∆ {6⁷} {DISCOMFORT IN CONFRONTATION} ∆

Four Years after The Snap

THE WORLD HAD stalled. As if, in these five minutes of silence, it hoped to make up the Silence that followed that the Snap deserved. At first, it had been constant, and then people had suffocated, drowned in it. So it was spaced out now, five minutes, one day a week.

Five minutes.

The birds had quietened, the wind had paused, and the Compound's usual electrical buzzing was drowned out here, where she lay in the grass. It tethered her just enough to keep her from drifting to another sea of green, one where stars burned in patterns that she doubted would ever leave her mind. Her eyes were closed, as she remembered the names of those people she'd let shatter into dust.

Sam Wilson, Peter Parker. Bucky Barnes, Stephen Strange. T'Challa and his sister, Shuri. Nick Fury, Maria Hill.

Wanda Maximoff.

That one name, written in red, separate from the others, the constellations she'd created sprawled in crimson ink around it. The space and darkness that her mind had assumed to be between the few, bright points, and had based her map of foreign stars on.

Four minutes.

Grass ruffled around her, in a breeze that had been muted by the world in its respect for those it had lost, everyone that they had lost. Even the balance of nature understood that people still needed this moment to dwell, to move on, or to remember. A time to grieve, designed by the world itself.

Three.

Natasha was sitting on the bench that overlooked the lake, enjoying the view. A vest wrapped around her chest, tightened enough that it restricted her breathing into harsh lurches that allowed her to feel like she was crying. To feel like she was honouring the memory of her sister, who deserved the agony of Natasha's tears. She'd always found herself wearing it at this time in the week. To commemorate the woman she'd had so little time with, one she'd been so awfully proud of.

Two.

The wind around Natasha matched her breaths. Sharp, harsh, ebbing one way and then pushing forwards another. The place Roxi had chosen was quiet. It felt too empty to Natasha, as if the emptiness that had taken residence in Roxi after their visit to the Garden had seeped out of her, poisoning the spot to be eternally trapping. Designed to make Roxi dwell on it further, to believe that it was her fault. Natasha had moved past that thought a while ago now, but it didn't mean she was ready to move on from Yelena.

One minute.

The incarnadine ink that spelled Wanda's name spread, like a stain on the blank page of Roxi's mind. Formed a woman, surrounded by scarlet magic - a witch's magic. It formed long hair that floated as if a breath of wind had caught it in exactly the right place, shaped into a body - a leather jacket that had once been Natasha's, a t-shirt settled underneath it. Created a –. Part of Roxi wanted to frown. The part that wasn't connected to her body in that moment, that she had subdued because the dead deserved her respect, her penance.

She tried again, this time focusing solely on the young Maximoff's face.

Some features were there. The shape of her eyes, the dimples and quirk of her lips when she smiled. But the others were hazy, as if smudged by a carless hand. As if its creator didn't care enough about the subject to truly study the way they looked, and had just filled in the gaps with bloodstain-blotches to call it abstract art.

But Roxi's heart had begun to race. Her breath accompanied it, and so did her mind.

She tried again, only to find that this attempt was too, in vain.

The time for reflection hit zero. It had run out.

Roxi jolted upright exactly as it did, her hands suddenly cradling her head as she curled into her own body, squeezing her eyes shut, wishing that the wind that now, suddenly seemed to be roaring, would shut up. Wished that the feel of the grass, the smell of the flowerbed just over the hill, the coppery taste of blood on her tongue, would simply cease. Her mind was scrabbling, screaming one thought at her, one that sent desperate breaths and trains of thoughts shuddering through her in hopes to come up with something to contradict its statement.

Because she could not remember what Wanda had been. Not properly. She couldn't remember the colour of her eyes, the feel of her hugs, the sound of her laughs, exactly how strongly her accent had curbed her voice. The information had fallen through the gaps, and had sunk to the bottom of the dark ocean that rested inside of her skull.

Roxi couldn't remember the shape of her face, the beautifully innocent look on it when she had asked to watch the stars. Was unable to recall the comfort that her sister had brought her.

That realisation, and its accompanying jolt of pain sent her staggering to her feet. The world blurred. Whites, blues, greens, yellows. But she wanted to see red, to see something that reminded her of Wanda dearly enough that it might be able to remind her of those missing pieces of information she was scouring the space inside her skull for so desperately.

How she'd ended up in Wanda's room, she wasn't sure. A glance at the empty space, at the ink of the tattoo she'd got from the place that Mara got hers done to mark the map of the foreign stars that sprawled over her arm, and hid thin, crooked scars. It was enough she sent her reeling mind downwards. Spiralling desperately, without any hope of pulling up.

She was feeling far too much, in far too little time.

Waves crashed over her in bitter, twisted tides. It was spite, anger, guilt, regret, dread. Never happiness for the things she had left, because those things could not shine down to the depth she was at. For the third time in the past week, she caught herself being selfish, but this time she would let it slide. She needed to get these waves of emotion out, to calm down while she was still able to open the trapdoor, before they would seep through and rust it shut. She would not lose any more of Wanda, any other pieces of her sister.

