Chapter Text
❅❅❅
“Honey, I’m home!”
The sound of your voice makes Wanda’s heart leap, a smile blossoming on her face as she rises from the floor. Dust motes freeze in the air, suspended by the glow of the setting sun. Dragging her hands down her apron and new paint stains bloom over the faded ones, layering the colors like sediment.
“You’re late,” she says with no real hostility, brushing a loose strand of hair from her forehead. There’s a streak of purple paint near her temple that she hasn’t noticed yet.
You step into the room, loosening the knot of your slightly-too-big tie with one hand. Your other hand carries bags of takeout, the white paper crinkling with a sound that is far too loud for this quiet house. “Oh well, when you have an old ball and chain waiting at home for you…”
Wanda gasps as she walks towards you. “Oh, stop it, you.”
You smile, dodging scattered brushes and crumpled tissues as you close the distance. “I’m just kidding, dear.” You reach out and gently brush the purple paint streak near her temple with your thumb. “Y’know how Bruce gets. One millimeter off and he loses his mind. Had to make a whole new model.”
The witch smiles, gently grabbing your hand and cradling it with her own. “Well, you’re here now,” she says, leaning in for a chaste kiss. You place a dramatic hand on your forehead, exaggerating the swoon, and Wanda lightly smacks your shoulder, chuckling.
She grabs the takeout bags from your hand, moving towards the kitchen and dropping them onto the counter as you shrug off your slightly oversized blazer.
“Is Natasha coming by?” you murmur, tossing your blazer onto the couch and walking to the record player in the corner of the room.
She hums, not looking up, and digs out two plates. “I’m…not sure, sweetheart.” Her nose wrinkles at the scent of three-star chinese food mingling in the air with the lingering smell of linseed oil. “How is Bruce doing?”
“He’s alright,” you mutter, fumbling with the needle. “Tony says hello, by the way.” You lift the needle and set it gently on the spinning vinyl. The soft scratch of the grooves fills the room, before a familiar voice rises.
‘Earth Angel, Earth Angel. The one I adore.’
Wanda shakes her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Cheeseball,” she mutters to herself, setting the plates on the counter.
She startles when you wrap your arms around her waist from behind, a quick jump. You huff out a soft laugh as she quickly relaxes, her tension melting as she leans back against you.
You sway slowly to the music, as she spreads out the various takeout boxes. Your voice is a low murmur against her hair, blending with the record.
‘I’m just a fool. A fool in love with you.’
Wanda pauses for a moment, staring down at the food. “I…why did you get Chinese?”
You tilt your head, confused as Wanda turns towards you. “I could’ve sworn you hated it,” she mutters.
‘Earth Angel, Earth Angel. Will you be mine?’
"What?" You pull back slightly. "I love Chinese.”
"No," she insists, moving to pull a chair out for you, her brow furrowing. "No, you don't. Something about…the texture or smell. I can’t remember.”
It’s as though her brain short circuits right as she’s about to remember. You wave her off, taking a seat. “I warned you about those paint fumes, dear.”
She shakes her head, moving to sit across from you. “And since when have you ever called me ‘dear’,” she mutters, mostly to herself.
Wanda narrows her eyes when you unfold a napkin, setting it on your lap before digging in.
You raise an eyebrow, chewing your food completely before speaking. “Are you alright?”
Wanda shakes her head. “Yeah. Yes.”
You give her a quick, playful wink before turning your attention back to your plate. The record hums softly in the background, the familiar song filling the house.
She watches you for a moment longer, the way you sit so comfortably at the dinner table, and for a second she feels a strange ache in her chest.
“Did Tony really say hello?” she asks, trying to sound casual.
You nod, mouth full. “Mmhm.”
Wanda smiles to herself, picking at the rice on her plate. “Do they miss me at the tower?”
Without missing a beat, you reply.
“No.”
Wanda lifts her gaze, expecting you to be smiling, but your expression remains neutral. Her smile falters. “What?”
You shrug, wiping your mouth with a napkin before speaking.
“Why should they?”
❅❅❅
Wanda eyes flutter open, and she’s greeted with the sight of you sitting cross legged on the ground, hunched over your phone. Your posture is horrid, and Wanda’s mind briefly flashes back to when she’d learnt of the golden spiral.
She watches you for a moment, struggling to piece together the broken fragments of her dream. But the longer she tries to hold on to it, the faster it seeps through her fingers, the scent of linseed oil already dissipating from her mind.
You’re completely oblivious to her staring, your focus entirely on your phone. A crack sounds as you smack your phone against your knee, before dropping it and cradling the spot you hit.
"Damn it," you hiss, rubbing your leg vigorously.
Wanda glances at where your phone landed, spotting a ‘game over’ card on the screen. She pushes herself up on one elbow and cringes at how obnoxiously the mattress creaks.
