SUPREMACY / P. MAXIMOFF

prologue

The hospital room was as devoid of beauty as Pietro was of hope. Its walls were simply cream, not peeling or dirty, just cream. There was no decoration at all save the limp curtain that separated her bed from the three others in the room. It was perhaps once the kind of green that reminded people of springtime and hope, but it had faded so much that the hue was insipid. The room had an undertone of bleach  that stung his nostrils and the floor was simply grey. At the far end were windows in brown metal frames, only openable at the top. Not a single person had flowers, cards or home brought food. They were sleeping to pass the time or staring at nothing at all.

Pietro remembered the feeling, once being holed up in this same exact hospital, when he and Wanda had survived the bombings from the war. He was glad Anastazya wasn't awake to experience it.

At the desk, Tony, Steve, Natasha, and Clint were signing piles and piles of paperwork to be able to take Anastazya back to the States with them. Wanda was looking for extra blankets for Anastazya, whose pale skin could not be warmed. Cold licked at her face and crept under her clothes, spreading across her skin. Her face was flush, her purple lips tinged with blue. Pietro had already yelled at the staff for blasting the air conditioner on the already frigid Ana, and although they promised to turn it up, he was almost positive they had lowered the temperature to spite him.

Her skin was littered with numerous cuts and burns among other lacerations. Her hair was singed at the ends, numerous sections completely burned off. Wanda said that if Anastazya woke up, she would cut it short for her.

Pietro was quick to correct her. When Anastazya woke up, she meant. He was positive Ana would be awake soon enough; she promised she would come back to him.

He squeezed her hand in his own, smoothing back her hair with his free hand. He pressed his lips to her forehead, a chill running down his spine at the contact. Pietro rested his head against hers.

"Dragul meu," he whispered, heart soaring. He still couldn't believe that she was here with him. Pietro just wished she would open her beautiful eyes for him again. "You are going to be okay. I promise. We will be going home together soon."

The door swung open, revealing a tired-looking Barton.

"Hey," Clint sighed, dragging his feet against the tile floor and creating an unpleasant squeaking sound. "They are processing the papers right now. We'll be able to take her back to the U.S. soon enough."

Pietro didn't look away from Ana, only slightly nodding. Clint placed his hand on Pietro's shoulder, causing him to turn.

"She's going to be okay, kid- you can rest now."

Pietro shook his head and turned back around. "No. Not until she wakes."

Clint smirked and chuckled to himself, causing Pietro to turn around once more.

"What is funny?" he asked, eyebrows pinched together in confusion.

Clint shrugged, the corners of his mouth tugging up and a grin spreading across his face. "You really love her a lot, don't you?"

Pietro's cheeks heated up and he averted his eyes. He squeezed her hand tighter.

"Of course I do."

Clint nodded, face stoic as he shoved his hands in his jacket pockets.

"I'm going to hold you to that. Someone's going to need to protect her. I have a feeling that the end of this danger isn't as near as we had hoped."