Somehow, she'd ended up with one of the large kitchen knives that had been Wanda's in her hand. It was the largest one, but with her vision blurring, swimming, and pain suddenly rippling through her mind as it always did at the worst time, piercing and never-ending, she didn't care what she held. The empty wall opposite the bathroom looked too blank, too clean to be in a room that held quite so much emotion, quite so many memories of ghosts. Before she really knew what she was doing, she had slammed the blade hilt-deep into the plaster. She didn't pay much mind to the wiring that might've been there, her powers subconsciously moving everything metallic out of the way.

She dragged the knife down with all of her strength, ripping the plaster as she carved the first line, yanking the blade out to observe it for a split-second. As best she could with her mind caught in the middle of what seemed to be a whirlpool, dragging her down as she had the knife. Just a second, and then she plunged it back into the wall.

By the time she was done, her fingers were red and her hands ached with effort, her arms shaking. The last line fell further down where it was meant to, and as soon as she'd realised she had finished what she was doing, she fell to her knees and leant her forehead on the hilt of the knife that was still stuck into the wall. Tears coated her face, and it was possible that blood had dribbled down from where she'd accidentally bit down so hard on her lip that she'd tasted metal almost immediately.

Roxi remained, slumped on her knees, her head and hands resting on the knife. She wasn't sure if she'd cut herself. Her fingers were numb with the force she'd been using.

Sprawling out over the wall beside her, lay the map of stars, carved into a wall painted green enough to resemble an emerald sky.

"Roxi?" Natasha's now-quiet voice sounded from the doorframe, and Roxi squeezed her eyes shut once again. Why did Natasha have to find her here? Why now, when her voice and breath was still as shaky as her mind and body were, when her fingers were still clamped around the hilt of the knife.

She barely felt Natasha's gentle touch on her shoulder, and yet it was enough to make her jolt in surprise. Natasha's hand had retreated immediately, and a silence pure enough for Roxi's rattling breaths to be heard by both of them settled over them while Natasha surveyed the wall that she was slouching against. Let her forest green eyes trace lines that had become familiar to her over these past few years - in a bad way. She recognised it in an instant. She hated those marks. Hated what they did to Roxi.

Gently, ever so slowly, she moved to where the knife was still plunged into the plaster of the wall and where Roxi's fingers were locked around its hilt. Carefully, she began to pry them away, quietly noting the way they tremored, and just how cold they were. Roxi wore nothing more than a thin t-shirt, that would've been fine outside, in the spring sun. But here, in the semi-darkness that was chilled by the air conditioning; maybe the shivers weren't only from the exertion.

Somehow, she managed to pull the knife away from Roxi, and put it down on the living room table. It still held some of Wanda's things that she could only hope Roxi hadn't noticed.

Instead, she drew the woman into her arms, pulled her away from the now-scarred wall and out of Wanda's room. She assumed the only reason that Roxi deigned to leave it was because she was deep enough in her mind not to notice. Natasha led them both through the halls, once again feeling just how skinny Roxi felt through her clothes, and eventually into the kitchen, where she helped Roxi up onto a bar seat. A part of her became quickly terrified upon feeling how light she was, just how much weight she'd lost.

She made them both a peanut butter sandwich, and sat in silence as she wondered how to bring Roxi back into her mind. So, she broached a topic she hadn't dared to discuss with Roxi, even though she'd been supplied with information about it. It was time she brought it up, anyway.

"Uh.. There's been some news about Clint." The only sign that Natasha's words had reached Roxi was her hand, the one that Natasha still held, because its shaking had stopped.

"Rhodey's been giving me updates. Um.." How the hell did she say this?

She explained as best as she could in her new, quiet voice. Roxi's attention had snapped to her fairly early into their explanation, but Natasha didn't take her eyes away from the plate where their sandwiches had lain.

Silence buzzed around them.

It seemed that Roxi wasn't the only one who had changed so dearly, though what she was doing came in no way close to what Clint was. They had all changed, it seemed. Let their minds deteriorate, but refused to allow their bodies to do the same.

Her mind was unimportant, as long as she could think clearly enough to function. As long as she could force it to work through the headaches that now, quite literally split her vision, that blurred the world and forced her to hold still until they'd gone, hanging her head in hopes it would help the faintness go away.

It never did, and sometimes the pains even sent her mind reeling to the point where black and white spangles cast themselves across her vision in disorienting tides. It was pure agony. Suffering stretched out over hours, because they'd been lasting longer too. Becoming more and more common as she became equally as tired, just as her normal cramps had become more painful and happened more often, while her cycle had become spotty and irregular.

To put it shortly, her body wasn't handling the grief and guilt any better than her mind. She could hope it would get better; easier, but she knew it wouldn't.

Nothing good ever happened when she relied on hope.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Whoops. Anyway this isn't that long but hopefully it's worth it and sht caus I like the first 1600 words of this much better than the last 500. Hope I managed to do my idea justice:). Pls vote, comment, let me know what you think, etc.,

JABBERJAY_011

WORDS [2190]

WRITTEN [28.02.2022]

PUBLISHED [0.03.2022]