| 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐄𝐍 |

♡ '𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐄, 𝐌𝐘 𝐗-𝐌𝐄𝐍' ♡

𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐊 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 Jean, his expression carved from iron, his eyes filled with something Wanda couldn't quite name. It wasn't hatred but rather something colder—something final.

Jean didn't speak. She was still trembling, still struggling to hold back the fire lurking beneath her skin, still feeling the weight of everything she'd nearly destroyed. The golden embers of the Phoenix shimmered faintly around her, barely restrained.

Wanda stepped forward, but Erik lifted a hand stopping her.

"You don't have a place here anymore," Erik said, voice low and even, cutting through the silence like a blade. "Not after what you've done."

Jean's breath hitched. She swallowed hard, nodding slowly, as if she had expected this. As if she had already known.

"I didn't mean—"

"I know," Erik interrupted, voice still sharp. "But that doesn't change anything." He looked at her—not as a mentor, not as someone who once understood, but as a man who had lost too much already. "You're not broken. But what's inside you is dangerous. And you need to control it before it controls you."

Jean flinched and the Phoenix stirred. Wanda felt the shift immediately, the heat rising in the air, the ripple of something too vast to be contained.

No.

She wouldn't let Jean fall apart alone.

Before Jean could turn away, before the Phoenix could surge up in despair or fury, Wanda reached out—not physically, but with her mind.

Scarlet magic flickered, unseen to anyone else.

Jean.

The moment their minds linked, Jean gasped. Wanda felt it—everything. The storm of power, the fear, the aching, hollow loneliness clawing at Jean's soul. The Phoenix whispering, demanding, consuming.

But beneath it all, Jean was still her.

She was still there, fighting against the fire.

Don't let his words define you, Wanda murmured into her mind. You're not alone in this.

Jean squeezed her eyes shut, her breath shuddering.

I don't know how to stop it, she admitted, the words raw and broken. I don't know if I ever can.

Wanda's magic curled around her, steady and warm. You don't have to stop it. You just have to make it yours.

Jean's eyes snapped open.

Erik was already walking away. The others were silent, watching, waiting—for Jean to leave. To disappear. To become someone else's problem.

Jean turned to Wanda. Her lips parted as if to say something, but in the end, all she did was nod.

And then—

She lifted into the sky, flames licking at her heels, the Phoenix a golden aura wrapped around her like a second skin.

Wanda didn't look away, even as Jean vanished into the clouds, even as the last trace of fire faded into the distance.

Jean was still there. She would always be there.

And Wanda would make sure she never had to fight alone.

Jean was gone and yet, the air still felt thick with something unspoken, something unfinished.

Wanda stood beside Pietro, arms crossed, still watching the sky where Jean had disappeared. Her magic buzzed faintly at her fingertips, restless, uncertain. Pietro shifted beside her, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, his usual energy dimmed by the weight of everything that had just happened.

Erik exhaled softy. The sharp lines of his face were unreadable as he glanced toward them. The silence stretched, thick with tension, before— "You should come inside."

Pietro blinked at him, "What?"

Erik was already turning, walking toward the compound's entrance as if the matter was settled. "I assume you didn't come all this way just to stand out in the cold."

Wanda and Pietro exchanged a glance, both thinking, This was weird, really weird but still, they followed.

The inside of Erik's compound was dimly lit, sparse, utilitarian. It wasn't homey by any means, but it wasn't entirely unwelcoming either. The real shock, however, came when Erik wordlessly gestured for them to sit at a worn wooden table. A moment later, he was setting out cups and pouring tea, the scent of herbs curling in the air.

Pietro gave Wanda a look. Is this really happening?

She barely kept her expression neutral, watching as Erik sat across from them, hands wrapped around his own cup. The silence was suffocating.

Pietro, ever the one to break uncomfortable moments, cleared his throat. "So, uh... do you always invite people in for tea after you exile their friends, or are we just special?"

Erik shot him a sharp look, but there was no true bite behind it. "You should be thanking me," he said simply. "If Jean had stayed here, the Phoenix would've burned everything in its path. I was doing her a favor."

Wanda stirred her tea, watching the dark liquid swirl. "You don't actually believe that."

Erik's eyes flicked to her, but he didn't respond.

Pietro leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out. "Man, this is surreal. You realize that, right?" He gestured vaguely. "Like, you, sitting here, acting like a brooding but responsible father figure. Never thought I'd see the day."

Erik arched a brow. "And why is that?"

Wanda shot Pietro a warning glance, but it was too late. There was a familiar smirk on his face and he replied, "Because we know things."

A heavy silence fell.

Erik's fingers twitched against his cup, his gaze suddenly sharp, piercing. "What kind of things?"

Wanda sighed. "Pietro."

"What? He was gonna find out eventually." Pietro turned back to Erik and shrugged. "Look, let's just say we know how some things are supposed to go. And this?" He gestured to Erik, to the tea, to the entire situation. "This isn't exactly what we expected."

Erik studied them, his expression unreadable. "You're saying you've seen the future."

Wanda's grip on her cup tightened.

There it was.

The moment she had been dreading.

Pietro, ever reckless, just grinned. "Something like that."

