When the Lights Go On Again 8/20

[seanchai.livejournal.com]

Title: When the Lights Go On Again 8/20
Authors: seanchai and elspethdixon
Rated: PG-13
Pairings: Steve/Tony, Hank/Jan, Carol/Wanda
Warnings: Swearing and violence.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations depicted herein belong to Stan Lee and Marvel comics. No profit is being made off of this derivative work. We're paid in love, people.
Summary: Aliens have invaded earth, and the Avengers are scattered. While Steve leads the resistance, Tony once again finds himself playing captive scientist. In the midst of a violent alien regime, separated by seemingly insurmountable boundaries, Steve and Tony have nothing to keep themselves going but each other.
Author's Note:The point in volume three that we're branching off from was originally published around '98-'99, but since Marvel time runs at a slower speed than real world time, early volume three is probably four or so years ago in canon time. Hence 2004 and troops in Iraq.

Also, a lot of this fic in general, and this chapter in particular owe a great deal to tavella, who helped us to shape this into something that didn't have gaping plot holes.

X-posted to Marvel Slash.


When the Lights Go On Again



Isolating the venom from Clint's blood had been a time-consuming and tricky procedure; only a very small amount of the toxin was present in the sample, and at least half of what Hank knew thus far came from analyzing the effects it had had on Clint's blood chemistry rather than the toxin itself.

Like most earth-based biotoxins, it was a combination of protein enzymes, and probably functioned predominantly as neurotoxin when used on life forms from the Argonians' home world, with some additional mild necrotoxin effect. In Clint's case, however, judging by the histamine levels in his blood, it had also provoked a mild allergic reaction.

They were just lucky Clint wasn't allergic to bee stings, or he would probably have gone into anaphylactic shock immediately.

"So, what is it, and what's it going to do to him?" Steve demanded. "And can you make an antidote?"

"It's technically called anti-venom, and yes, I can." It was going to take days, possibly as long as a week or more, especially given that he had no direct sample of the venom to derive an anti-venom from, and no test subjects, but given enough time, Hank knew he could do it. Time, however, was not something they had on their side in these circumstances. "It won't do us any good, though. Even if I could have it ready in an hour, it would be too late at this point for it to do any good. It's been too long since he was stung."

Steve stared at him blankly; not, Hank guessed, because he actually didn't understand, but because he didn't want to understand. Steve was very good at denial when he wanted to be, and he liked problems to have simple, effective solutions, preferably ones that involved hitting people.

He knew that wasn't an entirely fair assessment, but Hank hadn't had the opportunity to hit anything or do anything else useful in two months, and he was starting to feel more than a little bitter about it.

The worst part was that he had actually felt a moment of exhilarated relief when Jan had come bursting into the hotel suite shouting that Clint had been poisoned with some alien substance, because it meant that here, finally, was a chance for him to be useful. A challenge to keep him from going slowly crazy with boredom.

Clint was probably in agony -- Hank's analysis had also turned up traces of serotonin in the venom, which meant that the injury itself would be extremely painful -- and he was pleased to have something important to do.

There were times when Hank didn't like himself very much.

"Anti-venom has to be administered within a specific timeframe, usually a very short timeframe."

Simon, leaning against the wall behind Steve, made a noise that sounded like someone attempting to muffle the words "funnel web spider" behind a cough and not succeeding.

"Like a funnel-web spider. Exactly. Though given that Clint was still alive when Tony took the blood sample from him, the window of opportunity is probably longer than forty minutes."

"Still alive?" Jan, who had been flying in nervous and slightly distracting circles around the room, froze, hovering in mid-air. "It's not going to kill him, is it?"

Steve's jaw tightened, and his shoulders went stiff.

"No," Hank said patiently, "it's not going to kill him. I don't know how toxic it was to things on their home planet, but for humans, it would take either an injection of venom directly to the neck or torso, or multiple stings to cause death. Since Clint got a scratch on the arm, it'll just make him miserable for a while."

Jan landed on the makeshift lab table, visibly relieved, and Steve relaxed visbly.

"How miserable?" he asked, frowning.

"Fever, chills, headache, muscle tremors... It's kind of like a combination of extra-nasty stingray venom and something else I haven't identified yet, composed of several different enzymes, including something I've named argo-serotonin."

This time, he got three blank stares.

"It's nearly identical to serotonin, except for a few variations in molecular structure. It's probably why he told Tony that his arm hurt. Serotonin causes smooth muscle contractions, and intense pain when injected into muscles or skin."

Clint wouldn't actually die, but he would probably feel like he was going to for the next twenty-four hours. And while the venom itself wasn't likely to kill him, there were further complications.

