LEO FELT RIGHT AT HOME AT THE FACILITY, SURPRISINGLY, AND FOR THE SOLE REASON THAT NO CARED ABOUT HIS EXISTENCE. That wasn't to say that people back home didn't care about him, but here, he blended right into the background noise, no one bothering to look up from their work or their routines to wonder who the redhead in the sweater was. He fit right in.

Steve had been right, the grounds were much bigger once he actually started walking on them, and he was happy to just saunter over to the outskirts of the grounds and look out into the trees; maybe he would see a deer.

Fairly short, the trek took him some time, but he was happy to kill it, as there wasn't anything else he had to do; he had yet to meet Pietro, and until he did, he was sure no one wanted anything to do with him.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't notice the rock in his path until he tripped over it and fell with a groan and a huff, his ankle throbbing and his pride broken, not that there was much of it to begin with.

Sighing, he pushed himself onto his back, staring up at the clouds, stretching out his legs, careful with the sore one, figuring that he could just lie there until someone came searching for him. He hummed softly as he looked at the sky, happy to find it a nice blue, though he would have easily been just as happy with any other color or completely covered with clouds.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out another mint, popping it into his mouth. He tended to keep a pack of mints or cough drops on him at all times, as he tended to let his mind wander and have an itching to move around, compromising his worth ethic and focus. It had started in high school when he had had a lingering cough for four months, forcing him to take cough drops with him wherever he went, working through a pack a day as his cough always came back the moment the medicine disappeared.

After developing a habit of always having something to suck on, he drifted onto other hard candies and mints, often offering them to the people around him. It became a habit, and whenever he was confronted about it, he simply pointed out that it was better than the pack of cigars his father always carried, which effectively shut down any rebuttal that was forming.

He sighed as he thought about his father, throwing another two mints into his mouth to refrain from wondering about if the man could see him from where he was or not, reaching out and digging his nails into his bicep when he inadvertently began thinking about it more, feeling his stomach clench and his heart race, whispering to himself to stop thinking about it.

"I hate you," he hissed to his brain, only to realize that it was his own brain saying it to itself, which made him feel even worse.

Realizing that he was not about to get any relief from his racing mind and intrusive thoughts, he jumped to his feet, dusting off the dirt and dust that had collected on his clothes, mentally slapping himself as he realized how unpresentable he looked now; hopefully he could squeeze in a shower before meeting Pietro.

Not bothering to try and reach the end of the grounds, he made his way back to the general area, singing loudly to himself to drown out his thoughts, repeating lyrics that he had memorized, and other lyrics he had to remember, anything to drown out his thoughts.

With a racing mind, it was hard to tell if he was alright or not.

º º º

In the infirmary, Pietro was fuming.

That wasn't the right word. Fuming would imply that he was ready to snap at any moment. He was sulking. His arms were crossed over his chest and he was a jutted lip away from pouting, his eyes downcast and stormy, his entire demeanor driving away anyone interested in holding a conversation or simply being in his presence.

Everyone except his sister, of course.

"This is why you need to eat," she said, and he hated how motherly she sounded; she was his little sister, he should be looking out for her, yet there she was, chastising him for skipping all his meals.

"I'm not hungry," he grumbled, sounding more like a petulant child than anything else, and Wanda sighed long-suffering lay, but not without care.

"We're worried," she pressed, and he snapped his head up to narrow his eyes at her, taking in her lack of understanding at his reaction.

"You said 'we,'" he explained, even more hurt that he had to explain to her; as if he wasn't already more separate from her.

"Pietro," she said softly, giving him a look that he scoffed at, "This is our home now. They have been nothing but kind to us, you heard what they said. We have a family again."

"I thought we were family," he countered, and he knew he was being difficult, and he couldn't help his wince that followed the drop of Wanda's smile, mumbling a soft, "You know what I mean."

"Pietro," she sighed, and he knew she was looking at his bullet wounds, even past his track pants, "Give them a chance. Please."

He sighed and nodded, his finger tapping against the infirmary bed frame at a rapid pace, only for him to slow down immediately, coming to a halt, staring at his hand for a few moments, unsure of what he was thinking, just knowing that there was something.

