Chapter 13

Bad Bishop


“Stay awhile! 'Tis sweet … the rare occasion, when our hearts can speak, our selves unseen, unseeing … you do know that I’m going to ask eventually? I can’t read this forever; at some point you have to tell my why you just walked away.” Steve Rogers paused, looking up from the book he was reading. He had slumped himself onto the couch on the opposite side to Wanda, looking awfully comfortable.

“Huh …?” To be fair, Wanda’s response wasn’t the pinnacle of eloquence, but it certainly did the job.

“Jane gets herself the magic trinket you are supposed to ward, and you do nothing? Aren’t you going to stand your ground at least a tiny bit?” Ah, that’s the way the wind was blowing. When Steve had decided to spend the evening in her quarters, she had tried to shoo him away by persuading him to read a french play. It had been obvious that he wanted to talk about what happened that day, be it Victoria Hand’s interference or Jane’s sudden progress in her experiments. Steve had heroically read two acts aloud and with gusto, even having the indecency to enjoy himself. Now he switched the topic, good-natured and amiable, but with enough edge to let Wanda know that he wouldn’t let her sit this one out.

She sighed. “I wasn’t aware that this was a competition. If it is, I’m not playing.”

“That’s almost a defeatist thing to say.”

He was wrong. It wasn’t about being defeated, if the situation was competitive at all, but rather about what she could do and what she couldn’t. After her talk with Victoria Hand, she simply didn’t have the strength for any more conflict and tragedy. Wherever she went, she only found a trail of bodies, the most powerful sorcerer in the world was gone, and she didn’t even know where to start searching while only having a few prophetic visions to cling to. At least another part of the vision back in New Salem made sense now - the double-edged curse woven by her hand was the geis that had so spectacularly backfired on her, so that she couldn’t mention a possible culprit to anyone. If Jane Foster wanted to endanger herself, by all means, Wanda wouldn’t stop her. Not that she could.

“It’s not about being a defeatist.” Wanda said, wrapping her arms around herself, feeling a bit chilly. “It’s about being reasonable. Whatever I do, Miss Foster will simply do it again. She doesn’t believe in the danger - which, to her credit, is only a possibility - and she has made some very tangible progress in a very short time.” If that meant losing, at least she was losing gracefully.

Steve Rogers let the book sink into his lap, visibly choosing his words with great care. “Yet, you seem upset tonight.”

Of course she was upset. She was frustrated and wanted the whole situation solved. She wanted to leave the security of the Tower without stumbling into more death and destruction. She wanted to know that the Doctor and Agatha were safe and sound, and she wanted to finally do something about this mess. She loved Barton as a friend, but neither was he currently there, nor did he seem to notice that she had reached legal age a long time ago and still thought her a kid. Also, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Captain Rogers used kid gloves on her and sometimes treated her like something fragile.

“It should hurt more.” She finally heard herself say in a quiet voice before she could stop herself.

Rogers arched his eyebrow questioningly.

After a deep breath, Wanda decided that it was much easier to share. She was a murderer, as she had been told today. No, no murderer. Murder implied devious and violent intent, and she had done no such thing. What she had done was accidental and by some extent necessary, without malice or hate. It made it no less a crime and a killing, but there had been no murder. There was a fine line, and that line was intent. At least, that was what she told herself. There was a psychological term for it: Rationalization. It was a defense mechanism, so Victoria Hand’s revelation bothered her, which was good from a moral standpoint.

The lack of sorrow on her part only meant that she was numb to it and the shock would come at a later point, or she was emotionally stronger than she had thought. It was a troubling thought, to think that she was even able to take a life and regret it, but ultimately arranging herself with it rather quickly.

That led her to her initial thought: It should have hurt more either way. “You read my file. You know that during my capture, there were … casualties.”

There was something flickering in his eyes which she couldn’t quite place, then nodded slowly, empathically. “I think I understand the problem.” Which was as good a reaction as any. Once more, Wanda had to remind herself that Steve Rogers was a soldier. He killed when given no other choice, and he had done so in the past. When he told her that he understood the problem, but had nothing further to add, she believed him. He had already dealt with his own demons, so to speak.