Erik didn't speak right away. His gaze flickered between them, calculating, assessing. Then, finally—

"...I won't ask."

Pietro looked surprised, "You won't?"

Erik exhaled. "I've learned not to demand answers I may not want." He took a sip of his tea. "But I will say this—if you do know the future, I hope you've learned from it. Because if there's one thing I've learned?" His eyes darkened. "Fate doesn't care for plans."

Wanda met his gaze, something quiet, almost knowing, passing between them.

"No," she murmured. "It doesn't."

The tea cooled between them.

The moment Erik laid eyes on them, he knew.

It wasn't just the striking resemblance—the sharp angles of their faces, the unmistakable silver of Pietro's hair, the way Wanda carried herself with that same quiet intensity he had seen in his own reflection. It was something deeper, something in the way the air itself seemed to shift around them, like the universe was acknowledging a long-lost connection.

His children.

His heart clenched, a sharp pang of grief buried beneath years of hardened resolve. He had spent so long searching, and now, standing before them, he could see the weight they carried. The exhaustion in their eyes, the way their bodies instinctively leaned toward each other, always aware of the other's presence. A bond forged in fire, in suffering.

Then he saw it—the way Pietro's hand lingered at the small of Wanda's back, the way she turned to him first, their movements not just protective, but possessive in a way that made Erik's stomach tighten.

He understood. And yet, it hurt.

They had no one else. They had been alone for so long, clinging to each other like the world had never given them another option. He could see the love between them, but he could also see the pain—the desperation of two souls who had been failed by everyone, including him.

Erik swallowed hard, pushing past the ache in his chest. He wanted to be angry, to demand explanations, to fix what had already been broken. But he had no right.

Instead, he looked at them—really looked at them—and softened.

"You have been through much," he said finally, his voice quieter than they had ever heard it. "Too much." Pietro's jaw tightened, but Wanda only held his gaze, unflinching as he continued, "Perhaps now, you won't have to go through it alone."

It wasn't enough. It never would be but it was a start.

The tension was suffocating and the dim lighting of Erik's compound did nothing to soften the steel in Hank McCoy's gaze, nor did it dull the weight of his words, "Raven's dead. Jean killed her."

The air went still at his proclamation.

Wanda felt Pietro shift beside her, his usual restless energy suddenly subdued. Erik's expression barely changed, but something in him hardened, his grip tightening ever so slightly at his sides.

Jean.

Wanda could almost felt it, the moment it happened—the ripple of anguish, of shock, of power spiraling beyond control. Hearing it now, spoken aloud, set in stone, was different. Final.

Erik exhaled, measured, heavy. "And you want me to help you find her?"

Hank didn't hesitate, telling him, "If I find her, I'll kill her."

"I know."

A chill crept through Wanda's veins. While Pietro tensed beside her, shooting her a glance that she knew meant, Are we gonna do something about this?

Yes, they were.

Before Erik could respond, Wanda stepped forward quickly shutting their plans down, "No."

Hank turned sharply, as if just now remembering she was there. "Excuse me?"

"I said no." Her voice was quiet but unwavering, laced with something unyielding. "You're not going to kill her."

Hank stared at Wanda like she'd just grown another head. His expression flickered between confusion, disbelief, and something close to suspicion.

"Who even are you?" he asked, his voice still raw with grief but edged with frustration.

Wanda didn't flinch at his anger and answered,. "I'm Wanda." A pause, then, she deliberately dropped the metaphorical bomb, "Erik's daughter."

Hank blinked, visibly thrown. His mind raced before he finally turned to Erik and asked, "You have a daughter?"

Erik, who had been silently observing until now, exhaled through his nose. His expression remained unreadable, but Wanda caught a flicker in his eyes—something between reluctant acknowledgment and mild amusement at Hank's reaction.

"Yes," Erik said simply, his tone composed as ever.

Hank turned back to Wanda, scanning her like he was trying to reconcile her with everything he thought he knew. "And since when do you have a daughter?"

"It's complicated. And he also has a son," Wanda replied flatly.

Pietro snorted beside her. "Hi, I'm the son," he said, mockingly.

Hank ignored him. The resemblance between Pietro and Erik made that part easy enough to accept. But Wanda... He stared, still trying to make sense of it, "You don't look—"

"Like him?" Wanda finished, arching a brow.

Hank hesitated, "I was going to say 'old enough to be his daughter,' but sure, let's go with that."

Pietro let out a low whistle, "That's almost a compliment."

Wanda rolled her eyes before fixing Hank with a steady gaze. "I'm not here to prove anything to you. What matters is that I'm here. And I'm not going to let you or anyone else kill Jean."

Hank's mouth pressed into a tight line. He still looked caught off guard, like his entire worldview had just tilted slightly off its axis. But despite everything—the grief, the disbelief, the frustration—he didn't argue.

Erik exhaled, stepping forward. "Now that we've established introductions, shall we focus on the matter at hand?"

Hank exhaled heavily. "Right. Sure." He shot Wanda one last look, still baffled. "I'm sure there's a story behind all this."

"You have no idea," Pietro muttered under his breath.

Wanda just smirked. "Maybe one day I'll tell you."

