotional weight of an opera of the highest form.

A traditional opera included both recitations and arias. La Sorcière écarlate's act included both spoken word and moments of breathtaking, climactic illusion. Most often, she did both of these things concurrently, walking the audience through a visual narrative and creating what Richard Wagner called "endless melody." Her voice was gentle, and yet it was strong and carried far. Her secret, perhaps, was that no one could pull their attention away from it's lilting quality long enough to ascertain her methods.

Knowing every inch of that stage and all the mechanisms therein, James of course knew that there was something different about the way she managed her illusions. But this was what made her craft an art, rather than the tricks of street charlatans who diverted the eyes for a moment and found their hands in a wealthy gentleman's pockets. No, La Sorcière écarlate was made for the stage - for this stage.

Her name was Wanda Maximoff, and though he knew that she came from somewhere further East, she could have easily been Parisian for as well as she was able to blend in. The managers had condescended to give her a thirty-minute time slot more recently, but this time, she would be given an hour and compensated properly for it. James had ensured as much in the letter that he had carefully sealed and delivered to their office late last night.

Wanda Maximoff couldn't say that she'd ever had a particularly good interaction with the managers of the Folies Bergère, but they allowed her to take the stage and provided her with some money, so she mostly tried to stay out of their way until necessity forced their paths to cross. Now was not such a moment, and Wanda's posture stiffened when she saw them approaching her down the aisles of the theater. Bissett - or was it Durand? (she wasn't entirely sure she had them straight) - was frantically waving a slip of paper as he stopped in front of her.

"What is the meaning of this, Mademoiselle Maximoff?" He snarled, his face red as a tomato. A wrinkle appeared on Wanda's brow, and she glanced at the offending piece of parchment.

"May I?" She asked, taking it from him.

"As if you don't know the content already," The other one chimed in. Wanda's eyes scanned the letter quickly.

Tomorrow, La Sorcière écarlate will return to you. I am anxious that her career should progress and look forward to seeing her as the headlining act.

- O.G.

"I don't understand," she murmured. She looked up at them, awaiting an explanation.

"You dare deny that you've been writing these...these insidious letters."

"I've written nothing of the sort," She replied, her eyes defiant.

"While we're happy to accept the free publicity that your little stunts have been providing us, we will not allow a bully to grace the stage of the Folies Bergère. You'll be fortunate if you ever find work again in Paris."

Wanda swallowed the growing lump in her throat as she stood there, fists clenched. It had been nice while it lasted, but she certainly wasn't going to beg. Having brought nothing more than the clothes on her back, she turned and made her exit without another word.

When Wanda Maximoff returned to the Folies Bergère three days later, the managers had been the ones to beg. At first, she had refused, preserving her pride, but the messages kept coming, and she began to understand the stakes by the whispers that had begun circulating through the streets of Paris. One of the managers had been attacked and threatened by the opera ghost. It had certainly been enough to change their minds about the stage lineup and to convince them that the ghost was not a slight, 5'6" young woman playing cruel-hearted tricks on them. Wanda wanted no part of this, but the guilt of what might happen if she did not return, as well as the knowledge that other theaters would see her as a great misfortune from now on, forced her to grin and bear it. She did not fear the opera ghost, but she feared what he might do in her name if his patronage was to continue. At least, she thought, if she was back in the Bergère, she may have a chance to stop the ghost's reign of terror and become invaluable to the management there.

It was decided that she would be the headlining act three nights that week - Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. The show on Friday was all-new and had been an uncontested success. Wanda's performance was wrapped in the narrative of an individual she called L'enfant Sans Amour - The Loveless Child. She waved one arm in a gentle, sweeping arc, and the domed ceiling above them became a sea of stars, to the tune of gasps and exclamations of delight. James watched from his reserved place in Box 5, his heart thumping wildly as he watched the illusion. She had made no preparation for such a trick, and certainly no alterations had been made to his opera house.

The Loveless Child, Wanda told the crowd, was dropped by a passing star, formed from light and heat, the most glorious of all creations. As she described it's descent to earth, the crowd pointed and watched as one star soared across the room above them, and a tiny, glowing red dot fell from its grasp, floating to the stage where it rested on Wanda's outstretched palm. She reached out with her other hand and picked it up between thumb and forefinger. In a sudden, flourishing motion, she threw it up and flung her arms wide, expanding it into an explosion of red light that surrounded her. The audience, who had leaned forward in their seats to peer at the tiny dot, lurched back and cried out at the outburst. When the light cleared a moment later, Wanda was gone, and a child half her size stood in her place. James stood in his seat to get a better look, resisting the urge to lean forward over the balcony where he might be spotted. She had never done anything like this before - never incorporated another performer.