“I was hoping you did. But why …?”

“... doesn’t it bother you more? Is that normal? No, it isn’t.” There was a soothing quality to his voice and expression, despite the thoroughly disturbing turn. “Most people can’t deal with this type of consequence. You can, and that’s good. You are dealing with it right now. Some people numb themselves to death and become an emotionless husk. You don’t, and that doesn’t make you a bad person, it makes you strong.”

His reassurance, the comforting words and his smile wrung her heart. Could it really be that simple? That it was alright to feel sorrow, but not to be eaten away by it? Could it even be a strength? She would never had thought so, as clinical depression was the ultimate sign of surrender to sorrow, to weakness incarnate. Perhaps she was better than she thought. Perhaps this new lifestyle, for all its frustration, and Steve’s company were better for her than she thought.

“Feeling better now?” He smiled, lolloping himself back on the couch, no matter how preciously little room he left for the other person. When he started reading, he sounded - and Wanda almost hated herself for thinking something so clichéd - dreamily romantic. “I love thee. I am mad. I love, I stifle! Thy name is in my heart as in a bell, and as I ever tremble, thinking of thee, ever the bell shakes, ever thy name ringeth … “ He started to browse through the pages, seemingly sobered from his earlier state. “He does this for the rest of the act?”

Wanda nodded, smiling, trying not to interpret too much into his behaviour. That wasn’t really what he wanted to talk about, but she indulged him for the moment. If he wanted to talk about a play instead about the elephant in the room, by all means, who was she to stop him? “But when it comes to kiss the girl, he sends the man he is impersonating, leaving him Lazarus in a celebration of love.”

With a sudden gesture, he closed the book with a snap. “Ok, I have no time anymore to wait for the ending. Let me sum this up: Cyrano is madly in love with Roxane, but fears her because he’s ugly. Roxane is madly in love with Christian because he’s a pretty boy, but he can’t cater to her artistic needs. Christian is madly in love with Roxane and in his own right a clever boy, but awfully shy and in need of Cyrano feeding him his lines to even have a chance of courting Roxane.”

“Correct.”

“That’s messed up.” Steve shook his head disapprovingly, regarding the cover of the book closely. Wanda had the sneaking suspicion that he related to one of the characters a little bit too much. After all, he had spent most of his lifetime as a skinny little boy that nobody could have taken seriously, and only a few years as the hero he was. Feeling inadequate was something that he probably hadn’t gotten rid of by now, and probably never would. “How exactly does Cyrano think that helping Christian with every word he says to Roxane, even impersonating him, would work in the long run?”

Wanda smiled. “That’s called a major character flaw. Fatal, even. But you surely don’t need me to recite the ‘love is blind’-line, no?”

“Is it?” He asked, his tone now serious. “Dear Ana, what a cynical thought to think love so blind, it can never see through any illusions.”

Now she laughed bitterly. “You have no idea.” But then again, he just might have. “Have you never done something incredibly stupid because you were head over heels for someone?”

It seemed that she had struck a nerve, because he propped himself up, leaning his elbows on his knees, his gaze now intense and utterly serious. “Have you?”

For a moment, she really struggled with the decision to answer that question truthfully. On the one side, she still was a tiny bit afraid to be judged by him. On the other hand, she knew intellectually that he wouldn’t - he wasn’t the type to judge a person by past actions. She could tell him a lie, that she had always kept her head, but suspected that he would see straight through this ruse, especially given the conversation they were having. She could simply decline; he would respect that, but it seemed the cowardly way out.

That left the truth, bare and ugly as it was, and Wanda needed to take a deep breath and couldn’t meet his eyes while she told him. “Yes, I have. I did that with my last boyfriend, the S.H.I.E.L.D-Agent.”

There was an audible gulping sound coming from his general direction. “I sense a story here.”

