Chapter Text
“Hey, scoot over! You’re in my spot!”
In a dark living room, lit only by the television screen, a young woman in a cross-seated position at the end of the couch slowly looked up at the person behind the voice. She was holding a bowl of popcorn on her lap and was about to eat a piece when she heard the whining tone to her right and raised an eyebrow.
“When the hell did this become your spot?”
“Ever since I decided I wanted to sit there. Now scoot!” The young man before her stood impatiently as he made the shooing motion with his hands, thinking it an effective strategy to get his companion to move.
After staring blankly at him for just a beat, the girl swiftly turned back to the TV and popped the kernel into her mouth.
He glared at her thick, curly hair while she chewed on her food. Becoming further peeved at her lack of motion, in an act of maturity, he sat on her.
“Oof! Oh my god! Get your fat ass off of me!” The girl yelled from under him.
“Get off my spot!”
“You’re gonna get popcorn all over me! You get off!”
“Alright,” then in a flash, he snatched the bowl of popcorn off her hands and sat on the other side of the couch, munching on his new snack.
Processing the now empty space on her lap, she sent a harsh glare to the other end of the couch.
“If you don’t hand that back over right now, I’ll drench you in butter.”
The boy was mid-chew when he scowled at his companion. “On these nice cushions? You wouldn’t dare .”
She only raised her eyebrow and raised her finger before the bowl rested back where it belonged in a blink, the young man muttering under his breath.
“Stupid butter threat,” he said, licking his fingertips.
“ Dinlo ,” she uttered, holding her bowl tight.
“Love you too, pen ,” he sent a wide sarcastic grin her way, to which she rolled her eyes so hard he was surprised it didn’t fall off. He stretched his legs on the couch until they touched her thigh and turned back to the TV.
“What are you even watching anyway?”
“It’s this new pilot called ‘Tabatha’. I think it’s a sequel to that show, ‘Bewitched’? I dunno, she’s using magic here too.”
The boy scrunched his nose as he reached over and took a handful of popcorn from the bowl.
“Ew, they made a sequel to that boring show? Why?”
“The original show was charming,” she miffed.
“If you’re an old lady, maybe,” he shoved the snacks into his mouth and chewed with his mouth open. “Iph yur gonnah mayke duh widge duh mayne karaktuwr, at leesht mayke hur phyte wawlocks or shomethin.”
“That is so not the point of the show.”
The boy finally swallowed his food and placed his greasy hands on the back of his head.
“Yeah. And that’s what made it boring.”
His companion grimaced and rolled her eyes again when the next scene on TV played out.
Tabatha was on a home date with her boyfriend. When all of a sudden, a man magically appeared behind the pair. Tabatha noticed the man and tried to discreetly shoo him away while her boyfriend felt the presence and looked behind him. Only to find no one there, spooking him.
“Well, you might like this show. Tabatha’s brother is a wizard and is an absolute menace to his sister’s personal life. Sound familiar?”
“Heh, I think I remember doing that to you and Simon before.”
The girl took one of the pillows on the couch and threw it at her brother’s head while he jovially laughed.
Tabatha sneaks to her room to find her brother and scolds his shenanigans. He reveals that he’s doing all this to pressure her to tell her boyfriend of her witch heritage. Meanwhile, Tabatha’s boyfriend tries to leave a couple of times but in a show of slapstick comedy, would fail due to Tabatha interfering with magic. Overwhelmed, she threatens her brother to go away, or she will transport him back to 18th Century Salem.
“Ooh, that’s a good threat. I should take notes.”
“Not like you can do it, anyway,” the young man boasted. However, he seemed to second guess right after. “R-right?”
His companion shrugged but sported a slight smirk to his unease.
Finally rid of her brother, Tabatha decided it was a good time as any to sit down with her boyfriend and gently tell him that she was a witch.
The boy watched and became slightly amused by the fictional boyfriend’s comical reactions to Tabatha’s secret. He started chuckling when the boyfriend’s bug-eyed expression widened at her showcased magic, remembering his own “tricks” that garnered similar comical reactions from other people.
He reached over to the girl, took another handful of kernels from her bowl, and shoved it immediately into his mouth.
As the brother chewed, he noticed his sister was very still watching the scene. She stared intently at the screen. Her brows furrowed, and her frown deepened as Tabatha’s boyfriend slowly inched his way away from Tabatha and toward the front door, a look of nervousness and fear in his eyes. He told her he needed to think, but he muttered uncertainty about when he may see her again. When he finally reached his destination, he left the apartment, leaving a trail of tension and dejection.