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐎𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐒 of Manhattan, sirens howling in the distance as smoke curled into the sky. The once-bustling avenue had been reduced to nothing more than a battlefield–glass littered the streets, cars laid overturned, street lights bent and crackled with electricity. Civilians had long since fled, leaving the war-torn avenue as a mutant battleground. At the center of it all stood Jean Grey, her mind a swirling storm of power and pain while a woman whispered destruction in her ears.

Charles Xavier sat in his pristine wheelchair, his expression grim but resolute while he was flanked by the X-Men–Cyclops, Nightcrawler and Storm. Opposite them, emerging from the alley shadows came the remnants of the Brotherhood–Magneto, Selen Gallio, Ariki and surprisingly to the X-Men, Hank McCoy.

Charles wheeled forward, his voice soft with a flicker of familiarity. "Hello, old friend."

Erik didn't return the sentiment. His tone was sharp, his expression hardened. "Save the 'old friend' bullshit, Charles. And stay out of my way."

Charles took a careful breath, "I'm sorry for what she did."

Erik scoffed at him, "You're always sorry, Charles. And there's always a speech. But no one's listening anymore."

Charles held his ground, trying to convince him, "If we fight here and now, in front of all these people... they'll see us as monsters. Violent freaks tearing each other apart in the streets of New York."

Erik didn't waver, "What did I tell you?"

"Damn it, man," Charles pleaded with the man that still held his heart in his scarred and bloody palm.. "If you go through with this, your homeland—everything you care about—will be gone. Save it."

Erik took a single step forward, eyes never leaving Charles. "She's coming with us."

Charles' voice was calm but firm. "She doesn't need control. She needs help."

"She needed help before you sent her away," Hank snapped, his voice brittle with grief and fury. "Before Raven died."

Scott's voice darkened with fury. "If you touch her," he warned them, voice trembling with rage, "I will kill you."

Then the tension exploded. In an instant, Cyclops fired a warning beam that Magneto deflected with a flick of his wrist, tearing metal from a nearby bus and twisting it into a shield. Storm rose into the air, lightning crackling at her fingertips, while Selene conjured dark tendrils from the shadows beneath the street.

Nightcrawler vanished in a puff of smoke, reappearing beside Ariki, only to be thrown back by a telekinetic blast.

Cyclops turned toward the building, shouting over the chaos, "We need to get to Jean before-" Only to be interpreted by a blur of silver tearing down the block, knocking over a SUV in its wake. Pietro skidded to a halt, kicking up dust in front of Cyclops, making him cough. Before the future leader of the X-Men could speak, a crimson ripple split the air and Wanda floated downward, her eyes glowing faintly as her cloak danced behind her.

"What a mess," Pietro groaned to his sister, and Wanda smiled faintly, her sharp gaze sweeping through the chaos, watching mutants fight against mutants. She closed her eyes for a moment, reaching for the flickering thread of Jean's mind and shivered in response and spoke up, "We must hurry to Jean, there is something in there with her. Something old and alien, it reeks of blood...the Phoenix."

When she opened her eyes, Cyclops stood before her, visor glowing a threateningly red. "I don't know who you are but you shouldn't be here," Scott warned, stepping in front of Wanda and continued, "Jean isn't going anywhere with you clowns."

"Wrong," Wanda replied evenly, "We were brought here for this."

"We're here to help Jean," Pietro added, folding his arms before giving Scott a once-over. Then his tone shifted, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "Draga, is this her boyfriend?"

Scott blinked, startled out of his threat and questioned the silver stranger defensively, "Yeah. Why?"

Pietro laughed—loud and sharp. "How in the hell did you score a woman like Jean? You've got laser eyes, that you can't even aim without help."

"Pietro," Wanda warned under her breath, but her brother was already stepping forward, just a little too fast.

"You ever think maybe Jean's power scares you more than it does her?" Pietro asked, his voice tight now. "That you want to 'fix' her instead of letting her be?"

Scott's jaw clenched. "Jean isn't herself right now. She's not in control."

"And maybe that's your problem, not hers," Wanda said gently. "She doesn't need a leash—she needs guidance."

A building away Charles remained still amidst the war around him, reaching out with his mind, Jean... please, listen to me...

Inside the central building, Jean clutched her head, sweat glistening on her brow, her eyes flaring with cosmic fire. The voices—The Phoenix, Charles, her own—screamed inside her skull.

Back outside, Charles was telekinetically thrown out of his wheelchair, landing against a wall, cracking the bricks. Nightcrawler teleported to catch him mid-fall, grunting with the effort.

"Too many," Kurt panted out, exhausted.

"Keep going," Charles urged. "Get someone through. She's the priority."

Magneto began tearing the building's foundation apart, determined to break his way in. Above them all, lightning streaked the sky—Storm and Selene locked in an aerial duel, wind and darkness colliding in a chaotic display of weather and power.

"She just needs help controlling it," Pietro added, eyes drifting upward as he sensed her presence. "It's part of her now. You don't get to rip that out of her just because it makes you uncomfortable."

"You don't understand what's inside her. None of us do!" Scott loudly said.

