Red Assassin ~ Pietro Maximoff x OC

t w e n t y t w o ~ first session

"Thanks for coming with me to this, Steve," I say, getting out of the car. "It means a lot."

"Of course, Kat. You need this." He nudges my elbow encouragingly. "You know, I'm proud of you for doing this. It's hard to ask for help and you can be stubborn as all hell. It takes guts to admit you need help."

He grabs my hand and I squeeze it. "I'm still scared of this, to be honest. I mean, this person is a complete stranger. I'm supposed to trust them with my deep, dark secrets?"

"Hey, none of us are expecting you to open up right away. But you can trust Dr. Goode. Tony and I both vetted her. You'll be fine," he reassures me. A soft smile plays at my lips and Steve holds the door for me as I walk into the practice.

The two minutes we're waiting in the lobby after check in feels like two hours, but Dr. Goode finally comes out—at least, who I assume is Dr. Goode—and calls my name. Her ash-blond hair is tied in a side ponytail, trailing over her charcoal blazer and highlighting her green eyes. She's wearing a Journey T-shirt underneath the blazer, with a pair of skinny jeans and black ballet flats.

"Nice outfit, Doc," I say, nodding toward the Journey T-shirt.

"Oh, thank you," she says, smiling. "You want to come with me, my office is down the hall."

"Yeah. Just give me a sec." I bite my lip and turn to Steve, who wraps me in a hug.

"You'll be fine," he whispers in my ear. "Remember: you asked for this." I nod and Steve lets me go.

"Feel free to call me Jordan, by the way," Dr. Goode says as we make our way to her office. "This is meant to be a professional relationship, but it helps most of my patients feel more comfortable if they're on a first-name basis with me."

"Okay...Jordan," I answer, and she opens the door to her office.

"Make yourself comfortable," she says, sitting in her desk chair. The office is cozy, with purple curtains drawn over the window and crepe paper lanterns with little lights in them. A teal sofa is set up across from the desk with a roadie case coffee table in front of it. A purple structured bean bag chair sits by the sofa. On the wall above the couch is a framed, signed Journey poster between two framed degrees. I notice two picture frames on the desk—one of the doc with a man and two children and one of the doc standing between two boys.

"So you like Journey?" I ask, looking at the poster.

"Among others," Jordan says. "Beatles, Stones, Queen, Aerosmith. The oldies."

"My dad loved Queen. He used to sing 'Love of My Life' to me before bed," I say without thinking. "I'm sorry."

"Why're you apologizing?" Jordan asks, grabbing a notepad and a pen. "I consider it a start."

I settle on the bean bag and stare at my knees. "What exactly am I supposed to talk about?"

Jordan shrugs. "You just told me about your dad. Tell me about the rest of your family."

I blow a piece of hair out of my face. "They're dead. I was nine." My hand goes to my locket. "Steve...Captain America, he was outside with me, he's a part of my new family. So are the other Avengers. I've been with them for almost a year now."

"Tell me about some of the things that make them family to you," Jordan says, looking up from her notes.

It takes me a minute to recall. "Well, most of them are easy. Steve's been good at keeping me straight and, I don't know, mom-ing me, or whatever the term is. Clint's like a dad to me. Taught me how to change a tire, how to work with power tools, how to pilot a Quinjet. I guess he's still teaching me how to drive a car. Nat's the sister I never had. Taught me how to put makeup on, takes me shopping, helps me through girl stuff. And Bruce." I try not to cry thinking about him. "He was kind of my personal tutor. I had issues with trigonometry and he made it simple for me. Any time I needed help in school, he would be the first one I'd go to. He treated me like an adult, but he always kept in mind that I'm still a teenager."

Jordan nods. "Something going on with Bruce?"

"Uh...I don't know if you heard, but he disappeared after...after Sokovia. I was in the SHIELD med wing at the time since I passed out from lack of oxygen, but Clint told me that the Hulk commandeered the Quinjet. Damned plane was in stealth mode, so it's impossible to track, and he hasn't gotten word to us." I swallow the lump in my throat. "I just...he would've made contact with us by now. I know that something's wrong. And not knowing if he's okay, not knowing where he is, and not having him around has me going total fuckbusters."

Jordan gives me a minute before pushing the box of tissues on the coffee table toward me. "Tell me about the other Avengers."

I wipe away the tear that fell from my eye. "Well, I, uh, I have histories with Sam and Rhodey. Tried to kill them both. At different times, of course. You'd never know it with the way they treat me. Vision's...weird. He's a robot, so, I mean, yeah, of course he's a little strange, but it's still a little disconcerting. And I've known Wanda and Pietro since I was little."

We sit in silence for an uncomfortable and unknown amount of minutes, though it may as well have been an hour. Jordan eyes me carefully. "What about your real family? You were born in Sokovia, right?"

I look up at her threateningly. "How do you know that?"

"Relax. Tony told me a little bit about you. Nothing specific, but enough so I'd know what I was dealing with," Jordan says calmly.

"Yeah. I was born in Sokovia. Wanda and Pietro lived across the hall. Air raid killed our families," I say. "Then I had a little soirée in a Red Room Academy. Then my little stint as everyone's favorite terrorist/drama queen. You probably heard about my work. Cairo, Istanbul, Da Nang, Beijing, Pyongyang. Then I went straight. Joined the Avengers. Helped them kick ass across Europe while we took down HYDRA. Then Ultron. I got Wanda and Pietro back. Shit happened. I got an internship in San Francisco. Had fun with that. That pretty much brings us up to date. What more do you want?"

Jordan sets down her notepad and pen. "I think you gave me a lot to work with. I've treated a lot of different people, despite only having my license for three years, and I can tell that you'll take time. With PTSD as bad as yours, that's usually seen more in people twice your age. But Kat, trust me when I say that I am here to help you. I can't do my job unless you trust me."

I smile wryly and shake my head, resting my chin on my fist. "Hate to break it to you, Doc, but you ain't got enough tools in your woodshed," I say.

"Oh, really? Try me," she says.

I'm starting to like this woman, but I also kind of don't trust her. "Okay, then. First time you heard a gunshot," I say. She opens her mouth to speak, but I interrupt her. "Not on TV. In real life."

"About ten years ago. I was nineteen. I was dating an Army boy and he once took me to a shooting range," she answers.

"I was three. Gang shooting outside my apartment," I retort. "First time you held a gun. First time you saw someone die. First time you killed somebody." She looks at me slack-jawed. "Yeah. I killed somebody. Shot him at point-blank range right between his beaver brows. What'd I tell you? Not enough tools."

"I'm not giving up on you, Kat," Jordan says.

"You'd never understand. I hear kids at school bitch and moan about how their lives suck, and I think 'you have no idea.' I still can't sleep without something wrapped around my wrists because when I was in the Red Room, they chained us to our beds to keep us from escaping. There's just too much damage to undo."

"Doesn't mean it can't be undone," Jordan says. "Kat, you're already starting to heal. You did that by admitting you need help. It's a hell of a step. I'm here to help you take the next one. And the next. And the next. You are going to get better. I promise you."

"For both of our sakes," I begin, checking the time, "you'd better be right, Doc."

we're focusing on just kat for a bit—dont worry, Pietro is going to make his return!