The boy slowly sat himself up and scooted up to his sister. At the same time, Tabatha’s brother magically appeared beside her to comfort her.
The young man did the same to his own sister, placing an arm around her shoulder.
“Hey, Simon’s not worth it.”
At the mention of her ex, the young woman’s tears finally fell down her face. He grabbed the bowl from her lap and placed it on the console table so he could firmly wrap his arms around her. The girl turned and clung back to him, burying her face to his shoulder as soft sobs shook her shoulders.
“Why did he do that?”
“He was a coward, that’s it. He didn’t appreciate what he had,” the boy gently soothed, an act that completely contradicted his previous childish mannerisms.
“It’s these powers. He was scared of my powers,” she choked. “Everyone is scared of me,” his sister mumbled dejectedly.
“Not me.”
They stayed in their embrace for a while and ignored the noise of the TV in the background. The girl slowly disentangled herself from her brother’s arms. The young man rubbed her arms and kissed the top of her curled bangs.
“I’ll get you some tissue. You look gross with all that snot on your face.”
He stood up and was about to walk.
“You will never leave me, right?”
The boy paused and turned around to his sister. She was now staring blankly at the screen. The TV, he just now noticed, was producing white noise static. When did that happen?
He looked at her, confused.
“Of course not. Never.”
The girl still stared ahead, seemingly ignoring her brother. The flickering screen cast a bright light that reflected his sister’s dull eyes. Her facial expression was devoid of any of her previous despair. The white noise filled the silent room.
“Sis?”
She didn’t respond. The brother tried to walk towards her, but he found his feet locked into place. He tried to kick his feet out, but he could not budge them at all. A bubble of panic immediately rose to his throat. Dreadful familiarity was alarming in his brain.
“S-Sis?!”
The light from the television started glowing brighter and brighter. The boy covered his face from the blinding illumination. The static noise grew louder and louder, nearly drowning his voice as he yelled out.
“WANDA!”
All of a sudden, darkness. Silence. The entirety of the room was only slightly visible through their shadows. The figure of the girl turned towards him.
“Then why did you?”
Then, the scenery lit up, and the pitch-black living room was now an eerily familiar dark cabin. The young girl was still in the same position, only this time, sitting on a small bed up against the wall. The man could feel his breathing quicken at the horrifying setting.
“Pietro,” the girl whispered.
No.
“Pietro.”
No, no, no.
Wanda’s face crumpled in abject fear.
“PIETRO!”
He woke with a heavy gasp and immediately shot into a sitting position.
His heart was pounding harder and faster than his already unnatural heart rate. His breaths were coming out in short, pained pants. His vision was blurred, and he could barely make out the details of the room.
The entire inside of his body felt like it was burning in pain from the sudden rush of energy.
In an attempt to compose himself, he took a big gulp of air, closed his eyes shut, hunched over, and dug the heel of his hands into his eyelids.
He was trembling badly.
He clenched his hands into fists. He let out a shaky breath once, but nothing. He inhaled and tried again, and he felt only a tiny bit of apprehension seep out.
It wasn’t enough.
His already short nails bit harder into his hands.
That… did not just happen.
He gasped to rush in more air.
It’s been years. Too many years... Why?
The wave of familiarity became too overwhelming, and he shrunk deeper into himself.
No. Please no. Not again. He was doing so well.
He stayed in this position for what felt like forever. The room was silent, save for the ticking from the wall clock and harsh air filtering through the space of clenched teeth.
A second passed. Then soon, another.
Those were the longest seconds he had ever faced in a while.
A couple more passed in real-time.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi... Three Mississippi… Four Mississippi… Five Mississippi...
Finally, to him, it was enough.
The tight tension in his shoulders gradually loosened. The adrenaline in his bloodstream rapidly drained. His heart slammed hard against his ribcage. His mouth was agape with slow but heavy pants.
One by one, he delicately peeled off his fingernails from his palms, leaving moon-shaped imprints on the skin. He gently lowered his hands from his eyes, making his vision even more blurry after releasing the firm pressure against them. He then turned his gaze to his lap and stared hard at it, willing his eyesight to clear. His puffing softened and softened.
That’s a little better.
He finally looked up.
He was in his room. In the school.
He could see his posters on the wall. Could see his desk at the foot of his bed. The guitar, to his left, along with his bookshelf and the bathroom door. And his walk-in closet on the other side of the room.
That’s where he was.