Wanda met his gaze, softly replying. "I understand better than you think. Now step aside."

"You'll have to go through me first," Scott guaffed and Wanda wanted to roll her eyes at the man in yellow. Without prompting, Pietro grinned and charged towards him, throwing him a yard away.

"There out of the way," Pietro beamed at Wanda and she huffed a laugh, "Jealousy doesn't suit you brother."

"Please. Me, jealous? Never, I'm too hot for that."

Wanda laughed her way inside the building and stopped short at the scene before her. The air crackled with fire and chaos. Jean Grey hovered above the staircase balcony, her skin cracking with the swirling flames inside of her waiting to be unleashed. Her eyes—once filled with warmth—were now endless pits of burning light, hollowed out by something ancient and insatiable. The Phoenix had taken hold.

Pietro stared up at her, breath caught in his throat. "Wow."

Their father, Erik, undeterred by the heat distorting the space around her, clenched his fists and sent a flurry of jagged metal shards hurling toward her. Steel beams, torn from the remains of their battlefield, spun like deadly projectiles—only to disintegrate before they could even touch her.

The Phoenix's flames devoured them, turning them into molten droplets that rained down like dying stars. Jean didn't even flinch.

Wanda saw it then. This wasn't a power anyone could fight physically.

A gust of wind, heated by psychic energy, sent Magneto hurtling backward. He crashed against a ruined wall, groaning in pain, but Wanda barely registered it. Her entire focus was on Jean, she ignored the 'woman' whispering lies and manipulations that stood proudly behind the woman of fire incarnate. She focused on the thing inside Jean. Her hands burned red as she sent out her magic—not as an attack, but as a tether. Scarlet tendrils of energy wrapped around Jean's mind, not to harm but to pull.

Jean. Wanda's voice wasn't spoken aloud; it resonated through the collapsing walls of Jean's mind. Come back.

Jean's body jerked midair, the fire around her flickered–it was a heartbeat of hesitation. Then Jean's voice echoed, layered with something older. "They want to stop me. You don't."

"No," Wanda said softly, her magic gently flaring around her hands. "I want to help you carry it."

Scott called out desperately to her, "Jean! Don't listen to them!"

But Pietro cut in front of him, scowling at him, "Maybe you should sit this one out, One-Eye."

Scott shoved him, "She's not yours to save."

Pietro was gone in a blink—reappearing below Jean. She floated above them, burning like a living star, her hair whipped by invisible winds and fire veins crawled over her body making her look more godlike than human. "You're not alone, Jean," he said gently, eyes locked on hers. "You don't have to burn alone."

And then the Phoenix turned and Wanda's breath caught in her throat. She felt it see her, not as an enemy, not as an ally—something worse.

A threat.

The flames surged toward her, and suddenly Wanda was no longer standing on the battlefield.

She was falling.

The world around her twisted into fire and blackness, a cosmic void where stars burned out as quickly as they were born. A hunger unlike anything she had ever felt clawed at the edges of her mind.

The Phoenix consumes.

The Phoenix destroys.

The Phoenix is eternal.

Visions assaulted her. Universes collapsing into dust. Worlds reduced to cinders. The cosmic entity whispered across time and space, showing her destruction beyond comprehension. It had lived forever. It would burn forever. And now—it had found something new.

Wanda was a force unlike any it had ever encountered. A being of Chaos, of possibility, of change. For the first time, the Phoenix hesitated.

And Wanda saw herself reflected in it. She saw what she could become–The Scarlet Witch. A force of destruction. The prophecy she had always feared, written in fire across the cosmos.

She screamed.

Her chaos magic erupted, slamming into the Phoenix like a dying star's final blaze of light. Red and gold collided, their battle rippling through reality itself. The ground beneath them cracked. The air ripped apart. The world stood at the edge of oblivion—

And then—they broke apart.

Wanda collapsed to the ground, her vision spinning, her mind scorched by knowledge she wasn't meant to have. Across from her, Jean gasped for breath, clutching her head as if she had just barely clawed her way back to herself. But the Phoenix wasn't gone.

It was waiting as the fight had ended in a draw.

Wanda pushed herself to her feet, legs trembling, heart pounding. The others looked at her, but she barely registered their concern. Because now—she knew the truth. The Phoenix wasn't just powerful. It wasn't just dangerous.

It was inevitable.

Wanda's chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, her body still trembling from the sheer force of the battle. She had felt it—the weight of eternity, the unrelenting hunger of the Phoenix. It had seen her, and she had seen it.

The knowledge burned in the back of her mind, an ember that refused to fade.

Across from her, Jean was still floating above the ruined battlefield, her fire dimmed but not extinguished. She clutched her head as if in pain, her eyes darting wildly between Wanda and the others. For the briefest moment, she looked afraid. Not of them—but of herself

Erik had recovered, pushing himself up from the wreckage with a grimace. His fists curled, and metal around him trembled, responding to his unspoken fury. "Jean," he said sharply, his voice edged with warning.

Jean's gaze flickered to him. Then to Hank. Then to the others watching her like she was a monster. A ticking bomb.

Her breath hitched, "No," Wanda said before Erik could make a move.