His blood chemistry had been strange, off in a way that Hank hadn't initially recognized, until he started going through the pathetically tiny amount of scientific and medical literature he'd been able to bring with him. Once he figured it out, it was so painfully obvious he was embarrassed that it had ever stumped him at all.

"The venom, beautiful as it is, isn't actually the most interesting part, though." Hank started pacing, trying to burn off the twitchy euphoria of scientific discovery. "Clint's blood chemistry is--"

"Did you actually just describe alien poison as 'beautiful?'" Simon interrupted, face wry beneath his sunglasses.

"Shut up. Tony may have gone practically orgasmic over the cold fusion, but this is my field."

"What's wrong with Clint's blood?" Jan's voice was still tight with anxiety. She was pacing too, now, following Hank up and down the length of the lab table.

"I didn't realize at first, because I was looking for foreign substances, but he has both electrolyte imbalances and significantly reduced levels of L-ascorbate, and I'd need to test tissue samples to really be certain, but-"

"Which means what, Hank?" Steve interrupted.

"In addition to being poisoned, Clint has a sodium deficiency, and, if his blood plasma levels of L-ascorbate reflect a long-term trend instead of just, say, not eating anything with vitamin C in it yesterday, a vitamin C deficiency, too."

"You mean, because of the poison?" Jan had stopped pacing, and was looking up at him, her head cocked slightly to one side. "That's not normal, is it?" It wasn't really a question.

"No," Hank agreed. "Unless he was sweating absolute buckets, there's no way the poison could give him a sodium deficiency in twenty minutes. You said the Argonians are feeding them the same thing every day, right?"

Jan nodded. "Clint's been whining about how bland and monotonous the food is for weeks."

"Well, whatever it is, it doesn't have any salt or any vitamin C in it."

Simon shrugged, straightening from his slouch against the wall. "And aside from being good for Clint and Tony's blood pressure, this means what?"

Before Hank could tell Simon how stupid he was, Steve had answered the question for him.

"Scurvy," he said flatly. "If we leave them in there too long, they're going to get scurvy."

Hank nodded. "Exactly. Bleeding gums, injuries that won't heal, wounds re-opening, separation of knitted bone fractures..." he trailed off, as it belatedly occurred to him that continuing with the list of symptoms until he got to 'inevitable death' would probably be cruel, and also unnecessary. "Ah, sodium deficiency isn't something to joke around with, either. Medicine isn't really my field, but I know enough about it to know that electrolyte imbalances can have serious health implications." If Clint and Tony stayed under too long, they were going to die. All the Argonians' prisoners and human laborers and guards were going to die. Of an antiquated disease you could prevent with a glass of orange juice.

That thought burned the joy of discovery away even faster than pacing did, leaving only the twitchy need to pace behind. There was really nothing they could do about it, and Hank hated being helpless almost as much as he hated being useless.

Steve's face was expressionless, jaw tight. "How long before it starts to be a problem?"

Hank shrugged. "I don't know. You'd need to ask a doctor. Long-term consequences aren't the immediate problem here." Just the looming and inevitable one.

"Doesn't it take months before people get scurvy?" Simon had taken his sunglasses off and was listening intently now. "You know, sailors on year-long sea voyages and things."

"I don't know," Hank repeated. "I think so. That's not actually why I brought this up, though, except to point out that it's interesting and something else for us to worry about. The real problem is the electrolyte imbalance. If this poison causes vomiting, or a high fever, or anything else that causes dehydration and loss of electrolytes, Clint's in real trouble." It was ironic, really. If Clint died, it wouldn't be from the Argonian's poison but from the food they were giving him.

Maybe it was intentional? Some plan to make prisoners easier to control by keeping them weak? Except why make the guards and laborers sick, too? It was a waste of resources to deliberately malnourish your labor force.

And that was all immaterial right now, compared with the immediate risk of Clint dying because his body chemistry was so out of balance that his cells couldn't function properly anymore.

"I thought you said the poison wasn't going to kill him!" Jan's voice was shrill, almost accusing.

Hank winced. "I meant it wasn't going to by itself, and that antivenom wouldn't do him any good. We can do something about this, though." Not long-term, not enough, but something.

"We need to tell Tony about this," Steve said. "He needs to know. Maybe he'll be able to think of a solution."

"It's funny you should say solution." Hank found himself smiling a little, in spite of the circumstances. "If we can get salt and sugar in to them, Tony can mix it up in water and give it to him to drink. That's basically what IV fluid is."

"Right. We'll do that." Steve turned to Simon. "Carol and Wanda should be back now for debriefing. And Ben wants you with him and Johnny when they raid that supply convoy."

