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I barely recalled boarding the Quinjet. All I remembered was handing the sceptre to Thor with tense shoulders. If he sensed anything odd, he didn't mention it. I don't know if I preferred that.
As I shuffled over to Uncle Clint, I took careful and calculated steps. He was laid on the worktop with his torso now wrapped in a thick layer of bandage. I assumed that was Thor's doing; he was always gentle and talented in tending to our wounds—an Asgardian craft.
Standing beside Steve, I watched as he tweaked the IV drip attached to my uncle's arm. Gently, I moved Uncle Clint's feet aside so I could sit near him. I offered a quick smile as I pulled my knees up, hugging them close to my chest like a little child.
I told myself I was overreacting—Uncle Clint was okay, after all—but the mere idea that I could lose him because of the nature of our job made my chest twist in all different directions.
I didn't want to lose anyone else. I couldn't.
Natasha made her approach, coming to my side and looping her arm around my broad shoulders with a gentle squeeze. I leant my head on her shoulder, the ends of her red hair tickling my temples.
"Someone's tired," she chuckled.
"Well, she did use a lot of her powers," said Steve. "There was ice everywhere."
My throat closed up as I heard the slight waver in Steve's voice. I almost wanted to ask if he was scared of me, if my powers brought hordes of flashbacks to his time under the ice. But it was always a question I was never able to get myself to ask him. I feared myself enough as it was; I don't think I could handle knowing that someone I idolised as a kid was scared of me as well.
Natasha's nimble fingers began twirling the ends of my hair as she talked with my uncle and Steve, though I was barely listening in. My gaze lowered to look at the bandaged torso of my uncle.
I could still feel the scratchiness of my throat and the immense pressure that caved into my chest. When I found myself transitioning from the underground lair to the deep sea, something should have clicked that it wasn't real, that I couldn't have possibly teleported from one place to another when I did not possess such a power.
But it felt too entirely real.
"Els, what's going on?" Uncle Clint's voice quietly broke through my daze.
I peered around: Natasha and Steve had carried themselves to the other Avengers, leaving me with my uncle. I didn't know whether to be grateful or not, especially since Uncle Clint could pick out my habits and emotions without much thought. I speculated it was because I had picked up a few of my father's habits and expressions.
"Nothing," I claimed.
"Is this about the punk?" he asked. "What's his name?"
"Pietro," I said, almost relieved. I would rather talk about him than about whatever happened back at the base.