She stepped forward, still unsteady but unwavering. "Stay back," she warned, holding out a hand.

"You saw what she did—what she is," Erik snapped. His fury was laced with something deeper—fear, maybe. Fear of power beyond even his comprehension.

Wanda's jaw clenched. "I saw her. Not just the Phoenix."

"She killed Raven." Hank's voice was hoarse, raw with grief and betrayal. He took a step forward, fists clenched at his sides. "And she's going to kill again. You know that, don't you?"

Wanda exhaled slowly, looking at Jean. The other woman was barely holding on, her body caught between two forces—the girl she had been and the cosmic entity inside her.

"You don't understand," Wanda murmured.

Hank turned to her sharply. "Then make me understand."

Wanda's eyes burned red and then she let him see. A pulse of chaos magic lashed out, not as an attack—but as a bridge. She reached into Hank's mind, showing him what she had seen. The void. The hunger. The Phoenix's eternal need to consume, to burn, to end. And through it all—Jean fighting. Struggling. Trying to hold on.

Hank staggered back, his face pale. Wanda's voice was quiet but firm. "Jean didn't want this. And she's fighting it every second."

Jean blinked rapidly, her fire flickering again. She looked at Wanda like she couldn't believe what she was hearing. Like no one had ever believed in her before.

Wanda turned back to the others. "If you go after her like this, she will lose control. You'll be the ones pushing her over the edge."

The battlefield was silent. The tension hung thick in the air. Erik looked at Wanda, at Jean, at the destruction surrounding them. His hands flexed, his mind warring between vengeance and something else.

Finally, he exhaled sharply. The metal around him stilled. Hank swallowed thickly and looked away. His grief hadn't lessened. His pain hadn't faded. But Wanda had shaken him.

Jean, still floating, whispered, "Why?"

Wanda met her gaze, steady and unwavering and told her, "Because I know what it's like to be afraid of your own power."

Jean's lips parted slightly, something raw flickering across her face. And for a moment—just a moment—the Phoenix's flames dimmed, and all that remained was Jean Grey.

Wanda extended a hand, giving a choice. Jean hesitated. Then—her fingers brushed against Wanda's. The fire didn't burn. And for the first time in a long time, Jean felt human again.

A shudder ran through Jean's body the moment her fingers met Wanda's. The heat of the Phoenix flared, threatening to burn away this fragile connection—but Wanda didn't pull back.

She wouldn't.

Chaos met fire, a pulse of raw power rippling between them. For a moment, Wanda thought it might consume her. That the Phoenix would take this opportunity to latch onto her completely, to make her more—something terrifying, something beyond human comprehension.

But it didn't.

Because Jean was holding it back.

Her breath hitched, golden flames flickering around her like a living thing, writhing against her skin. Her face twisted in pain, and Wanda felt it through their touch—the weight, the pressure, the constant screaming hunger in the back of her mind.

Jean had been fighting this battle alone.

Wanda strengthened her grip. "You're not alone."

Jean let out a sharp, ragged breath, her eyes locking onto Wanda's. Desperate. Pleading.

"I don't know if I can stop it," Jean whispered. "It's too much."

The air was thick with swirling energy, the cosmic flames of the Phoenix raging around Jean and Vuk. Jean's eyes burned bright, the force of the Phoenix threatening to consume her completely. Her fingers curled tightly around Wanda's, trembling with the weight of the decision she had just made.

"You can," Wanda whispered softly.

Jean's eyes were filled with despair, her tear-streaked face reflecting her inner turmoil. "I don't want to fight it anymore. I never asked for this. Any of it," she said, her voice breaking, the pain and exhaustion weighing on every word.

Wanda's heart twisted with empathy as she felt the raw, aching vulnerability in Jean's plea. Jean was lost, drowning in the power she had no control over, and Wanda could feel her pull—the urge to help, to fix this. But something in Wanda knew this was not the right way. Jean's soul, her very essence, was at stake, and Wanda couldn't allow Vuk to take what didn't belong to her.

Jean's resolve solidified as she turned to Vuk, who stood with an almost serene expression, watching her with cold calculation. "I traveled to the stars for a gift that you don't want," Vuk said, her voice smooth, enticing.

Jean looked at her, eyes desperate. "Then take it. Please. Free me."

Wanda felt her stomach twist. She wanted to help Jean, wanted to give her peace, but Vuk couldn't have this power. It belonged to Jean—only Jean—or no one at all. Wanda knew that. The Phoenix wasn't something to be handed over; it wasn't a gift to be traded.

Wanda stepped forward, her fingers tightening around Jean's in an attempt to anchor her, to remind her of her humanity. Vuk's expression remained calm as she stepped closer, her arms reaching for Jean. "I'll try," she said, almost as though she were humoring Wanda's protests. She pulled Jean into her embrace, and in an instant, the Phoenix Force responded. Cosmic fire erupted around them, flames that twisted and spiraled, threatening to engulf everything in their path as the Phoenix attempted to transfer to Vuk.

"Stop it! You're going to kill her," Charles pleaded with the blonde woman, attached to Jean. He tried to move towards them from his spot on the floor but his legs were still injured and without Jean's telekinesis moving him he was imobile.