"But when the child arrived here, it discovered what it meant to be alone." Wanda's disembodied voice continued. The child began to walk the stage, looking around as if to make sense of its surroundings. "Its beauty was lost on the human race, for it looked strange and foreign to their earthly eyes."

The child returned to center stage and sat down with crossed legs, while disembodied sounds of laughter and gasps surrounded it. A red fog began rising from the stage and lights shone on the fog; danced back and forth in a way that created the illusion of outstretched arms and pointing fingers. The child looked all around and flinched in reaction to the feigned mockery.

"As the child got older, nobody would look at it, for they'd been struck with fear of being blinded," Wanda's soft voice echoed through the theater. "Years passed, and nobody would touch the child, for it was too hot."

James sat back down in his chair, his throat tight, and his blood pumping. He wanted to look away, but he couldn't force himself to do it.

"The child was lonely and afraid, but it's soul was also made of light, and it longed to reach out and touch people." The child got up again and began to walk across the stage. Every time a foot landed, pure white light radiated from the contact and spread like ripples in water. "'Perhaps,' the child thought, 'if I am useful, they will choose to look.'"

Various objects appeared to float onto the stage, and the child plucked them from the air, one-by-one. "The child offered to light their way in the darkness, but they clung to their torches," The torch in the child's hand disappeared into thin air, and the crowd gasped. Next, the child plucked an iron skillet down from the air. "The child offered to prepare the meat for their dinners, but they were too afraid to invite it into their kitchen." The skillet disappeared as well. "Finally, the child offered to keep them warm in the frigid winter, but they continued to knit their sweaters and blankets."

The child, once again, returned to center stage. All was quiet for a long moment, and then suddenly, it fell through the floor, and the black stage waved and tossed around like water as the child's head bobbed up and down just over the surface.

"The child thought that it might drown in its grief," Wanda continued, her voice tense with emotion, "What purpose have I on this earth if I cannot be seen or touched?"

The child disappeared beneath the floor, and in the shadows at the very back of the stage, a large heap arose - a mountain.

"Then, one day, a great volcano stretched its arms and consumed the sky," Wanda said, her voice dropping low. In the lowlight of the chandelier, James could see what looked like snowflakes falling on the crowd. He reached out to catch some and rubbed it between his fingers. Ash. The audience's reaction was split between shouts of wonder and cries of distress that they'd worn their finest clothes, only to have them sullied. Despite the rising panic and anger the story elicited in him, James smirked, turning his eyes back to the stage, which had gone completely dark. Wanda's voice rang out once more.

"The ash closed the sky and blocked the sun. The people missed the sun dearly, and feared that they wouldn't be able to live without it. The child, seeing his chance, hurled himself into the sky once more, and turned back into a star to give them sunlight and save them."

A bright ball of light appeared on the floor of the stage and shot toward the ceiling. It grew in size and intensity until it covered the whole dome above the chandelier, and the audience had to shield their eyes from it.

"But the child's sacrifice couldn't grant its one desire - for the people couldn't look directly at the sun. The sky still wept the child's tears from time to time. But the child's soul was made of light," She reminded them as streams of glistening light streamed down from the ceiling. People stared at the beautiful spectacle in awe, "So it continued to give light and warmth to the world, trusting that it's life had a purpose."

The theater burst with light one more time, and when it faded, Wanda had returned to the stage. The crowd jumped to their feet in uproarious applause, and the standing ovation seemed to last a lifetime. James rose to his feet as well, clapping slowly as he watched her modest bows. He didn't bother to wipe away the tracks on his face as the tears coalesced on his chin and dripped onto his gloved hands.

Wanda exhaled deeply as she sat at the vanity in her dressing room. Her crimson three-piece suit felt entirely too tight and she placed her head in her hands, trying to catch her bearings. She had never performed for so long, and never with quite so many effects. It had been difficult to concentrate on her tricks and her lines with the fear that each one would become too much, and the audience would become afraid, turning on her.