Wanda furrowed her brow as she watched her brother stare at his hand, his eyes foggy and unfocused. She had tried to reach out to him ever since they had arrived at the new facility, but he had remained distant, even to her.

"This is why we're getting the new agent," she sighed softly, not realizing she had spoken until he broke out of his reverie to look at her, furrowing his eyebrows.

"What?" he asked, and she shook her head, knowing exactly how he would react to the knowledge that someone had been positioned to monitor him.

He grabbed her wrist, not hard enough to hurt, but tight enough to let her know that he was not playing around, because if it had something to do with him, he wanted to know; he could see the way everyone treated him, he knew they were suspicious.

She placed a hand over his own, causing him to relax, remembering that this was his sister, and new family or not, they were family first. She gave him a comforting smile as she squeezed his hand lightly, silently telling him to not react until she was finished, which he never followed through with.

"It is not because they do not trust you," she began, which already had him on the defensive, "It is because they are worried and care about you."

He didn't dare open his mouth to respond, instead just choosing to raising his eyebrow in a silent gesture for her to continue.

"Because they are worried," she continued, speaking slowly and deliberately, "They have asked an agent to come and make sure you will be okay. Not a therapist, he is around Arabella's age. He arrived today. Please be kind to him, he only wants to help."

"Help with what?" Pietro demanded, already on his feet, despite the orders to not stand too fast, or at until dinner, "I do not need to be fixed!"

"No one said that!" Wanda cried, more shocked than anything; Pietro rarely ever yelled at her, this wasn't what her brother was like, "Look at you! You never do this, something is wrong, just let us help you."

"There is nothing to help!" he cried, and his mind was racing, filled with thoughts and images that constricted his chest, tightened his heart, knotted his stomach, consumed him until no amount of running could keep them away.

"Pietro, please," Wanda begged, coming to stand in front of him, reaching for the hands that had come to clutch his chest, only for him to pull away.

"He is here?" he demanded, already stumbling towards the door, his leg aching.

"Yes, but—" Wanda began, but at that point Pietro had already run off, zipping through the various agents bustling around, pausing in front of Clint who was in the middle of a chess game with Arabella.

"Where is the new agent?" he demanded breathlessly, shocking the two out of their game to stare at him with wide eyes.

He softened slightly as he looked at Arabella, the young woman responsible for him still being alive, as painful as it was for him to think about it. She had stalled the weaponry that had been aimed at Clint and the child long enough for him to get them out. He hadn't come out unscathed, shot in the leg more times than he cared to think about, but he was alive, and that was what mattered. At least, that's what he was constantly told.

"He's got one of the newer rooms," Clint replied, "All the vacant ones have signs over them, so find the one without a sign."

"Thank you," he breathed, his chest still constricted and buzzing, rushing off before pausing to ponder over the board for, what he felt like, a few seconds, moving a knight to capture a rook before darting off in search of the newly taken room.

As he searched, he couldn't help but feel a pang of hurt and suspicion at all those he passed, wondering what they thought of him, how they felt about him, what about him was so worrying that they felt they needed to hire someone to monitor him.

He was being monitored. No matter what they said, it was just another lab, another experiment, another opportunity to be exploited for whatever they thought was the greater good. This wasn't a home and this wasn't a family.

He paused in front of the unmarked door for a brief moment, just glaring at the plain white wood that looked back at him, threatening to consume him in a blinding white that had him wrenching out of his thoughts and its hold, trying to think of something, anything, to get the thoughts out of his head.

In a desperate attempt to run from his mind, he ran into the room.

Leo had just finished taking a shower and was headed towards the clothes he had laid out on his bed, a towel wrapped around his waist, water droplets still falling from his hair and running over the curves of of his muscles.

As he stepped towards the bed, the door to his room burst open, revealing a young man not much younger than him with white hair and a death glare, coming to pause just inside, causing him to shriek and nearly drop his towel.

The two stared at each other for a moment, Leo desperately trying to regain the hold on the only thing keeping him from standing stark naked in front of the angry tall man who had just barged in.

"Pietro Maximoff?" he tried, taking in the features he had only ever seen in files.

"Yes," the other man spat, his eyes raking over Leo's features with nothing short of disdain.

He let out a small sigh. Great.

( 05.25.18 )