Jean gasped, her body wracked with the force of the transfer. Her mind was trapped, fighting against the Phoenix's overwhelming will, but something deep inside her still wanted to hold on—to stay Jean.

"Your lives mean nothing. Your world will be ours," Vuk told him with a feral grin as she leeched the power of the Phoenix from Jean. Wanda's eyes narrowed at the woman's words and that's when Wanda knew she couldn't let this happen. The Phoenix wanted to leave Jean's body, but Wanda would stop it at all costs especially if this was the woman that was trying to obtain it.

With a single, focused motion, Wanda's fingers twisted through the air, and the energy around them seemed to still for a heartbeat. She focused her powers, not just at the Phoenix but at the very core of the transfer. Her red magic pulsed out, crashing into the swirling cosmic flames with a fierce determination.

"Stop," Wanda said, her voice full of both command and pain. She stretched her will out, pulling the Phoenix back toward Jean, reversing the flow of power. The Phoenix Force fought against her, but Wanda pressed harder, the air thick with the strain of it.

"You're not taking her," Wanda growled, her eyes glowing with an intensity that matched the raging fire around them.

Vuk flinched, surprised by the force of Wanda's intervention. "You cannot stop this," she hissed, her voice laced with venom. She pushed against Wanda's magic, but Wanda's grip only tightened.

Jean's body trembled as she fought to hold on, to stay herself, as the Phoenix Force tried to slip away. But Wanda, her magic wrapping around Jean like a protective shield, forced the power back into Jean's body.

"No," Jean gasped, her voice pained as the Phoenix force raged inside her. "I don't want this anymore... I can't control it."

Wanda's eyes softened with sympathy, but her resolve didn't waver. "Jean, you can control it. You have to let go of the fear. It's your power. Don't let it define you."

Xavier's voice echoed from a distance, filled with urgency. "Jean, let go! You have to let go!"

The cosmic flames of the Phoenix flared, wrapping around the three of them like a living thing, but Wanda's red magic was holding it in place. "Let go, Jean!" Wanda urged, her voice filled with both strength and desperation. "Don't give in to it. You are more than this power."

Jean's mind was a battlefield, her soul torn between the Phoenix and her true self. The power surged through her again, testing her will, pushing her to the edge. The transfer was almost complete, but Wanda held firm, her magic locking the Phoenix Force in place.

"Jean," Wanda whispered, her voice soft but commanding. "You are strong. You've always been strong. This is your choice. Don't let it take you."

Jean's body went rigid as she fought the pull of the Phoenix, her breathing shallow. Then, with a gasp, Jean's hands clenched, and a wave of energy washed over them. The Phoenix, struggling to move beyond her, finally began to recede.

The cosmic fire flickered, weakening, as Jean took control. Slowly, her eyes, once glowing with the Phoenix's fire, softened, returning to their original color.

Wanda stood, chest heaving with the effort, watching as Jean slowly but surely wrestled the power back into herself.

"I— I did it," Jean whispered, her voice quiet with relief and disbelief.

Wanda nodded, her expression softening as she let out a slow breath. "You did. It's still yours, Jean. Always yours."

But they both knew, in that moment, the battle wasn't over yet. The Phoenix wasn't gone, but Jean had won back her own power, for now. And Wanda would be there, standing by her side, ready to protect her from anyone who tried to take it away again.

The moment of victory was short-lived. Jean, still trembling from the battle within her, took a deep breath, her eyes flickering as if she was on the edge of collapsing. For a moment, it seemed as though she had regained control, the Phoenix's flames dimming, but the power was too much to contain. It surged again inside her, overwhelming her senses, and before she could fully process it, Jean's body gave way.

Her eyes flickered with the briefest glimpse of the Phoenix before they rolled back, and she crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Wanda, standing next to her, felt a surge of panic. She rushed forward, but as she reached Jean, she felt the sharp sting of a presence behind her—Vuk, still determined to claim what she believed was hers.

With a roar of anger, Wanda thrust her hands out, a blast of crimson energy erupting from her palms. It slammed into Vuk, sending her flying backward, her body crashing into the wreckage of a nearby structure.

"Stay down," Wanda muttered under her breath, eyes still glowing with fury.

But the danger wasn't over. As Vuk writhed on the ground, struggling to rise, Wanda's attention shifted back to Jean. Her heart raced as she knelt beside her, gently brushing her hair away from her face. The Phoenix's power was still inside Jean, trying to consume her once more.

Suddenly, a noise—a distant rumble—caught Wanda's attention. Her head snapped up, her eyes narrowing in realization. Before she could react, a barrage of force hit her from every direction. She barely had time to raise her hands in defense before she was hit by a stun blast that sent her flying backward.

Pain coursed through her body, but it was nothing compared to the overwhelming sense of being surrounded. Police—specialized units—emerged from the shadows, weapons raised, their movements swift and methodical.

"She's down! Secure the mutants!" one of the officers shouted.

Wanda struggled to push herself to her feet, her head swimming from the stun blast, but the officers were already closing in on her. She tried to raise her hands, but it was too late. The magnetic force of their restraints clamped around her limbs, and before she could react further, a tranquilizer dart shot into her neck, sending her vision swimming.