The hair on the back of her neck rose, and her shoulders stiffened as she froze, quieting her breath. She was being watched. It wasn't the first time that she had sensed someone hidden in the Folies Bergère, of course, but now that she knew the "ghost" had taken an interest in her act, she was unsettled. She forced her shoulders to relax and set to taking off her gloves and her stage makeup, imagining that it would soon grow bored of her anyway.

She hadn't expected it to speak.

"Do you mock me?" A deep voice asked from somewhere beyond the curtained walls of the room. Wanda calmly put down the rag she'd been dabbing against her face and turned to survey the room.

"How can I mock you?" She asked softly, "I don't even know who you are."

"You pretend to be ignorant of my patronage?" He returned. His tone was cold, but there was an underlying waver - a taut cord of emotion. Wanda slowly rose from her seat and walked over to one of the walls, pulling back the curtain. Nothing but smooth wallpaper lay beneath. She ran her hand over it gently, before moving to another wall and doing the same.

"No," She replied, "I am aware of your help."

There was a note of irony in the way she used the word 'help,' and James tensed. He watched her from the other side of the mirror as she systematically walked about the room, running her slender fingers over the wallpaper. Her red hair tumbled loosely down her back, and she still wore the fitted jacket with coattails that the newspapers loved to call 'scandalous' in their reviews.

"A 'thank you' would suffice," He told her, though he didn't manage to sound as bitter as he'd intended.

"Thank you for what? Making people afraid of me?" She asked as she came to the mirror and stopped, staring intently at her reflection. James' breath caught in his throat as she stood right across from him. Though she couldn't see him, her eyes seemed to bore deeply into him.

"My support will be invaluable to you," he said, not even bothering to throw his voice. Wanda stayed there, knowing that she'd found him. "Do you truly believe that 'a magician never reveals her secrets' will always satisfy their questions?"

Wanda's chest tightened, knowing that he was right, but refusing to give him the satisfaction. She felt confident that he didn't know as much about her as he presumed to.

"What do you want from me?" She asked, still speaking to her own reflection. James didn't answer immediately, reaching out a hand and barely brushing the glass with his fingertips.

"I want you to perform," He said simply. His tone hardened. "Tomorrow night, you will tell a different story."

"No," Wanda replied firmly. She had intended to give the same show each night of the weekend, as was customary, and this story was important for her to tell. James' jaw clenched.

"Don't try my patience," He said, his voice threatening. Wanda reached up to grasp the edge of the mirror, and he froze. She could feel that the mirror was loose, but she paused. James glanced down at the latch on the mirror, which was, in reality, a sliding panel. He had chosen not to lock it, and even now, as his heart thumped wildly in his chest, he didn't reach out to secure it. He looked back at her eyes. The silence was palpable as they stood frozen in time, considering the possibilities the next few moments might hold. He wanted her to open it. He wanted her to look, and he would not stop her.

Finally, Wanda's hand fell away from the frame of the mirror. James swallowed hard as she turned and exited the room without another word. His guttural, angry scream echoed through the bowels of the opera house, but no one was around to hear it.

The next night, Wanda performed the same show, and this time, James did not watch. Rather than his spot in Box 5, he occupied the catwalks above the stage, climbing silently through the rigging. Because Wanda's show required no ropes or the usual pageantry, there was no need for any stagehands to be up here. All the same, James was not alone.

He'd overheard the plot during his usual daytime sleuthing - Le Grand Destin, Wanda's largest rival, and the most outraged by the sudden favor she was garnering, had enlisted one of his assistants to pull the lever on the stage's largest trap door. The door wasn't meant to be used at all on this particular night, and James knew for a fact that there were no mats beneath to catch Wanda if she fell through - she'd be lucky if all she sustained was two broken legs. He had barely been able to stop himself from dropping in and leaving an impression that very moment, but he hadn't wanted it to affect the show or Wanda's mindset as she prepared.

The man was distracted, preoccupied with the sight of Wanda walking back and forth on the stage below. James pulled a rope down from the rigging and wrapped it around his hands, pulling it tight.

Nobody had to tell Wanda about the discovery of the body for her to know that something had changed. People followed her with their eyes until she looked at them, and then they turned away, murmuring. She learned the reason when Le Grand Destin, the bane of her career, confronted her and accused her of arranging the death of his dearest assistant.