Not there . Not anymore.
It was just a nightmare.
It’s over…
It’s over.
…
Pietro…
Suddenly, his body returned to its high alert, and his head shook in alarm. His slowed breathing hitched and sped up once again. His perspective was no longer foggy but now challenged by the dimness of his surroundings.
He blinked rapidly and desperately tried to adjust his retina to scan each nook and cranny, searching for suspicious shadows.
He goes over them, once, twice- who knows how the hell many times. He does this until he learns to trust himself with what he sees.
And it was nothing.
Everything seemed untouched.
He felt himself go limp and buried his hands in his hair. His thought process was finally allowed to take over.
What the hell was that?!
That wasn’t real… Right?
It… it felt real.
No. No. It can’t be real.
He’s suffering side effects from that nightmare. It’s not real.
He’s just imagining things…
Yeah… that sounds about right.
He’s just imagining things.
That's it…
...
Pietro…
Or not.
He yanked on his hair as his head shot back up. He whipped his head from side to side, trying to find a location for this voice in his head. He physically felt his lungs rapidly expanding and contracting from all this adrenaline, working it into overdrive.
What the hell is going on here?!
The voice- the name- ARGH!
The man is overwhelmed by the nonsense of it all!
What is happening? Why is this happening? Why does it sound like that night-
The hair on his nape stood up.
Oh my god.
He felt himself choke.
No way...
His heart was hammering in his chest as he strained his ears or his mind- whichever! He was trying to find that voice again. Anything! Anything just to hear- just to confirm-
Pietro…
He jumped out of bed. A sense of déjà vu immediately hit him the moment he stood up. He shut his eyes as the world started swaying, and he felt a lump form in his throat.
It’s been too long.
His lungs weren’t working correctly. His hands were shaking. His heart was ready to burst out of his chest. He felt like throwing up.
His eyes opened.
He was also filled with determination.
Mind made up, he quickly swapped outfits. He switched to a random dark, printed shirt from his white tee and put on black jeans over his boxers. He then donned a dark red leather jacket with multiple zippers and a pair of dirty gray sneakers over his socks. Lastly, he clicked on his watch and settled his goggles on his head.
Checking his watch, it reads only 3:33 AM.
He can’t stop trembling.
This is finally happening.
He placed the goggles over his eyes, took another deep breath, and clenched his fists. He’ll be back before anyone knows it. It’s just right now; he just needs to-.
Right now, he just has to-.
PIETRO!
He needs to go!
And with that, Peter Maximoff speeds out of his room, out of the school, and away from Westchester. Chasing after the voice that is calling out to him.
“Well, well, well, aren’t you interesting?” The woman, who decided her lounge curtains were a good fashion choice, spoke in awe as she walked around his suspended-in-the-air body.
So in hindsight, perhaps following what he now realizes is actually a very ominous voice was not one of Peter’s brightest ideas.
“I seem to have caught you in quite a pickle, young mister,” she chuckled.
Having lived with telepaths, he really should have known better than to listen to any random voice in his head.
“You’re not really what I expected at all. I’ll tell you that.”
Would have saved him from having to experience… this.
She observed him as if he were a prized artifact for a moment longer before settling in front of him. “What say you and I get to know each other a bit, yeah?”
Yeah, no thanks.
If having his hands and feet locked tight while floating in the air is not clue enough, then it’s this chic’s busted make-up, frost-bit fingers, and hideous purple dress that screams, “I AM EVIL”.
It won’t help, but he projected as loud as he could in his mind.
Professor, can you hear me?
“Now, don’t you worry! Her magic is not going to reach us down here. I got it locked and tight. So we can talk,” she smiled a creepily sinister smile, and Peter had to shift (or at least try to) in discomfort at the look.
This was going to be a weird day.
“Uh, listen, lady, this was all just a big misunderstanding. I was out for a jog, ya know? Didn’t mean to disturb your peace and all. Just felt the need to burn a few extra calories ‘cause you know how important cardio is. Gotta stay fit and healthy at all times no matter what time of night-”
Suddenly, she did this weird hand movement, and his lips were forcibly shut to his shock.
“We got a chatterbox too?” She gave an amused-toothed smile. “Oh, this is going to be fun!” She then released her hold on his mouth, and he felt like duct tape was ripped from his lips.
Professor, I would really, really like to hear that annoying posh voice of yours right now!
“Now, let’s get straight to the point, shall we?” The woman crossed her arms. “Tell me, how’d you come here?”
He raised an eyebrow.