Through the haze, she caught sight of Xavier, her father, and the others also being taken down by the Mutant Taskforce. Scott was already struggling against his restraints, but he was swiftly subdued.

The situation had escalated too quickly. Wanda's world blurred as the tranquilizer took effect, her legs buckling beneath her. She fought to stay conscious, but it was no use.

Through her fading vision, she saw Vuk standing, her eyes burning with rage. The Phoenix's power still hung in the air, a constant threat, but Vuk wasn't focused on the others now. She was turning her gaze toward Jean, who still lay unconscious, the Phoenix swirling dangerously around her.

Before Wanda could form a coherent thought, darkness overtook her, and she lost consciousness, her last thought being the haunting feeling that everything was slipping out of their control

𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐀, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟒

𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐘 apartment where a haggad solider out of time ran to hide. A forgotten corner of the city, wedged between a shuttered tailor's shop and a crumbling concrete wall graffitied with the ghosts of a hundred different revolutions. It was barely more than a room—just a cot pressed against one wall, a cracked mirror hanging crooked above a rust-stained sink, and a window overlooking rooftops that sagged like tired shoulders beneath years of rain and rust.

But it was quiet.

And sometimes, quiet was the closest thing to peace Bucky Barnes could find.

He sat by the window, his silhouette barely more than a shadow in the dim evening light. In one hand, a half-eaten apple, browning at the edges. In the other, a battered notebook, pages yellowed and dog-eared, the spine soft from wear. His metal fingers curled around it with surprising gentleness—like it might shatter if he held on too tight. Some part of him still didn't trust his own strength. Or maybe it was the memories inside he was afraid to break open.

The pages were filled with fragments—ink-blotted pieces of a puzzle that never quite fit together. Names, dates, faces. Emotions that didn't always have context. Things he'd scrawled down in the dead of night, desperate to hold onto anything that felt real. Some of them were memories. Some were guilt, scribbled in the shape of someone else's name.

He turned to a familiar page. The corner was folded, the ink smudged from how often he came back to it. Two names, nothing else.

Wanda Maximoff. Pietro Maximoff.

His eyes lingered there, and for a moment, everything else fell away. The world around him faded, and he was somewhere colder—colder and sharper, a memory etched in steel and silence.

Wanda. Eyes like storms barely held at bay. Pietro, all fire and defiance, a constant blur of movement and fury. They had been just kids when Hydra took them—young enough to still believe in things like fairness, too old to cry when they learned better.

And he—he had been the instrument of their suffering.

The weapon.

He swallowed hard, jaw tightening. He remembered the dim corridors of the Sokovian base, the scent of antiseptic and fear. How Wanda would shrink into corners when he passed, how Pietro would meet his eyes like he was daring him to make the first move.

But they had never looked away. Never looked through him like the others did. Like he was nothing but circuitry and violence.

He remembered watching them once—Wanda resting her head against Pietro's shoulder, his hand brushing her cheek with the care of someone who had only ever known loss. It should've been strange, maybe. But it wasn't. It was comforting. They were the only constants in each other's worlds, one soul split in two. Their love had depth and fire and ferocity—and when they let him in, it felt like standing in the eye of a storm that had made room just for him.

They'd seen something in him—maybe just a flicker, but it had been enough. Enough for Pietro to share half a stolen ration of bread. Enough for Wanda to sit in silence beside him during the long nights, trembling but unflinching.

One night, she had crept into the corner of his cell and asked him quietly, "Do you remember your name?"

He didn't. Not then. Not really. But when she called him Soldat, it had sounded different from the way the scientists did. Less command, more... questioning. Like maybe he could still choose who he wanted to be.

He remembered. A flickering light, the hum of broken machinery in the background. Wanda had reached for his hand—his real one—and traced the calluses of his knuckles with her fingertips. He remembered the way she whispered his name—"James"—like it was sacred, like it belonged to someone she wanted to save.

And when she kissed him, it wasn't out of pity. It was fire and vulnerability and a question neither of them knew how to ask out loud: Can we still feel something real?

They had stolen that moment in the dark. Just one. Her head against his chest, his arm around her waist, and—for a few hours—no Hydra, no pain, no missions.

It hadn't ended there.

He remembered another night—softer and quieter. The three of them curled up behind a broken storage unit, hidden from cameras. Wanda rested against his chest, and Pietro held his hand. A warmth enveloped them, a sanctuary. They shared a stolen kiss—first from Pietro, sharp and breathless, then from Wanda, slow and trembling, a secret whispered between them.

They had shared more than trauma; they had shared hope. They had shared him.

Even the Winter Soldier had watched them differently. There had been flashes, moments between programming, when the machine saw something it didn't understand: Wanda's hand stroking his hair, Pietro teasing him into something like a smile. And the Winter didn't feel, but Bucky did. Some quiet part of him buried deep beneath the kill orders and red stars. That part ached.

They were taken before he could find out what happened to them. Just another classified file locked behind Hydra's iron doors.

Now, he was free.

Whatever that meant.