When Wanda retreated to her dressing room this time, she went to the mirror immediately. The panel slid easily under her hands, revealing a dark tunnel that descended down into the bowels of the opera house. Wanda stepped carefully through the passage, her right hand erupting with a crimson light that illuminated the passage. She made her way down the broad stone steps, listening carefully for any sign that she was no longer alone. When she reached the foot of the stairs and met water, she stepped onto the waiting boat. She didn't bother to pick up an oar, and the boat began to glide through the water of its own accord. When the canal opened to a large cavern, she slowed the pace, guiding it carefully over to the edge of the water.

The cavern had clearly been converted into a living space, with dozens of candles and lanterns lit. A curtained, four-poster bed and tufted velvet couch made the rock walls seem less imposing, along with the clutter littering every surface, including pages of drawings, writings and sheets of music, along with various mechanical gadgets that Wanda didn't recognize. It appeared that he wasn't home. She slowly made her way over to a wooden table and picked up one of the thin sheets of parchment. The title of the composition was scrawled at the top in an inky smear, as if it had been written far too quickly.

L'Enfant Sans Amour

Her eyes roved over the notes, trying to make sense of it, but the series of dots and lines meant nothing to her.

"It's for your act."

Wanda jumped, not having sensed his entrance. She looked over her shoulder to see him approaching and shifted to face him, wary. He wore a billowing white tunic tucked into black pants, which descended into leather black boots. His hair was shoulder length, tossed to one side, as if he'd just run his hand through it. His hands were covered with white gloves. He wasn't what she had expected. There was nothing notably alarming about his appearance, and his face looked guarded, but ultimately soft. What would cause such a man to hide away?

"You wrote this today?" She asked, holding up the parchment.

"Last night," He replied, glancing at it. His weight shifted from one foot to the other, and Wanda wondered when he had last spoken to another person face-to-face. "The ensemble's current accompaniment has been passable, but it's far from hitting at the heart of the story."

Wanda stared down at it for a long moment, swallowing. She had left the night before under the impression that he didn't care for her story. Nobody ever helped her with her act.

"Can I hear it?" She asked.

However James expected her to react, it wasn't like this. He stood still for a long moment, considering what he wanted from this interaction, before finally nodding and guiding her over to the piano that sat against the stone face of his northernmost wall. She warily sat down on the bench next to him as he pulled off the glove of his right hand. His left arm came to rest on his lap, the hand still gloved. He gestured for her to put the page on the music stand, and she did.

The melody began as a gentle, dream-like tune, and Wanda imagined the arrangement of shooting stars that would accompany it. Quickly, the tune dissolved into a low, sad strain that pulled at a string in Wanda's chest and yanked the cavity open, leaving her breathless. James, who effortlessly managed the song with one hand, put extra weight into each note, and she found herself wondering how he came to be in this place. It didn't take an adept imagination to figure out that his life had been tragic. The music heightened and sped into a crescendo that was clearly meant to coincide with her volcano, before mellowing out - the transition between scenes was a flawless sequence of notes, and Wanda's eyes closed, savoring the endless melody.

When the final notes reverberated off the cavern walls, James forced himself to look at her. Silent tears streamed down her face, and he was struck by the glorious realization that he'd managed to do to her exactly what she'd done to him. The hope in his chest dissolved as she gently grasped the hand in his lap and pulled it into her own. He tensed, and she paused, glancing up at him through her lashes. She was seeking permission, and though he was hesitant to grant it, nobody had ever asked before, and he relished the power of being able to choose. His chin dipped in a nod. He thought his chest might burst from the tightness as she gingerly tugged at the fingers of his glove.

When it finally came off, her only reaction was a slight tip of her head as she observed it more closely. Before he knew it, she was removing his cufflink and rolling up the sleeve of his shirt. Wanda's mouth fell open as she ran her hand over his arm. It was a wondrous contraption built of steel and leather, with gears and joints that sat flush together like clockwork. She started when the fingers of his mechanical hand curled, and her eyes shot up to look into his.

"They're not very dexterous," He said softly, averting his eyes.

"Did you make this?" She asked breathlessly. He nodded, and she laughed in disbelief. "It's magnificent."

"It's just machinery," He told her. How could something so straightforward amaze the woman with more power to astound than anyone he'd ever seen?