Well, excuse me, lady.
Peter had to scoff. “You tell me. You’re the one trapping me here in your witchy lair!”
And a witchy lair it was. The place felt like it strived in the Middle Ages.
She chuckled lowly at his response. “Only because you’re the uninvited guest to the party. Don’t get smart with me, kiddo. You’re the one stuck mid-air, after all.”
PROFESSOR!
Out of all the things he has experienced, being held hostage by what he’s sure is an actual witch was definitely not one he expected... ever.
Where he was in the middle of the room, he was under a dome-shaped ceiling with weird, most likely demonic symbols etched around. The entire structure was made of stone bricks, with dead vines draped across every direction. Against the walls were glass cabinets that contained pots and skulls inside. And shrines with dead animal carcasses that were hanging directly above them. Only one small altar stood to his right, and it held a single glowing book on its stand.
He flexed his hands and feet on whatever binds she had on them and swallowed.
“I told you, man, I was out for a jog and-” Her arm abruptly snapped into a position, and he was immediately yanked forward, stopping right in front of her, the movement jerking him painfully against his shackles. She walked closer to him.
“You see, the thing is, I don’t believe you,” she leaned towards him menacingly. “Because it doesn’t add up to what I saw,” she smiled at him, but her eyes were narrowed, challenging him to lie.
For the first time since he woke up in this place, Peter started to feel a trickle of fear at the nape of his neck. He’s trapped in a witch’s grasp, and the Professor can’t hear him right now.
He is absolutely screwed.
She grabbed his face with one hand, her nails digging into his cheek. “Wanna try this again, hun? How did you get here?”
He tried pulling away, but her grip on him was firm. And scared she might potentially crush his jaw or place holes in his cheek, he ultimately relented.
“I don’t know how I got here,” he said through gritted teeth.
And that was the truth.
All Peter could remember was that he was running, desperately pursuing that shady voice. He can’t even recall where he was when he felt this sharp, agonizing pain settle deeply in his chest. It was so intense that he blacked out and woke up… here.
He thought this woman was the voice that called for him. He thought she kidnapped him for inhumane mutant research. But even she looks clueless as to why he’s here. And that just leaves him with a bucket of questions.
She was quiet for a few seconds before releasing her physical hold on him and turning away. “You don’t remember?”
He subtly let out a sigh of relief. “All I know was that I was running. I blacked out. And I woke up here.” Now he had to play safe.
This witch may not know he’s a mutant, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to proudly advocate it while in her filthy clutches.
She looked towards him and raised an eyebrow. “Running? What happened to ‘jogging’?”
Trying to play it cool, he shrugged, “Running, jogging. Same difference.”
She looked down at his neck, scrunched her nose, and flicked at his goggles. “Were you running to the fishes?”
He forces himself to snort. “What? Ever heard of fashion statements? I’m trying to make my own brand here, yo! I mean, wasn’t the hair clue enough?”
She looked up and eyed his hair for the first time. For some reason, she observed it keenly. And it scared him for a moment into thinking that she could tell his hair was part of his mutation.
“Well, your brand is shit.”
Says the talking bedsheet.
He really tried to keep his face neutral. But inside, he was mentally cursing because- shit dick shit ! She’s interrogating him as if she were one of those bad cops in those lame '70s soap opera shows Mom used to watch.
“Look, man, all I can tell ya is,” he sighed. “Ran. Blacked out. Woke-up. Witchy lair.” He looks at her with what he can hope is the most genuine, truthful expression he can conjure.
(Which wasn’t very good since he was such a notoriously smug liar.)
“You’re awfully nonchalant about waking up in a witch’s lair,” she snarked.
He most certainly is not. But he’s glad that he’s keeping his cool for this long.
“A wannabe god tried changing the world and failed. Knowing there are witches in this day and age isn’t that surprising.”
It very much is, but she doesn’t need to know that.
She smirks.
“You know, I should believe you. Blackout, woke up, strange environment. Seems pretty on-brand for this place,” the witch explained, but really, it did nothing for him.
“But my concern is how you got here. You see, there’s this barrier that surprise victims always cross to get to this place. But you didn’t do that. Oh no. You suddenly manifested right there in the middle of the road.”
Her fake smile dropped, and she sent a harsh glare at him. “Like magic.”
What… the hell is that supposed to mean?
Her hand suddenly wrapped around his throat, and she yanked him forward. Her grip wasn’t tight, but the threat was there. “Let me ask you again. How did you get here?”
He bit out, “I don’t know how!”