No more missions. No more handlers or code words whispered in his ear. No more waking up in strange places with blood under his fingernails and no memory of how it got there. Just... him. Whoever that was.

And the silence. The crushing weight of it. The way it made every second stretch like punishment. Because freedom didn't mean peace. Not for him. It meant remembering. It meant the guilt finally had nowhere else to go.

He tapped the notebook with a gloved finger. He hadn't stopped looking. Quietly, carefully. No flags. No operations. Just whispers picked up from shadows. Hydra had gone underground, but it was never gone. Its roots were everywhere. And if they knew the twins had survived, they'd want them back.

He couldn't let that happen.

Not to them.

Not to the ones who had made him feel human. Who kissed the blood from his knuckles and dared to believe he could still be more.

A dog barked somewhere down below. A motorbike's engine growled past on the street. The world kept moving forward, a blur of lives and laughter and color. And Bucky—he remained still. A ghost in a city that didn't know his name. That didn't see the blood on his hands.

He closed the notebook and leaned his head back against the wall, feeling the cool stone press against the back of his skull. He let the silence stretch, let himself remember.

Wanda's voice in a dim corridor, barely above a whisper, "You don't belong to them. Not really."

And Pietro's voice, sharp with fire, "You're not the only one with something to fight for."

One night, his own voice, hoarse and unsure, asked, "Do you really want me?" Wanda cupped his face, while Pietro pressed a kiss to his temple. "We already do," Wanda answered.

He hadn't known what those words meant, back then. Maybe he still didn't. But they stayed with him. Etched deeper than the commands ever had.

"I'll find you," he murmured to the quiet room, a promise made to ghosts. "I swear."

It was more than hope. It was something like belief. Like the first step toward something better.

Because maybe they didn't belong to him, but he belonged to them and he would find his way home.

The ride to Sokovia hadn't been long, but Bucky didn't remember most of it.

The train, the silence, the way the cold seeped through his coat and settled deep in his bones—it all blurred together like a dream he didn't want to wake from. Or maybe a nightmare he couldn't escape.

By the time he reached the outskirts of what used to be the Hydra facility, the sun was already low, throwing long shadows over the wreckage. What was once concrete and steel had been reduced to blackened ruins and twisted metal. The fire had eaten through everything—walls, labs, cells. Like the place had been trying to erase itself from the world.

But Bucky remembered.

He stood at the edge of the scorched earth, the wind tugging at his jacket. Smoke still lingered in the air, faint but acrid, clinging to the back of his throat like guilt.

They were gone.

He walked through the rubble, boots crunching over glass and ash. The rooms were barely recognizable, charred bones of what used to be nightmares. There had been cages here. Observation rooms. He remembered the cold light and the sound of muffled screaming.

He remembered them.

Wanda, curled into herself in the corner of her cell, silent but burning. Pietro pacing like a caged animal, always one second from breaking. He remembered their eyes most of all—how they had looked at him like he was something in between a monster and a man.

And worse, how they had looked at him when he'd tried to protect them.

He had never had the words. He still didn't. Just gestures—a stolen apple, a few seconds of warning before a test. A hand on Pietro's shoulder when he was dragged away, too rough but meant to comfort. A shared glance with Wanda, long after lights-out, when silence said more than anything.

It had never been enough.

He stepped over a half-collapsed door frame and crouched low near a corner of the ruins that hadn't burned completely. There, half-buried beneath ash and debris, was a small scrap of paper. Burnt around the edges but still legible.

"We wait. But not forever."

The handwriting was sharp, fast, angry. Pietro's. No question.

Bucky's heart twisted in his chest.

They had been here. Alive. Together. And now... gone.

He pressed the scrap of paper between gloved fingers, his breath catching in his throat. Were they taken? Did they run? Had they known he was coming? Or worse—had they given up waiting?

He sat back, the weight of it all pressing down on him. This wasn't just about guilt anymore. Wasn't just redemption. Somewhere along the line, he had stopped looking because he owed them and started looking because he needed them.

Because he missed her voice in the quiet. Missed the way she had looked at him like he was something worth saving. Missed the tension in Pietro's shoulders when they stood too close, the way his gaze had softened just slightly when Bucky slipped him food he didn't eat himself.

He didn't know what he was to them. He didn't know what he could be. But somewhere between the shadows of that base and the fire that had erased it, he had found something like love. Not the kind he'd grown up with—roses and dances and sunlight—but something sharp-edged and scarred. Something real.

And now, they were gone again.

He stood slowly, the paper still in his hand, and looked out at the treeline.

"Damn it," he whispered, the words torn from his chest like they hurt to say. "Where did you go?"

The wind didn't answer. Just rustled the leaves like laughter in another language.

He should've been faster. He should've come sooner.

But he hadn't.

And now all he had was a burned-out ruin, a crypt that held no bodies, and a single message scrawled in desperation.

They had waited.

He didn't know if they still were.

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I'm shit at fight scenes so I hoped you enjoyed? Also Bucky POV? God I love him and want to hide him from the world.

Next Up! The last bit of the Dark Phoenix movie and shit hits the fan. Ya'll not ready for what happens. Bucky goes on a mission to find his lovers and gets himself in a little bit of a strange situation.

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