Simon nodded, and put his sunglasses back on. "It might have been nice to know that sooner."

"He originally wanted Carol, but since she and Wanda were gone longer than we expected-"

"I'm not complaining. Just pointing it out."

The two of them left, Steve with a backwards glance at Hank that told him louder than any words that he was not allowed to let Clint die.

The staticky interference that had been affecting all of Hank's scattered pieces of lab equipment ever since Simon had entered the room vanished with them. At least he had been in solid, human form; Simon in ionic form could short out all of the electronics in a ten-foot radius. Wanda could do the same thing, when her control over her powers slipped.

Energy-based superpowers were not kind to sensitive equipment.

"I'm working on an antidote," he told Jan, after a long moment of mutual silence. "But I meant it when I said it would take days. And even if I could do it in hours, it wouldn't-"

"I know, Hank." Jan jumped from the edge of the table and flew over to land on his shoulder, patting him on the side of the neck. "At least we know more now. And you figured out something we can do."

Hank looked away, at the assortment of slides and test tubes scattered across his lab table, all of them containing tiny amounts of Clint's blood, and felt only a little better. "I should be in there," he said. "Then I could-"

"Get scurvy too?" Jan asked dryly.

"If I'd been in there, I would have been able to get a sample of Argonian venom, could have synthesized an antivenom right away. Instead, I didn't even know we needed one, because no one has brought me a dead Argonian yet!"

"You do realize how bloodthirsty that sounds, right?"

Hank shook his head. "The next time someone's stung, it might not be a scratch on the arm. It's pure luck it hasn't happened already. It's not as if I want Cap to cut off one of their tails and bring it home as a trophy; it's for scientific inquiry. There's only so much I can do without research materials. And making homemade explosives for Carol to smuggle over to Brooklyn is something Spiderman can do."

"Clint will be fine," she said firmly. Her hand was simply resting on the side of his neck now, not stroking anymore. "I'll take Tony the salt and sugar and tell him what to do, and he'll be fine."

"I've mentioned how much I hate this before, right?" he asked.

"Repeatedly," she said, and stepped down off his shoulder, growing to full size before her foot touched the ground. Can I have a kiss for luck before I leave, Blue Eyes?"

Hank smiled in spite of himself, the basement lab seeming significantly less dreary for a moment. "Of course."

***

It was freezing, his head hurt, his arm was probably literally about to fall off, and he felt like he was going to throw up. Which would be about the only thing that would make this suck even more, so most of Clint's attention was occupied by trying not to throw up.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been lying on Tony's cot -- he didn't remember getting there, just stumbling down to the mad scientist basement with his arm burning with such excruciating pain that he could barely move, knowing that Tony was the only one down here that he could trust enough to help him.

Tony had gone away for a while, maybe more than once; Clint wasn't sure, because everything since Arch-Captain Mamitu had bitch-slapped him with her tail was kind of smeared together. On the occasions when he came out of his pain-filled haze enough to think about something other than the throbbing misery in his arm and how hard it was to breathe, he mostly concentrated on how much he hated her. It gave him something to focus on.

Clint closed his eyes for a second, trying to block out the glaringly bright light that was only making his head hurt worse, and he must have lost some time, because suddenly Tony was there, trying to make him sit up and drink something.

Drinking was bad, Clint decided. He would probably just throw it back up, and then he'd feel even worse, if that was possible.

Clint tried to push Tony's hands away with his good hand, his fingers numb and clumsy. It didn't do any good.

"Clint, you have to drink this," Tony was saying quietly. "You're sick. You need to drink or you'll get dehydrated."

'I know I'm sick, you condescending bastard,' Clint thought, but when he tried to tell Tony, all that came out was a moan. He curled up into an even tighter ball, pulling the blanket over his head and trying to pretend Tony wasn't there.

The blanket was pulled away, and light assaulted Clint's eyes again, stabbing directly into his brain. Tony leaned over Clint, mercifully blocking out most of the light, and said, in just-audible tones, "Drink the nice water, Clint. It's an order. From Cap."

"He can't tell me wha' to do," Clint mumbled. "He's not here." But when Tony held the edge of the cup against his mouth, he found himself drinking anyway.

Tony was a lying bastard; it wasn't water. It was lukewarm, and salty/sweet and disgusting, but by the time Clint realized that, he had already involuntarily swallowed several mouthfuls of it. He spat the last mouthful back into the cup as the taste hit him, and turned his face away so Tony couldn't force it on him again. "This is disgusting."

"I know," Tony said.