“Well, you must know since you’re the only one with that special entrance.”
“I didn’t come here willingly if that’s what you’re betting on,” he growled.
That confession got the witch’s attention. She furrowed her eyebrows.
“Then who-”
And like a switch, her eyes slowly widened in shock. Her hand left Peter’s throat, and she stepped back. Her features shifted into a wide range of emotions, from astonishment to fascination and overall excitement.
“She brought you here,” she stated, amazed. Her grin widened, utter giddiness on her face. She slowly started to circle around him again.
“And here I thought she was still living in La La Land to be aware of any of that,” she guffawed, pleased with the revelation.
Peter vaguely recalled the witch mentioning something about a “she” and “magic”. But that answered nothing for him. Who is this she?
The witch turned and was in front of him once again.
“But why did she bring you ?” She leaned in closely, searching for... something on his face. She shook her head slowly.
“Oh, I knew you were special the moment you arrived,” she lowered her voice. “I could feel it in your aura. You are more than human but not exactly like an enhanced individual either. There’s something very off about you.”
Peter elected that it might be best to not say anything here. If only everyone in Westchester could see him now.
“So this leads me to my next question, who are you ?”
And all of a sudden, Peter thinks it’s wise not to say anything at all.
She raised her eyebrows at him. “Oh? What happened to the constant blabber that was spewing from your mouth? Don’t get shy now!”
The witch laughed when her hands twisted, and he felt himself abruptly flip upside down in the air, his goggles smacking him in the face.
He gasped at the new position and looked up at the witch. With his vision inverted, she tilted her head at him and smiled.
“Ooh, I like this position on you way better. Suits you a lot.”
What. The. Hell…
“Now, things are getting interesting. But I don’t have the patience for any more bullshit. So I’m gonna need you to answer right now.”
The witch flexed her fingers, and he felt himself lowering down. Confused, Peter looked below him and only saw the ground. But then he saw a drop of his sweat fall and hit the floor, causing a slight ripple on the surface. And Peter immediately realized a small pool of water was below him.
Panicking, Peter started struggling against his bonds.
“This could all be over if you just answer honestly, kid.”
Like hell!
Peter firmly kept his mouth shut as he tried his best to break free. The witch couldn’t see his behind, so he started vibrating his hands fast to lose the bonds. It didn’t work.
He felt the tips of his hair go into the pool.
“No? Well, I suggest taking a deep breath.”
Shit!
He tried to struggle a bit more. But the moment he felt the water reach his forehead, he had no choice but to shut his eyes and suck in a big gulp of air. Finally, his head was plunged into the pool.
He stayed still, holding on to that air in his lungs. He tried to count the Mississippis to not make time feel so much slower than it already was. He kept his eyes shut, too, afraid he might lose his composure if it was open.
He made it to fifty Mississippi before he found himself desperately needing air.
Peter started thrashing. He buckled every limb of his body to try and break free. He tried to raise his head back to the surface but was too deep into the pool to do so. His lungs were screaming for air, and he could feel himself get lightheaded, more so that he was upside down.
With no other choice, his body gave in and took a big inhale. He choked as water rushed painfully into his mouth and nose.
Suddenly, Peter felt himself being lifted out of the pool.
Peter gagged and vomited out what felt like a gallon of water from his body. He heaved and coughed as water escaped his mouth, nose, and eyes from the tears he shed. The bridge of his nose and lungs was burning, which fueled a horrendous headache at the base of his skull.
The witch crouched in front of him.
“Ready to answer now?”
Peter wheezed, his nose clogged full of water and snot. His vision was slightly blurry as he tried to focus on the witch. When he did, his throat was all sore and hoarse when he barked.
“Fuck you!”
The witch looked unimpressed as she jutted her lip out and shrugged.
“Suit yourself.”
Peter did not have enough time to inhale or close his eyes before he was plunged back in. With less air in his lungs, not to mention trying to recover from the last dip, he was flailing helplessly against his shackles.
Peter tried his damn best to hold his breath. He really did. But the pain in his lungs was so unbearable that he had no choice but to ingest more of this shitty pool.
He rose back out once more.
The witch only watched as Peter regurgitated and spewed more water.
Peter’s vision was all fogged up, and he was extremely nauseated. He gasped lungfuls of precious air while he could, but it hurt his very tender lungs. With each blessed breath, the entire inside of his head and chest felt like a scorching fire in his system. It was so unbearably painful.
