Chapter 6
“Relax, Agatha,” Darcy drawls. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
“You don’t know that,” Agatha snaps back, her knuckles white with stress against the black rubber that covers the underlying horizontal metal bar that serves as the handle of Irena’s pram. The three of them are walking along one of the many concrete paths that runs through Central Park, with the twins playing in the grass nearby and Jimmy not far away. “You can’t just tell me that there are people out there trying to hunt me down and not expect me to worry that there may be unseen consequences for those around me. There are children in my life that I have to worry about, if you haven’t noticed.”
“No, I hadn’t noticed,” Darcy retorts, “I’d just assumed that those miniature people who were surrounding with were adults who’ve yet to hit puberty.”
Agatha scowls at her. “You’re an asshole.”
“Glad you noticed.”
Agatha’s nostrils flare as she huffs, and looks away, focusing instead on the sidewalk before them. She keeps the boys in her sights as they go, still uneasy with them being so far away from her, despite Jimmy’s proximity to them. These people - Darcy, Monica, Jimmy and the rest - have all been more than good to her, but that doesn’t mean she trusts them. They’re Wanda’s friends more than they are hers, and there are probably more than just a few of them that still view her as little more than a badly behaved pet to be restrained by a tightly held leash and kept around only for the wealth of practical knowledge she holds in regards to magic and its history.
She can understand both the distrust that they have for her and the desire they hold to keep her close that they can be the ones to utilize and benefit from all she’s during her lifetime, but that doesn’t mean she has to like any of it. To have them keep tabs on her and occasionally want her input on something is one thing, but to be so blatantly observed, guarded and controlled at every hour of the day and night? That’s something else entirely, and she despises every single moment of it with a burning, raging passion that she wishes she had the strength to put on display for all to see.
She grumbles quietly under her breath. “How long do we have to do this for?” she asks, quiet and uneasy. “I don’t want to be out in the open like this any longer than we have to be.”
Darcy shrugs. “Until Monica says we can leave.”
Agatha scowls. “Any idea of when that might be?”
“Hmm . . . no. But then, I don’t really understand the time frames under which soldiers operate, so I’m probably not the person you should ask.”
“You suck,” she grunts.
“Eh, maybe,” Darcy concedes. “Who’s to say?”
A thousand eyes and none watch the group of six as it seems to tear itself apart. It’s not intentional, and these many eyes know that at least one among the six of them is more than aware of the exact location and antics of the three that don’t stand by their side.
For the uninitiated and unaware, there’s no apparent link between these two groups of three. One appears to be little more than a father playing with his sons on the plush grass of the park, while the other appears to a mother taking her infant out for a walk with a friend.
The eyes, though, the eyes know better. They know that the witch is currently in a state where she’s essentially powerless, but she could still potentially be dangerous should any of the three children split between the two groups be harmed in any way. It’s not like that’s a problem though, as it just means they’ll have to wait until after they’ve safely neutralized her to worry about the next generation.
Wanda steps off the bus and approaches the nearest entrance to Central Park. With the hood of her jacket pulled up over her head to hide her distinctive red hair, and her face free of the make-up that she typically wears to appear her age, she goes mostly unnoticed by those around her.
She’d forgone the usual effort she puts into her appearance in the hopes that it would make it harder for Monica’s forces to identify her and bring her back to SWORD HQ. Her request to meet with her partner and children had been turned down - it was ‘too dangerous’, according to Monica, as she was apparently a more identifiable target than Agatha and the children were. Wanda had simply scowled at her then, both displeased at having such a harmless request denied, and angry that she was being protected against some unseen threat that they were still refusing to tell her about.
So, when one of the soldiers - his name tag had read Lt. Thornn - had leaned in close and whispered conspiratorially to her, she’s not your boss, why are you still listening to her?, she’d taken the hint and run. She’d feigned sickness and returned to the room set aside for her, where she’d tied her hair back, wiped her face clean of make-up and donned an oversized hoodie that still smelled faintly of Agatha’s perfume. A soldier had followed her to her room, and was likely still outside her door, so she’d been forced to climb out of her window and down the fire escape - oh, how she was glad for shitty American architecture in that moment.
She knows she should feel bad for disobeying Monica - betraying her trust, corrects that annoying little voice at the back of her mind that someone had once suggested might be her conscience - an individual who she’d always considered to be a friend, but the soldier had been right. She’s not part of SWORD, or any other entity that is either controlled by or affiliated with them - in general or as a part of this particular mission - and is therefore not a part of the chain of command that they like to emphasize so very much. Ergo, the orders they dished out on the regular did not apply to her, as she is a (non-American) civilian that has not chosen to submit herself to the will of another in the pursuit of law, order and national security in the same kind of way that Monica had.
And really, if they weren’t going to let her in on why she and her family were supposedly in danger - and from whom - then she had no real reason as to why she should listen to them. Hence, her current location and chosen destination.