"It's beautiful." She said, struggling to pull her eyes away from it and look at him. "What's your name?"

She was so close to him. Perhaps closer than anyone had ever been.

"James," He whispered. "James Buchanan Barnes."

"James," She repeated, so close that her breath fanned across his cheek. For one thrilling, terrifying moment, James thought she might lean forward and kiss him. "Did you kill Le Grand Destin's assistant?"

James jerked away from her as if he'd been burned.

"Do you believe it?" He asked bitterly, looking away and standing from the bench.

"Did you?" She repeated firmly.

"He would have ruined you," He told her. Wanda's eyebrows furrowed. When she didn't respond, he forced herself himself to look down at her. She was back to being the unreadable enigma he'd been watching for months. Now that he had seen beneath that exterior, even just for a moment, it infuriated him.

"I did it for you," He said.

"I didn't ask you to," She replied fiercely, standing as well, "What kind of solution is it to kill a man?"

James felt cornered. Angry. Hurt. Misunderstood.

"You don't know what it's like," He shot back, "for everyone to overlook you. Hate you. Despise you. As if it's that simple to have a soul made of light when the whole world looks away."

"You don't know me," She reminded him, her tone hard.

"I thought you would understand," He said, his tone somehow straddling a line between venomous and broken. She looked away, shaking her head. "Go ahead. Look away. Avert your eyes from L'enfant Sans Amour." He spat as she walked away. She stopped in her tracks, her hair cutting through the air sharply as she whirled back to face him.

"You are not the loveless child," She said, her voice low and her fists clenched at her sides. "Do not ever interfere with my affairs again."

And with that, she left him alone again.

On Sunday, the final night of Wanda's show, she performed L'Enfant Sans Amour the same as she had been, with one minor change. The child, who had previously been of a nondescript gender and appearance, was a little girl with long red hair.

James' throat grew tight as he watched the child's large, frightened eyes, like a caged animal. He left Box 5, unable to watch anymore, his cloak trailing the air behind him.

On stage, Wanda also watched the child, her place on the stage disguised from the audience's eyes by an illusion. Her voice was thick with tears as she pushed to keep telling the story through quivering lips.

"The child thought, 'Perhaps, If I am useful...'" she recited, stopping mid-sentence, taking a moment to gather herself. A rumbling came from the ceiling above, and everyone's gaze drew skyward. There was an excited murmur in the crowd as they anticipated the next fanciful trick in store for them. Wanda watched with horror as the chain holding the chandelier ripped itself from the ceiling, link-by-link. James had warned her about Le Grand Destin, but she hadn't thought her rival was capable of sabotage on this scale. In only a matter of moments, the chain was completely extricated, and the chandelier swung down at the theater patrons. They reacted, jumping to their feet and climbing over each other with screams of terror.

The giant chandelier stopped just short of crushing them, and while some continued to run without a backward glance, many turned to watch the strange events afoot. The illusion had dropped, and La Sorcière écarlate stood at center stage, her arms outstretched toward the fallen chandelier. Her stance was wide and her face strained as she bore the weight of it. Streams of red light radiated from her, and her eyes glowed crimson. Instead of relief, the theater patrons' panic rose. What kind of sick amusement was this, for her to distract them with beautiful illusions while luring them to their deaths? And what kind of demon granted power of the kind she displayed?

Wanda gritted her teeth as she held fast to the chandelier. After a few long minutes, the audience members had managed to clear themselves of its path, and she allowed it to crash to the floor, unable to hold on any longer. The seats immediately began to go up in flames, and she stood breathless, watching the chaos unfold.

She tried to kill us, someone was shouting. A new wave of screams erupted, and Wanda turned to see the body of Le Grand Destin hanging from the rafters behind her. Her gaze slowly followed the rope upward until she saw the sweep of a black cloak and a flash of steel. He was there, staring down at her, his expression unreadable. He reached over and pulled a lever, and Wanda stumbled backwards when a trap door opened in front of her. It wasn't the primary trap the magicians used. The hole was dark and deep, and she couldn't see its bottom. She gazed back up to the rafters to see him waiting, watching. She turned to look over her shoulder, her surroundings warped by the heat and flames lapping up the walls. Most of the patrons had cleared out, but the ones who still filed out at the far doors had turned to look at her, too. When her eyes met theirs from across the room, they looked away.

Wanda turned back to the hole and jumped.