It was also, Clint realized belatedly, as he swallowed hard to try and rid his mouth of the residual taste and notthrowup, salty. Suddenly, he wanted Tony's foul-tasting 'water' desperately, and nevermind how gross it was. He opened his eyes again and tried to reach for the cup, which Tony had moved away from his face. "S'there any more?"

"Just a little, but drink it slowly, or you'll make yourself sick."

"Already sick," Clint pointed out.

"That would be the electrolyte imbalance."

Clint, busy draining the remainder of the salty goodness from the cup, settled for simply giving Tony a confused look.

"I'll tell you later." Tony patted him awkwardly on his good shoulder. "Go to sleep."

"I can't," Clint forced out, through suddenly chattering teeth, as another waves of shakes hit him. "My arm hurts, and my head hurts, and I can't stop shaking. You have no idea how much this sucks." Actually, his whole body hurt, all his joints and muscles a dull counterpoint to the crushing headache and stabbing pain in his arm.

Tony raised his eyebrows. "Are you hallucinating?" he asked.

He didn't think he was. How could you tell? Maybe Tony wasn't really there, and he was talking to himself. Maybe he'd been poisoned by some supervillain and was actually in a nice hospital somewhere, and none of this alien invasion stuff was real. His head hurt too much to try and think about that kind of thing, he decided. Plus, a hospital would have had painkillers. "No," he said finally.

"Then I've experienced worse suck," Tony said dryly. Clint could almost hear the little quote marks around the word 'suck.' "Go to sleep, Clint."

"That was your own fault," Clint stuttered, still shaking -- fine tremors that seemed to make every muscle in his body twitch, keeping him awake when he just wanted to sleep. "It doesn't count."

He was pretty sure Tony actually smiled for a second, which was weird, because Clint had just insulted him. "It always is," he said, "but this isn't your fault." He hesitated. "How bad is it? Do you want me to get Dr. Connors?"

"Can't trust him." Clint closed his eyes again and concentrated on breathing, everything around him fading out again.

"The Arch-Captain wants these back by tomorrow."

That was an Argonian voice. Clint recognized the slight lisp caused by their fangs. He instinctively held still, keeping his eyes closed and pretending to be asleep. Maybe if the Argonian thought he was just napping here or something, it wouldn't realize he was sick.

Sick humans weren't useful. Clint didn't want to know what happened to useless humans. They might fire him and kick him out of their 'native auxiliary,' and then Tony would be abandoned down here. Or maybe they'd just shoot him.

"That's not very much time," Tony was protesting. "You've got me working on three other projects; it will take all night just to-"

"You can drop the other projects until you're done with this. The Arch-Captain thinks you're stalling."

"Why would she think that? They're written in Argonian; like I said, it will take me all night just to figure out what it is, nevermind how to fix it. You're sure you can't just take me to whatever-it-is and let me have a look at it in person?" So I can rig it to explode? Clint filled in mentally. "I work better hands on."

"No non-Argonian personnel are permitted on our ships."

God, he was thirsty. Clint licked his lips, then caught himself and froze again, hoping the Argonian hadn't noticed. His head still hurt, and he was still cold, but not as bad as the alternating suffocating heat and bone-deep cold of before. And his arm didn't hurt quite as much. It felt sore, and swollen, and he was pretty sure it would be agony to try and move it, but at least it was no longer excruciatingly painful as long as he kept it still.

There was silence for a moment, and Clint could feel himself starting to fall asleep again, until the Argonian said,

"I could translate it for you."

"That's- I- You must be busy." Tony sounded kind of strangled. "I wouldn't want to-"

"If this isn't done by tomorrow, I'm the one the Arch-Captain's going to reprimand. Which parts do you need me to read?"

"Ah... all of it?"

Oh, please no, Clint thought. Just leave. He just wanted to sleep. And he wanted the Argonian gone before he started wondering what Clint was doing there, because at some point he was going to question why one of the guards was sleeping on Tony's cot.

He really hoped the Argonian wasn't drawing the wrong conclusion, because the last guard and scientist who'd been sleeping together had also tried to escape together, and been executed. Plus, having all the aliens go around thinking that he was Tony's fuckbuddy would just be... Okay, apparently there were things more humiliating than having to apologize to Arch-Captain Mamitu after the scorpion-tailed alien bitch had hit him.

Tony and the Argonian were still talking to one another, but it was completely incomprehensible now. Science stuff.

He could hear the tension in Tony's voice every time the Argonian asked him a question, but hopefully he was the only one who could. That, or that the Argonian would chalk it up to the stress of having to work to a deadline.