Vision watches from afar as his boys play with the individual that he vaguely recognises as the FBI agent who’d helped to break Wanda’s spell on Westview. He wants to approach, to greet his boys and embrace them, but knows that that is likely not a good idea.
Still to this day, he is considered to be property of SWORD, though he is now allowed more autonomy than he’d had before. He is not quite who he had been before, but he’s getting there, slowly and surely, as he reacquaints himself the memories bestowed upon him by the illusion of him that had existed within Westview.
One more mission, he tells himself as he turns his eyes towards Darcy and Agatha, one more mission and I can be free of my duties to the ones who wished to hold me back from who I am and what I could be.
He follows the little group of three with his eyes, tracing their progress around the park from his vanatge point part way up a tree. He’s wearing the guise of a tall, lanky teen with long, floppy hair falling across his face and into his eyes. It’d been a soldier’s idea - the reasoning that had been given is that it would allow him be in the tree with minimal questions, and would further serve to explain away his lingering awkwardness in both body and mannerisms as the inevitable teenage scurge of puberty.
The trio draws closer to his tree, and he can finally see the infant where it - she, he’s been told - sleeps in the pram, a cream blanket drawn over her body to keep her warm. The child is admittedly very ‘cute’, and even from afar, he can see in her tiny features the women who brought her into this life.
He’s known about both the child and Wanda’s relationship with Agatha for a while now, though he has yet to fully comprehend his feelings on either topic. He had, of course, hoped that Wanda might still be waiting for him when he resolved himself into the person he knows that he can be for her, but without a way of telling her this, of letting her in on his plan, he knew it was unlikely that she would wait for him. What he had not anticipated, however, was that she would move on and procreate with Agatha of all people.
A mixture of emotions fills him as they draw closer, the most notable of which is rage. He frowns as he identifies the emotion, wondering why this of all the possible emotions he can experience would be the most dominant one upon entering the proximity of someone like Agatha. He tilts his head, keeps his eyes upon the trio as they pass him by without appearing to notice him.
One by one, he begins to parse through the emotions he feels, cataloguing both the feeling of the emotion within him, and the current reason as to why he’s feeling it.
A hand settles into the curve of Agatha’s lower back.
She jumps, startled by the sudden touch, and spins towards the owner of the hand that’s pressed against her spine. Her breath catches in her throat as her eyes land on a familiar face. “Wanda,” she murmurs. “You’re back.”
Wanda smiles, and pushes back the hood of her jacket. She doesn’t need to hide now that she’s gotten where she wants to be, so there’s no longer any need to hide the almost orange colouring of her hair. “Hey, Ags.”
A sob rips its way out of Agatha’s throat, and she steps close enough to pull Wanda into a near crushing embrace. She buries her face in red hair, tears soaking through loosely curling waves to land in the gently sloping curve where shoulder becomes neck. Hot, wet breaths puff against her skin, marking out the silent way in which Agatha’s all but sobbing in relief. “I missed you,” she whispers hoarsely into Wanda’s pale skin.
Wanda returns the embrace, running a hand up and down Agatha’s spine as hot tears trickle over her skin to soak into the light blue t-shirt that she’d chosen to wear beneath the solid black jacket. “I missed you too,” she whispers against the shell of Agatha’s ear, breathing in the heady smell - of rain hanging frozen in the cool spring air and the wet dirt that it’ll become once it finally falls, of lavender and Earl Grey tea - that she can only describe as belonging uniquely to Agatha. It’s a balm to her soul, soothing down the edges of her that she hadn’t realised were becoming sharp and jagged once again.
Agatha trembles against her, clinging desperately to her like she believes that Wanda might disappear if she lets up even a little. Another choked sob, and she relents though, slowly pulling away as she wipes at her eyes. “I’m glad you’re back,” she says around a shaky smile, voice rough and wet.
Wanda returns the smile, small and sure and bright, as she squeezes at Agatha’s hand where it lingers at the edge of her grasp. “Me too.”
A squeal draws their attention to the pram at Agatha’s side, the rubber coated bar still pressed lightly against her hip. Irena’s watching them, teething ring grasped in both hands and shoved securely into her mouth. A snot bubble is beginning to form at the end of her nose. There’s a mumble of sound, muted behind the gel ring, and the vibrant green toy pop!s out of Irena’s mouth.
The infant holds out the ring to Wanda in her right hand, a gurgling smile lighting up her face as Wanda accepts it from a tiny grasp with a smile of her own. “Hey there, baby girl,” she cooes, setting the ring aside as she reaches down to pick the infant up, hoisting her onto her hip with an ease that can only come from practice. “You’ve gotten bigger since the last time I last saw you, haven’t you?”
She sees Agatha bite down on her bottom lip, a look of unhappy - or maybe guilty? - discomfort contorting her features. She doesn’t mention it though, choosing instead to focus on the little girl in her grasp as Darcy directs them onwards in their journey around the park.