You startle, head swinging towards her, “Jesus–” you cut yourself off, hand flying to your chest. Wanda huffs, watching you catch your breath. “Sorry,” she murmurs, voice still rough with sleep, “How long have I been asleep?”
You shrug, reaching over to grab your phone and wincing slightly. “Like, twenty minutes.”
She nods, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. It’s lumpy and uncomfortable. Nothing like the beds at the facility, or tower. She misses her bed.
Now that things have settled, the reality of the situation is starting to hit Wanda. She broke into a facility, was briefly arrested, then ran away from the tower. God, it sounds so silly. Ran away. She’s a grown woman, who left her house to meet another–
You throw your phone across the room, muttering curses as you push yourself off the floor and rush towards it, the phone skidding across the carpet.
…grown woman.
She runs her hand down her face, sighing.
You were so devastated, so broken when she left. And now that she’s back you’ve immediately reverted back. But you being content hasn’t extended to her the way it used to. She’s had this…weight on her chest. One she hasn’t felt since she got discharged. It’s tamer than it used to be, she supposes it’s because of your presence just a couple feet away. But less empty is still empty.
Doctor Spector said they were normal – these dips. But if she has to live the rest of her life, waiting for another ‘dip’, she’d rather not live it at all.
She shakes the thought away. She’s better. She has to be better.
Still, as her gaze locks onto the scar on the side of your face, the scar she gave you, she can’t help but wonder: Can she ever come back from this? All that she’s done to herself, to you, to the world.
Those people in Lagos, God. How many people has she subjected to this same pain? How are they dealing with it? Better than her, she hopes.
She doesn’t deserve to be better. Inflicting the same pain she felt on dozens of others—
Wanda sighs, boxing the thought and setting it aside. One more thing to bring up with Dr. Spector.
Reaching over, the witch grabs her phone off the bedside table to check the time.
Dozens of missed calls from Nat.
Three from Clint and Steve.
One from Tony–
Tony?
Wanda stares at the notification for a moment, thumb hovering over the screen. Why would Tony call her?
Noticing the amount of voicemails in her inbox, she presses play and sets her phone down, listening as she falls back onto the lumpy, canvas-covered mattress and stares at the ceiling.
Clint’s voice sounds out first.
“Hey, kid,” he starts, and Wanda takes a shuddering breath at the sound of his voice. “I know you’re…going through something right now. Not trying to drag you back here but, at least give us a call, yeah? Nat’s worried. I’m–” he stops, inhaling sharply. “Just…get better.”
Wanda can feel your eyes on her as the next message plays – Steve.
“Wanda? You there? I can’t hear you,” the supersoldier grumbles under his breath, and Wanda huffs out a weak laugh. “What’s wrong with this thing? You try calling me, maybe it’ll–” The voicemail cuts off.
The bed dips as you take a seat next to her, the creaks muffling the start of Natasha’s message.
“ –so worried, please call me.”
Another message plays – Natasha again.
“Wanda, please. I’m not going to track you down. Send me a text– no, call me. Now.”
A pause, then another voicemail. “Wands, what happened? Why won’t you just talk to me? Why do you have to be so–” Natasha takes a breath. “You were getting better! That girl is dragging you down with her and you’re too stupid to see it. For god’s sake you’re not a teenager!” A pause. “Just call me.”
You scoff. “What the hell did I do?”
Wanda shushes you as the last message plays.
“Hey Tony, Wanda here– Oh shit. Flip that around,” Stark chuckles to himself for a moment. “Uh, anyway. Jarvis has been asking about you– or I guess Vision. You know how it is. Kids these days, amiright?” He clears his throat. “He misses you, for some reason. I didn’t even know that was possible.”
“Anyway. Where’ve you been? I miss my drinking buddy. Oh wait, shit. I forgot you’re sober now. Is it worth it? Sobriety, obviously.” He pauses for a moment, as if waiting for a reply. “Look, I’m not really…great at this stuff. If you need anything, shoot me a text. I can set you up in a nice apartment across the city, away from everyone, instead of that dump of a motel you’re staying at. And no, Natasha doesn’t know. I won’t tell her.”
Tony scratches his goatee, the sound making its way to the mic before he speaks again. “I want to help. Let me help,” A pause. “This is Tony. Stark, obviously.”
Wanda takes a jagged breath as the voicemail ends with a click, closing her eyes for a moment. She’d never accept Tony’s offer. As much as she needed to be away, it’s too…different. She used to like being alone. Revelled in the silence that came when her friends stopped checking on her. But after being around you, sharing a room with you, for so long, she can’t stand how quiet it always is. How lonely it is to have her own room. And even though she’s only slept in the same bed as you once, it feels like she can’t handle sleeping alone again.