It was unbelievably creepy to hear Tony talk to them. He got this apologetic tone that reminded Clint uneasily of those couple months out on the West Coast, after Tony had stopped trying to drown himself in booze, but before he'd put the armor back on. Back when he wouldn't look anyone in the eye, and had once shown up at the Avengers Mansion with a bruise on his jaw and told Bobbi that he'd walked into a door.

Clint abruptly found himself missing Bobbi intensely. It had been ages since he'd really thought about her; everyone had said he would get over losing her, but he hadn't really expected to. He could still remember the way her hair had smelled, the sound of her voice, but he didn't wake up expecting to find her beside him anymore, and that made him feel... guilty. Disloyal.

Stupid Argonian poison. It made it hard to think, left him all shaky and emotional. And lonely. And cold.

And the Argonian was still here, babbling about propulsion systems and stress tolerance in metal.

Clint was sure he'd never get back to sleep with him there, but he might have faded in and out a little. He wasn't sure. After a while, Tony started to sound more relaxed -- even, once or twice, almost enthusiastic. He always did love talking about machines.

The next thing Clint knew, Tony was shaking him, and lifting him upright to make him drink more water. Normal water this time; he might have regretted the absence of salt, if it didn't taste so much better.

After he'd finished, Tony pulled the cup away again. "Thanks," Clint said, patting clumsily at Tony's arm. He was lucky there was someone here to look out for him, or he'd have been completely screwed.

"I told you he wouldn't die," the Argonian said. Isimud. His name was Isimud, Clint remembered suddenly. Then, oddly hesitant, "The two of you are... friends?"

"Yes?" Tony said, voice so uncertain it was practically a question.

It was nice to know how highly his friendship was apparently valued.

"But... you are a scientist. And he is a warrior."

Oh. This was about their stupid caste system. "So?" Clint asked, at the same time that Tony said,

"My closest friend is-" he broke off, thank God before he could finish with something like 'is Captain America, who we're spying on you for.' "Yeah," Tony resumed, after a moment, "I don't know why they put up with me, either."

"Perhaps because you have skills that are useful to them." One of Isimud's ears twitched. "Like being able to teach them something. Useful people are more highly valued."

Okay, that wasn't a creepy philosophy at all. Maybe he should have stuck to pretending to be asleep. "I'll be fine by tomorrow," Clint declared firmly.

"I'm sure you will," Tony told him absently.

Isimud had his ears fully erect now, like a cat that had just seen something interesting. "Science is valuable," he said slowly. "Being able to communicate with your slaves is valuable. Not as valuable as honorable combat, but..."

Tony shrugged. "It depends on how you define value," he said, in tones that clearly conveyed, 'I disagree with you, but am afraid to say so.' "I used to make weapons. If you measure value in terms of dead bodies, I've probably killed more people than every Argonian warrior in this complex put together."

That was a clear exaggeration. Tony might have designed a lot of weapons, and his company had probably built tens of thousands of them, but deciding that he was personally responsible for everything that was ever done with said weapons was a level of control-freak behavior that, to use one of Beast 's favorite words, bordered on pathological. It wasn't surprising, though, given how much touble Tony's seriously unhealthy ideas of what constituted personal responsibility had caused everyone in the past.

Isimud blinked massive black eyes. "I hadn't thought of it like that."

Clint heard the sound of Argonian bootheels on concrete just as Tony and Isimud both stiffened. Tony dropped his gaze to the floor, going still, and a voice snarled something in Argonian. Isimud responded with something placating and submissive, also in Argonian.

Clint closed his eyes and went limp, to pretending to be asleep, praying that Arch-Captain Mamitu wouldn't notice him. For all he knew, she'd take one look at the aftermath of her poison and decide to come over and finish the job.

"It must be done tomorrow morning," Isimud snapped at Tony. "I have other work to attend to."

The bootheels retreated, and Isimud scurried away in their wake. Clint waited until he couldn't hear either of them anymore before opening his eyes again.

"So," he said, "you and your alien buddy are disturbingly friendly with one another."

Tony's stiff shoulders seemed to sag slightly, and he smiled at Clint. The expression looked strange on his face; Tony never smiled anymore. "That's one of the most coherent things you've said since you came stumbling over here yesterday and passed out on me."

"It's been that long?" Clint reached up and rubbed at his jaw, the layer of stubble there rasping against his fingers. And now that he thought about it, he needed to pee desperately. "I guess it has."

"Long enough for me to meet with Jan twice." Tony made a face. "You don't even want to know what I owe the Rhino."

"Thank you," Clint said. Meeting with Jan twice meant that Tony had managed to find a way to get upstairs onto the ground floor of the station twice. Going through with the regular meet-ups was dangerous enough for Clint, but for Tony... it was a miracle nobody had noticed and questioned his presence on the ground floor. A miracle he hadn't been caught.