“Not much of a story to tell. We dated for three years, but I found out about his true obligations after four months.” She grimaced. “It is a curious thing; usually, suffering from insomnia tends to complicate just about everything, but this time, he didn’t notice that I was still awake and called in with his boss with me in the room. Not the smartest move, but then again, my move wasn’t smart either - I stayed.”

“Why?”

“Because love is blind.” Wanda tried to smile, but it must have looked forced and sad instead of reassuring. “He never found out that I knew, while I let him spy on me. I guess he wanted to get my father’s location. That lack of trust is a brittle foundation for a relationship, so I was foolish to think that everything would work out if I just played along.”

Steve Rogers gave her an opaque look and rubbed his palms together and cast his eyes down, as if deep in thought. “Now it’s my turn, isn’t it?” He asked after a while of companionable silence. He glanced at her, and after receiving a barely visible nod, continued. “There was this girl … there are girls and there a girls. I’m not making any sense, let me start again.” He muttered under his breath, avoiding Wanda’s gaze as she had avoided his. “There are different ways to love and be loved. The first love is unforgettable, and then there is love just as fleeting as spring. But there’s also the one special person …”

When Wanda nodded empathically, he made a sound of relief and didn’t continue the sentence. “I had found her … she was headstrong, bold and fierce, and I think she returned at least a fraction of my feelings.”

When she saw him staring into the emptiness, she had to admit that she felt the sting of jealousy when he talked about his former love. Something about him was different tonight, something that might have something to do with this girl of his. He likely had met her in the Forties, so the possibility that she had passed away was not unthinkable. Perhaps it was even the anniversary of her death, or her birthday. Whatever it was, it made his behaviour wistful, but also a tiny bit more erratic than usual. Then again, they had talked an awful lot about pain and loss this evening, which was bound to have an impact on the general mood. She wasn’t immune to it herself.

“What happened?” Wanda wanted to know, but already guessing the answer.

Again, the expression on his face was hard to read, but it was safe to say that a trace of suppressed remorse bled through. “I did nothing. That was everything that happened.” He finally met her eyes and forced himself to smile. “Anyway, no sense in dwelling on the past.” He held up the book. “How does this end, by the way?”

Wanda folded her hands in her lap, feeling a little guilty about answering the question. “You will not like the answer.”

“That always means a lot of death in the last act. Let me guess: Roxanne dies of an illness?”

“Worse.”

“The evil count marries Roxane?”

Wanda shook her head, feeling her mood brighten. “Still worse.”

Steve looked mildly amused as well, which was a good sign. He started to browse through the last pages. “Worse? Must be a bloody spectacle in the end …”

“Not quite. Christian dies shortly after his wedding to Roxane, but don’t worry, she cradles his dead body in her arms.”

He snorted. “Naturally. Frenchmen. What about the hero? What about Cyrano?”

“He dies fourteen years later, about two minutes after his confession about the impersonation and about one minute after confessing his love.” Wanda explained patiently.

“So after all the baked harps, huge noses, colourful fencing and poetry, it’s a story about love and death?” Now, he outright grinned, his mood restored to its former, optimistic self. “Seriously, that’s depressing.”

“The only thing depressing is the fact that you still haven’t packed for your trip to D.C.” She rose from the couch, ready to escort her guest to the door. She would rather have him stay, but a playful part of her wanted to test if he would put up any resistance of calling it a night, the other, more reasonable part was fully aware that he really couldn’t have packed anything.

What baffled her was that he didn’t say anything. Of course, he looked like a boy that wanted to object to cleaning his room, and he followed her with visible regret and reluctance, but he was either reasonable or didn’t really object. Granted, reasonable was the more likely solution.

“Well.” Wanda began as they reached the door to her quarters. “Here we are. Door.” She gestured in the direction of the door for good measure. Why she suddenly felt shy was a riddle for the ages. She had escorted guys to her door for a long, long time now, and only in the earliest and rarest of cases, she had become this shy. “As I said, door. Saying good night. Feeling awkward all of a sudden.”

“Me too.” He looked as if she had just spoken what was at the bottom of his heart all along.

“So …”

“So …”

“It’s good night, I guess.” She shook her head. “I already said that. Indirectly, that is.”

