Progress

Billy’s the first to wake.

He rolls out of bed and plods down the hall to the door that opens into his mother’s room, rubbing at his eyes as he pushes open the door. The curtains in here are thinner than the ones in his room, so the golden glow of the rising sun illuminates the space more than well enough for him to finally get a good look at it.

The carpet is thin and threadbare. The double bed is made of blonde wood, the carved frame battered and bruised from god-knows-what. Two bedside table bookend the headboard, and a small suitcase pokes out from the shadows underneath it.

The only other thing in the room is a ratty crib. It doesn’t look particularly safe, but the suggestion of movement draws him to take a closer look. The upholstery that surrounds it is ragged and stained, but the frame itself seems sturdy enough.

Either way, Irena doesn’t seem particularly bothered by fact that her bed isn’t exactly the nicest. She stares up at him as he looms over her crib, a saliva-coated hand shoved into her mouth as she waves the other one in his general direction. She smiles and gurgles around her hand, her pudgy, little face lighting up as he holds out his hand for her to grab at.

“Hey there, baby,” he says, quiet and secretive in the way that he addresses her. “You okay?”

She seems to giggle at him, only for her face to then crumple and begin to turn red. When she opens her mouth again, it’s to wail, and he pulls away from her in alarm. The bed creaks, and he raises his arms as he steps back from the crib. “I didn’t do anything!” he cries as he watches his mother roll of the bed with half-open eyes and round the end of it.

“I know you didn’t,” she says, voice soothing and heavy with sleep as she smiles at him. “She probably just needs to be changed.”

He wrinkles his nose, finally notices the smell. “Ew!” he protests, recoiling in disgust as he lifts a hand to cover his mouth and nose.

Wanda laughs, hoarse and airy. “Of course that would be the thing that you find disgusting,” she jokes as she lifts Irena from her crib. “Why don’t you go sit with Agatha while I make Irena a little more presentable?” she offers as she begins to walk away. “Don’t worry,” she throws back over her shoulder, “she doesn’t bite this early in the morning.”

He hears Agatha groan, watches as she rolls over onto her back and drapes an arm across her face, shielding her eyes from the sunlight streaming in through a slim gap in the curtains that do little to actually cover the window. “That’s ‘cause mornings should be illegal!” he hears Agatha grumble in answer as he approaches the bed. He chooses to round the end of the bed and climb onto the mattress from his mother’s side rather than clambering onto it over Agatha’s legs.

“Are you not a morning person, then?” he asks, leaning back against the wooden board that makes up the end of the bed’s frame.

She lifts her arm from her face, squints against the glare of the sun at him. “You thought I liked mornings?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. Never really considered it.”

She sighs, flops back down onto the pillows. “Okay,” she concedes, but only because she’s too tired to really care about pursuing that line of questioning just yet. “Still doesn’t change the fact that mornings suck, though.”

Billy smiles at her half-hearted grumblings, more than just a little amused by the fact that there was, in fact, something that could apparently make her harmlessly upset. He watches her, taking note of the way her hair is even more of a tangled, tousled mess than usual, and how the duvet had fallen to just below her waist when she’d rolled over, thereby revealing the pale purple t-shirt and black-and-white plaid pyjama bottoms that she’d chosen to sleep in.

He thinks that she could be pretty in her own way, if not for the blackened skin of her hands and forearms. “Why do your hands look like that?” he asks.

“Like what?”

“Black an’ all, like they’re burnt.”

Agatha lifts her arm from her face, holds both hands above her. She frowns at them, her lips twisting down in displeasure. “It’s a consequence of dark magic,” she explains quietly, her voice growing briefly muffled towards the end of the sentence as she drags her hands across her face and begins to push herself upright. “And, unfortunately, not all of after effects could be removed, even when I gave it up.”

Billy cocks his head at her. “Does that mean you don’t have magic anymore?”

She smiles at him, but it’s strained and full of obvious discomfort. “No, I still have magic. I just don’t have any dark magic.”

“There are different kinds of magic?”

Agatha nods, leaning back against the headboard and pulling the duvet up across her legs. “Some can be learned,” she explains, “others you have to be born with.”

“Dark magic is one of the ones that can be learned?”

Agatha hums in acknowledgement. “As is the Mystic Arts, which is what you saw Strange and Wong wielding when we were at the Sanctum Sanctorum.”

“What about mum?”

“She was born with magic, though it seems to be little more than what is necessary for her survive as the currently designated vessel for the Scarlet Witch entity.”

Billy squints at her, his expression one of conflict at being presented with a choice as to how this conversation will go. He wants to know what Agatha means when she says that his mum is a ‘vessel’ for the Scarlet Witch, which suggests that it is an entity that exists outside of and apart from her, but requires some sort of - host, maybe? But he’s also curious to know more about magic, and all the ways in which it can apparently be different, depending on who wields it and how they got it.

“What about you?” he asks in the end, settling on pursuing the current conversation as a door down the hall from them closes. He can question her about the whole ‘vessel’ and Scarlet Witch thing later on, when there’s no chance of them being disturbed. “What were you born with?”

“I - I’ve only ever known it to be referred to as ‘witchcraft’.” She shakes her apologetically at him. “I’m sorry, I can’t be more specific than that. It isn’t drawn from a specific source, and there’s no set way of wielding it like there can be with other forms of magic. It just . . . is.”

“What kind of magic do I have?”

Dark eyes move over him, contemplative, as the floorboards behind him creak. “You have witchcraft, from what little I’ve seen,” she says, as Wanda passes Irena over to her and climbs back into bed. The infant twists against her, a tiny clenched fist coming to fall against her shoulder. Agatha lifts a brow at her, cracked, pale lips beginning to quirk into something akin to smirk. “Are you trying to tell me something?” she remarks.

“Mmba,” the infant answers.

“I see.” Billy snickers at the interaction, even as his face flushes with embarrassment at the idea of what it is that Irena’s asking for. Through his lashes, he sees Agatha lean towards Wanda, gaze on Billy as she murmurs, “I’ll take her downstairs, get started on breakfast once she’s done.”

He lifts his head as Agatha begins to slide from the bed. “You don’t have to leave,” he offers awkwardly, his face burning hot and likely as red as Wanda’s hair. “I don’t mind.”

“Are you sure? I don't want to make you uncomfortable . . .”

He nods, biting down on his bottom lip. “You shouldn’t have to go elsewhere just to feed Irena,” he says slowly, “it’s not fair.”

She smiles at him, soft and grateful as she settles back into the bed. He looks away as she pulls her t-shirt off over head and lifts Irena into a more comfortable position for both of them as she guides the infant to her breast. Irena latches on almost immediately and begins to suckle greedily, even as Agatha unfurls the t-shirt and drapes it across her shoulder in such a way to allow for some semblance of modesty.

Only then does he dare to lift his gaze up from the sheets. His face still burns a little, but it doesn’t feel so bad now, not when Wanda’s looking at him with that proud, mushy smile on her face. I love you, you beautiful boy, she mouths at him, eyes glittering brightly.

Love you too, he mouths back at her.