Jan might have been able to escape, if the worst happened, but Tony would have been caught for sure, and his stomach-turningly gruesome execution would have been inevitable.

Clint shifted uncomfortably, wincing as his still-swollen arm started to throb. "Help me up, will you?" Bathroom first, he decided, then food. "Is there any of that tasteless protein mush?" Something occurred to him suddenly, and he frowned. "Hey, you gave me salt. Where did you get salt? Are they actually giving us food with flavor now? Is there any left?"

"From Jan, and no, they're not and there isn't." Tony smirked just a little. "It turns out the protein mush is even worse than we thought." He reached for Clint's shoulders and helped pull him upright, keeping one hand between his shoulder blades as Clint steadied himself against the headrush of being upright again for the first time in however many hours.

"How could it possibly be worse?" Clint muttered.

"Apparently, nutrition experts lie; consuming no salt at all is actually bad for you. And salt's not the only thing our food is missing."

"All right," Clint said, "I'll bite. What else is it missing?"

"Vitamin C. Which explains why this," he touched the still-raw scar on his cheekbone, "hasn't finished healing yet, and why my ribs still feel like they're cracked." He surveyed Clint through narrowed eyes. "You should take it easy for the next couple of days. You're not going to heal as quickly as you normally do."

Clint sighed. Just when he thought this miserable underground hell-hole couldn't possibly suck more... "So, when does Hank think our teeth will start falling out?"

***

With the city's population reduced to a third of its normal size, the stockpiles of food in grocery stores had held out for over a month -- close to two months, in some of the less populated parts of the city. But then, inevitably, supplies had finally begun running out, and the Argonians, thoughtful and caring alien overlords that they were, had started shipping food in through the bubble and selling it to a list of 'approved' stores.

Humans with passes -- those people who weren't in hiding -- were distributed a series of ration coupons every week, which had to be handed over along with money or whatever goods were being bartered in place of money in order to buy food.

Ration coupons, like passes, could be forged, but there was no way the Resistance could forge enough coupons to feed the entire organization, plus the refugees still hiding in the Waldorf-Astoria, only some of whom were officially 'there.'

Hence the need to steal -- or, to use what seemed to be Spiderman's new favorite word, 'liberate' -- food and other necessities. Wanda had found that she was disturbingly good at it; it turned out that the skills she had acquired as a teenager, when she and Pietro had been on the run across Europe, hadn't left her.

The Argonians had killed three ex-policemen last week, when a supply drop in the Bronx had turned out to be an empty building, set up as bait to lure them into an ambush. This time, though, they knew their target was legitimate; Jan had scouted the old warehouse in advance, and reported finding it stacked high with boxes of dried good and freezer lockers full of meat. Unfortunately, that hadn't meant that it wasn't a trap.

"I thought you said Jan scouted this place!" Carol shouted, as they ducked behind a pile of crates that were going to offer exactly nothing in the way of protection if one of the Argonians' plasma bolts hit them.

"The twenty Argonians with guns weren't here then!" Wanda flattened herself to the ground, and a line of bright blue-white light punched through the crates and the space where her chest had been moments before.

"Obviously," Carol muttered. "Think you can do something about their plasma guns?" She rose to a crouch just long enough to let off a burst of semi-automatic fire over the top of the crate at the Argonians, and Wanda took advantage of the covering fire to edge sideways and peer around the side of the crates.

Hex spheres only worked within her line of sight.

Projectile weapons, as a general rule, were ridiculously easy to interfere with. Guns misfired or jammed, bowstrings snapped; the more moving parts there were, the less well-maintained the weapon was, the easier her job was.

The Argonian plasma guns were deceptively simple and well-engineered, and nuclear energy was much harder to manipulate than the principles normal guns worked on. Making it fail to function properly without blowing up everything in the immediate vicinity took time, effort, and all of her concentration.

One gun down. Then two. The Argonian holding the now useless weapon stared down at his hands with a look of shocked betrayal, and jammed the weapon back into its holster.

The crates in front of them were smoldering now, moments away from bursting into flames. Wanda could feel the heat radiating off of them, so intense it was painful.

Another plasma bolt burned yet another hole in the crates, and a piece of burning wood fell into Carol's hair. "Damn it," she hissed, swatting at her scalp; Wanda could smell burning hair from two feet away.

"We should-" Wanda was about to suggest that they move to better cover, but Carol was already moving.

She rolled out from behind the crate, somehow managing to keep firing the gun as she did so, and dashed for the corner of the nearest building, plasma bolts streaking through the air in her wake.