He nodded empathically. “I know what you mean. You know, I wanted to say that I really like these evenings, but I think I will walk through that door first.” He winced almost the second he finished the sentence, probably berating himself for stumbling over his words. It was one of these instances when Wanda noticed that she could hear the blood rushing through her ears and the heart pounding wildly in the chest. It was like being a teenager all over again.

“I keep forgetting something.” Steve muttered under his breath. Of course he kept forgetting something, and how. It was high time that one of them asked the other out for coffee, at the very least. The had danced around the issue for weeks now, and keeping this tension unresolved before he went to Washington would be almost unbearable. But, as always, there were a number of complications.
First, Steve Rogers was an organized person, but not particularly skilled in the rituals that went with every infatuation; neither did he know how to encourage or discourage advances, nor did he get the timing right. He was sweet, but he really didn’t.
Second, Wanda still wasn’t sure if he was doing some innocent flirting or played for keeps. She strongly suspected that he didn’t know either.
Third, warm and fuzzy feelings aside, neither did she know what she was playing at, not to mention that she usually tended to keep things non-committal as long as possible. Some sadistic part of her enjoyed this awkward phase of uncertainty.
Fourth, he was still a man of the forties. On the battlefield, he was mighty Captain America, but Steve Rogers - considering his upbringing - had been taught another flirting etiquette in which the female part was completely passive. So, Wanda had to restrain herself, lest her being too bold would irritate, confuse or even frighten.

These were all good reasons to stand still and keep smiling while he struggled with his decision. Patience was a virtue.

After three seconds, he was still undecided. The women of the forties must have been angels of patience.

He shook his head and reached for the doorknob. Really? Hells and damnation, he just wanted to leave! She was telling herself to be patient over and over again, but some of her higher brain functions had apparently been hijacked by the spirit of throwing away all caution and doing what might irritate, confuse or even frighten. She leaned forward, all her expression a friendly reminder, her voice barely a whisper. “You know, a good-night kiss would be awfully polite.”

This was the first time she actually saw Steve Rogers sweat aside from the sessions with his sandbag. As predicted, he looked surprised and a bit overextended with the situation. Now Wanda couldn’t shake the impression that she had done something highly inappropriate, like harassing a puppy and tried to take a step back. She had just started to wonder if she had misinterpreted their previous interactions - why else would he be so worked up because of a measly kiss? - and braced herself to be rejected. “Sorry, Steve. Too bold …”

“No no no!” He gestured quickly, but he wasn’t as nervous as she had feared him to be. He even managed a wry smile and seemed a bit more relaxed. “I was just wondering where to plant it.”

There are occasions in life where the heart makes a little jump. Those people had highly unathletic hearts, Wanda thought, as hers was making at least a double somersault. She decided to play along, as the playful approach suited her much better. “Depends on what you want to express.” She smiled, taking one of his hands in hers and stroking over the back of his hand. “Politeness.” He played the statue while she spoke, and played it nicely too, while she traced a line with her fingertips on his neck, resting lightly on his pulse. “Passion.” She continued trailing her fingers along his skin, while he closed his eyes and seemed to simply enjoy her feather-light touch. With her index finger, she tipped his cheek. “Friendship.” The same was done with his forehead. “The deepest of trust.” Her touch barely reached both of his eyelids. “Longing.” One tiny pinch to the tip of his nose that made him smile, but not open his eyes. “Sweetness.” Her fingertips wandered directly under the nose. “Bad aim.” At last, two fingers rested on his lips, the meaning left unspoken.

He slowly opened his eyes, but there was a flicker that she hadn’t seen before, as if he saw her for the first time and was in equal parts angry and afraid. His gaze hardened and he gripped both of her shoulders tight, so tight it hurt. His features were distorted into a grimace of complete and utter disgust while Wanda could have sworn that a growl dawned in his throat. His voice was low and dangerous when he finally spoke. “Get away from me, woman!” With these words, he shoved her, and Wanda - horrified about his behaviour - nearly stumbled to the ground. He was gone before she could say anything.

Notes