“All this effort just to keep your identity? Who the hell are you?” The witch laughed right at his face. At least, he thought so. He can’t see her through the cloud in his eyes.
The witch twisted her hands, and he was right-side up once more.
He was so disoriented that he barely felt relief being back up when the witch suddenly grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head ba-
Peter gasped, and he started struggling frantically against his restraints. He thrashed his head, his arms, his legs- anything! Wailing whatever body part he could move away from an old danger that signaled in his brain!
“I would gladly torture you all day, but I’m running out of time,” she sneered.
He felt panic crawl up his throat and spread to his entire nerves as all memories of that day came flooding back. The lack of air in his brain fueled his hysteria.
“Who. Are. You?”
Through the haze of his panic, the witch leaned right up to his face. She snarled closely, trying to intimidate an answer out of him. It was too much. He was overwhelmed alone by the last couple of minutes. And she was too close to Peter. He needed her to back off right now!
Inhaling harshly through his nose, he conjured his mutation.
And he headbutted the witch!
The impact was fast and hard enough that she flew back and crashed into one of her glass cabinets on the other side of the room. What’s left of the cabinet toppled over her body. The shock had ruptured the wall behind it, leaving a large dent in its wake.
The blood in his veins scorched as it coursed through the adrenaline, rage, and immense satisfaction of finally getting back at his kidnapper.
He watched as pieces of stone from the wall fell onto her immobilized body. The smoke from the debris slowly cleared, and it was silence.
Yeah.
Good riddance.
Peter panted deeply.
…
A beat passed, and Peter realized what he had done.
Holy shit…
Did… did he just kill her?
He looked at the destruction he had caused ahead of him. It was… terrible. He had no idea he could do this much damage before, especially against another person. There was no way she could have survived that.
A tinge of fear and shame crept up his stomach. He felt sick and looked down when he realized something significant.
Peter’s still floating in the air.
Suddenly, he hears a giggle erupt from under the broken cabinet. The hair on his nape suddenly dried and stood as the giggle grew louder and louder. It was a laugh now. He saw her body moving amidst the rubble, and the laughing turned into full-blown cackling. The sound was booming, sharp, and shrill, and Peter felt it to his core.
He thought a witch’s cackle was a gimmick in that old film, “The Wizard of Oz”. Hearing it performed live in front of him is actually downright scary, and he could finally see why people were scared of the Wicked Witch.
The cabinet was flung to the side, and he stared at it wide-eyed.
The witch stood up, let out a sigh of relief, and looked directly at him. Not a single injury was visible on her body. She gave him a shit-eating grin.
“Well, that answers a lot !”
Peter’s breath hitched as she casually shook off the broken glass and wood splinters off her body and sauntered towards him. She twirled her hands, and all the damage behind her magically repaired itself as if it never happened. She settled just a couple feet away from him.
“You know, I really thought for a moment there that you were just some nobody planning to disrupt whatever the showrunner- and I- planned for the next episode,” she giggled.
“But nope! She personally cast you. Go figure!” The witch clasped her hands together and took a couple of steps forward.
“And it got me thinking, ‘Why? Why you? What on earth could the showrunner possibly need that she personally called a weirdo like you to be on her show?’” The witch eyed him up and down in mild distaste.
“And then you hit me in the head.” She looked him straight in the eye and smiled, sending a shiver of dread down his spine.
“That hit was good, by the way. Didn’t see it coming. Almost like-” she lifted her chin in mock thought. “-it happened so fast.”
Peter’s heart stuttered in his chest.
The witch slowly turned her gaze back towards him.
“Wow,” she awed. “You are special. In fact, you are the most special guest on this show tonight. I see now why she brought you.”
“I knew the showrunner was powerful, but I had no idea she was this powerful,” the witch guffawed. “ Oh, dear girl, you are a mystery to behold!” She lifted her arms as if blessed with the good news.
She gave a deep unsettling chuckle, making all hair strands on his body stand up.
“Long way from home, aren’t ya?” The witch tilted her head to the side and slowly uttered, “Pietro?”
Peter’s heart stopped altogether.
She leaned in closer at him, carefully gauging his reaction. “Did I get that right?”
How?
“Pietro…”
No.
“Maximoff…”
Cold dread and defeat splintered throughout his system. And Peter, weak and traumatized, could not hide it. The witch has won. She beamed and whispered.
“My job has been made so much easier now.” The grin never left her face as she stood straight and crossed her arms. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Pietro. Name’s Agatha Harkness.”
And that’s a villain's name if he’s ever heard one.