'Good choice,' Wanda thought -- these were 19th century warehouses, with brick walls over six inches thick. The Argonians' plasma bolts could melt metal, but they had a harder time going through bricks and stone.

Wanda scanned the area for a new hiding place of her own, and came up with nothing. The Argonians were between the two of them and the river, which meant escaping into the water wasn't possible.

Following Carol looked like her only option.

Wanda took a deep breath, and prepared to make her own dash for the relative safety of the next warehouse.

She was halfway there when fire seared across her shoulder.

She stumbled, and went to her knees on the pavement, clutching at her shoulder. It felt as if the plasma bolt was still searing its way through her flesh, as if her skin were covered in molten metal.

There were Argonians on both sides of them, Wanda realized. While she and Carol had been pinned down, the aliens had circled around and flanked them.

She had to get up again, she knew. Had to run. She was completely exposed here, a perfect target for any Argonian who still possessed a functioning plasma gun.

Carol was there, suddenly, grabbing Wanda by her good arm and pulling her to her feet. Then the closest group of Argonians was charging, and Carol pushed Wanda away, so hard she staggered and nearly fell to her knees again.

Carol was turning to face them, gun at the ready. She leveled it at the closest Argonian, and a plasma bolt hit the weapon dead center.

The semi-automatic exploded, and Carol staggered back, scorched and bloody hands held out in front of her.

The Argonians ought to have started shooting at her then-- Carol was exposed and defenseless, too, now -- but instead, they were aiming at the warehouse wall, the bricks crumbling under the sustained fire.

It took Wanda a long, fatal moment to understand what they were doing -- by the time she realized, it was already too late.

The wall behind Carol started to collapse, chunks of masonry seeming to fall forward in slow motion. Wanda took a step forward, shouting a warning, her hands coming up uselessly, and then Carol buried under a pile of broken bricks and rubble.

There was a long moment of silence as the clouds of red brick dust settled, and then the Argonians began firing into the heap of fallen bricks.

Plasma bolts streaked through the air around her, one burning a hole straight through her sleeve and just missing her skin, but Wanda barely noticed. Her shoulder didn't hurt anymore either, the pain distant and unimportant.

She couldn't see Carol. The only part of her that was visible was a single bloody hand, protruding from the pile of bricks. The hand twitched as another stream of plasma fire hit the bricks, but Carol didn't move, didn't push bricks away and climb to her feet.

'No,' Wanda thought. 'No.' They had already killed Vision. Killed Vance, who had only been a kid. Taken Clint and Tony and locked them away. They weren't going to take Carol from her.

People were always being taken from her. Her mother. Django, her real father. Her husband. Her children.

And every time, she'd been able to do nothing but stand by helplessly and watch. Watch while the twins were erased out of existence. Watch while Simon was killed in front of her. Watch while Marcus kidnapped Carol from Wanda's own bedroom.

She wasn't helpless this time.

The first Argonian's weapon exploded in her hands just as Carol's gun had done, the resulting fireball engulfing her completely. Then the next, and the next, and the next. Wanda walked forward, heat and flame all around her, one concussion blast nearly knocking her off her feet, and knelt down by the pile of bricks. Carefully, one brick at a time, she began moving them off of Carol.

Carol was covered in brick dust, blood in her hair from a scrape down the side of her face. Once, this wouldn't even have touched her. She was supposed to be nearly invulnerable, had been invulnerable, when she'd had her Binary powers.

Carol's eye fluttered open, and she groaned, putting one hand to her head. Then her eyes went to something past Wanda's shoulder and she sat up abruptly, picking up a chunk of brick and throwing it.

Wanda turned just in time to see and Argonian standing only a few yards behind her, a sword in each hand. It swayed on it's feet as the brick struck it, and then another piece of brick hit it in the side of the head, and it crumpled to the ground.

There were a handful of Argonians still standing, those that had been smart enough to drop their plasma guns before they could go out in a blaze of glory like their companions. Wanda climbed to her feet, raising her hands again, and the four remaining Argonians broke and ran.

Wanda watched them go with satisfaction, and then the pain in her shoulder, which had receded into the distance until now, returned all at once. She sat down abruptly on a pile of bricks, clutching her shoulder and fighting down nausea.

Carol rose to her knees, shoving more bricks off her legs with an ease that would have been impossible for a normal person. She didn't try to stand, probably because the rubble was still unstable, instead crawling over to Wanda on hands and knees. "Are you okay? Your shoulder-" She reached for Wanda's arm, then hesitated and drew her hand back.

