Skies Clearing (Maximoff Twins fanfic)

Chapter Thirteen

"I hate getting flashbacks of things I don't want to remember."

BLUE

The next morning, walking instead of running down the hall, I'm stopped by Clint, with an arrow in his hand.

"Quicksilver," he says, "I've been looking for you, I had an idea."

He leads me past the kitchen, my favorite room, and to the main training room. "Wands was trying to throw bullets before," he says. "It was really cool, with her magic, but she couldn't get enough power to pierce the target."

I imagine her throwing bullets like knives with a burst of scarlet ribbons.

"I thought maybe you could try it with superspeed and see if that works?"

"That sounds very cool."

"Heck yeah, it does." He turns a long bullet in his fingers. "From Bucky's assault rifle. Don't tell him I took them." He hands me the bullet.

I look down at the familiar, unfamiliar shape. The metal reminds me of something that I can't quite place. I close my hand over it and turn to the target.

I step back to get a running start, bullet ready in my fingers. Five blue-streaked steps, a breath, and-

I know this view. A slow motion world, blue ribbons behind me, Clint standing aside, the bullet ahead. But I know it from the other side of the shot. The sudden memory of something hitting me hard, fast, and hot makes me lose my breath.

The bullet goes wide and hits the wall behind the target. I stumble and fall.

"Woah, woah," Clint says, hurrying to help me up. "Are you okay, kid?"

"Yeah." I touch my chest, where half a dozen burning impacts have faded. "It was just- it was nothing."

"Are you sure? You're not hurt?"

"I'm all right," I say. I don't know why I'm not telling him what I might have remembered... what did I remember?

"Okay. You good to try again?"

"I-" I don't want to try again, I don't like the memory the bullet brings, the pain, desperation, please, please, run faster.... "If it is okay... I'd prefer to stop for today."

"Of course, that's fine."

I nod to him and hurry out of the training room, no blue ribbons following me.

When I am alone again I open the black notebook and click the pen. I touch the point to paper, but writing doesn't feel right. I move the pen across the lines of the notebook and draw a handful of shapes, long and blurred and quick. The bullets that might have hit me.

I rip the page from the book, accidentally smearing the black ink, but I don't care. I fold the drawing and slide it under the pillow of my bed.

I don't want to see it. I don't want anyone to see it.

I thought I wanted to remember. But if these are my memories, they may as well stay buried.

A/N sorry... the angst just slipped out. Thanks for reading, guys.