Wanda abruptly remembered the sight of blue-white plasma bolts being fired into the heap of bricks, with Carol buried motionless beneath them. She leaned forward and grabbed for the other woman, running her hands up and down Carol's arms searchingly. "Are you all right? Where did they hit you?"

"Nowhere. I'm-"

Wanda ignored her, continuing to pat down Carol's body, looking for the wounds that must be there. No one had that many guns fired directly at them and emerged unscathed.

"-fine. They didn't- Ow. Damnit."

There. The fabric of Carol's jeans was singed black over her hip, a rough hole burned through the material right over her hipbone. What skin Wanda could see through the tear in the fabric was red and blistered, the way Carol's back had been after the train job.

A direct hit. Anyone else would have been dead. Even with her powers diminished, Carol was still practically indestructible.

The wave of relief Wanda felt was so intense it made her feel shaky. She wrapped her arms around Carol's astonishingly nearly-whole body and held on, burying her face in Carol's shoulder. "I thought they had killed you," she whispered. "I thought I was going to have to watch them take you away again."

"I'm fine," Carol said. "Some bricks and a couple of burns can't really hurt me. I can still take a hit without going down for the count." She wrapped one arm around Wanda's shoulders, steadying her, and pressed her lips into the side of Wanda's forehead, just below her hairline.

The feel of Carol's mouth against her skin sent a warm thrill through Wanda's body. Without thinking, she opened her eyes and lifted her head from Carol's shoulder. Their faces were only an inch or so apart, hardly any distance at all. Closing the gap and sealing her lips over Carol's took less than a heartbeat.

Carol's mouth opened under her own, and her arm tightened around Wanda's back. Carol tasted like dust and blood, and Wanda could still smell the reek of singed hair from where the pieces of burning crate had landed on her, and the feel of her lips, her tongue, the strength of her hands gripping Wanda's body made her skin flush with heat, the pain of her shoulder distant once again.

Until Carol reached up to touch her hair, and her wrist brushed against the burn.

Wanda gasped, stiffening for a moment at the sudden flare of pain.

Carol went rigid, and abruptly pulled back, breaking the kiss. Then she shoved Wanda roughly away from her and jumped to her feet. "What the hell was that?" she demanded.

Wanda licked her lips -- they tasted like Carol's blood -- and stared up at her mutely, unsure how to respond.

"What were you doing? Why in hell did you think I would-"

"I thought you were-" Carol had kissed her first. The two of them had always been close, and she had thought... Carol liked women, she had to; there had been that whole thing with Jessica Drew, and Wanda had seen the way Carol had watched her when she had stripped off her shirt and bra in that empty office building. Surely she liked women. "I was happy you were all right," she protested.

"I had it under control!" Carol snarled. "Who says I needed your help?"

"You were buried under a pile of bricks!" So this wasn't about the kiss; it was about the same thing Carol's anger was always about, her refusal to accept help or admit that there might ever be anything wrong with her. "They were shooting at you!"

"So you decided to just force your fucking perfect powers and help on me and the hell with what I want?" Carol was shouting now, her hands balled into fists at her sides.

"I thought they'd killed you!" Wanda shouted back, her voice going high and shrill. "I thought you were dying!"

And then Carol launched herself into the sky and flew away, leaving Wanda there alone, kneeling on hard concrete surrounded by dead Argonians and debris and blinking back tears.

What had just happened? Not for the first time, she wished she knew what was going on inside Carol's head. "Fine!" she yelled at the empty sky. "I'll find my own way back."

She levered herself to her feet, every inch of her body aching, and kicked a chunk of brick as hard as she could, blinking her still-stinging eyes.

It did nothing to ease her frustration, and now her toes hurt as well.

Wanda sighed, and walked to the edge of the pier to stare down at the water. This was the docks; there had to be an abandoned boat here somewhere.

There was, and she had gone halfway down the pier toward the empty water taxi when she realized that there were no Argonians left to stop her from getting the food she and Carol had come for. Maybe, she thought, smiling even though it wasn't funny, the mission counted as a success after all.

She had killed over a dozen Argonians. Wanda supposed she ought to feel guilty about that, but she couldn't quite bring herself to. They had been about to kill Carol, whatever Carol thought, and she had been so afraid, so angry... and then she had stopped them. It was the first time in what felt like a lifetime that she had lost control of her emotions without losing control of her powers.

She probably ought to be pleased by that, but she couldn't bring herself to feel pride or pleasure, either. Just a dull, hurt frustration.

What did Carol want from her, and why the hell had she left?

***


Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five (a) | Chapter Five (b) | Chapter Six (a) | Chapter Six (b) | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Eighteen | Chapter Nineteen | Chapter Twenty (a) | Chapter Twenty (b) | Chapter Twenty One