“Why are they so worried?” you ask.
Wanda’s eyes flutter open at the sound of your voice, laced with genuine confusion. Your brows are furrowed, one hand resting on Wanda’s knee. She tilts her head, unsure how to answer.
“They’re my friends,” she says after a moment.
You hum, the edges of your mouth tilting downward almost imperceptibly as you glance at your phone. Lost in thought, you don’t notice Wanda pushes herself up, leaning back on her elbows. “What are your plans for today?”
“Seriously?”
“What?”
Your eyes narrow. “You’re just going to ignore them?”
Wanda sputters for a moment. You’re the last person she’d expect to argue about this. “I…don’t feel like talking to anyone right now.”
Scoffing, you push yourself off the bed and pace the room, mumbling something under your breath. You just don’t get it. Wanda has so many people that care about her. So many ways to distract herself and feel better. So many shoulders to cry on. Why is she even here? What do you have to offer?
The most you can give her is a new ‘drinking buddy’, but you figure she’s past that kind of stuff. You just don’t get it. It’s like she’s putting off getting help. No– not even that. She’s already been helped. She’s just putting off any kind of…happiness she could get.
You know you’re being hypocritical, but Wanda isn’t like you. She has a chance, she’s always had a chance.
You pause, shaking your head as you try to make sense of it. “I just don’t get it.”
The bed creaks as Wanda sits up, swinging her legs over the edge. “Get what?”
“Your friends are all giving you outs, you have all the resources in the world. Like, okay. I get, like, the comfort of being depressed. But it’s like you just want to stay there forever! Tony is literally offering you a new life! Why won’t you just call them? I don’t get it, I just don’t—”
“That’s right. You don’t get it,” she interrupts, crossing her arms as she approaches you. “You think I want to feel this way?”
“Honestly? Yes. I do think that,” you admit. “I thought you were better, Wanda. What the hell is all of this?” you gesture to the motel room. It’s all hitting you at once, how deranged this whole thing is.
Wanda shakes her head. “I am better. Why do you think I got discharged?”
You roll your eyes. “I think you’re forgetting that I somehow also got discharged. You realize that, right?”
“So, what? You get to be sick for the rest of your life while I’m better?”
“What– no! Oh my god, that is so not the point.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, Natasha’s voice repeating in your head, ‘she’s dragging you down.’ “Just call your friends, Jesus. And I’m not sick.”
You want to bring up the fact that she basically used you to burn herself, but with the way she’s staring daggers into you, you figure you should just keep that to yourself.
“Why are you so mad about this?” She asks, finally.
“I just…don’t get it,” you mutter, shaking your head. “So many people that care about you, so many reasons to stay. To get better. And yet you’re…here. Why are you here? Why did you drop all of that for me?”
Wanda purses her lips in thought for a moment. “Didn’t you do the same thing?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You discharged yourself for me, ditched your own ‘out’.”
Your mouth opens, then closes. “No, that’s different. I never would’ve gotten better in there.”
“But I did.”
“See, now you don’t get it,” you say. Wanda tilts her head, waiting for you to elaborate. You sigh. “I’m not stupid, I obviously have a disorder. But there’s nothing to fix. You were…” you wave your hand around vaguely. “...grieving. You had to learn how to deal with that kind of loss. I don’t have any such reason for why I’m like this.”
Wanda frowns, and you wave her off. “That’s besides the point. I’m just saying, like…” you trail off. What are you saying?
The silence stretches between you, thick and uncomfortable, as you search for a way to finish the sentence. You’re standing in the middle of a room that smells like carpet cleaner and mold, trying to explain why she shouldn’t be here, even though you’re also here.
“It’s over for me, Wanda. But you still have a chance.”
Wanda shakes her head. “No, it’s not. Kate got better, the other girls got better–”
“Wanda, purging, to me, is like washing my hands after using the bathroom,” you start, pleased with the comparison. “I have no negative associations with it, not like Kate did–” you interrupt yourself. “No– wait, we're going off topic!”
“What is the topic, exactly?”
You take a breath. “I’m just…not worth all of this, Wanda.”
Wanda sighs, and you tense for a moment when she brings you into a hug, wrapping her arms around your waist. “You’re worth so much more than you realize.”
You huff out a weak laugh, burying your face in the crook of her neck as you relax. “How’s that?”
“They weren’t always this…worried,” she starts, taking a shaky breath. You stay quiet, letting her gather her thoughts.
“You should’ve seen how it was before. I would come home drunk, or I wouldn’t come home at all. My brother had just died, and nobody knew what to do with me. This new girl that they know nothing about other than she’s weird and now has a dead b-brother–” Wanda’s voice wavers. “But as long as I did my job, it didn’t matter.”
Natasha helped, in some ways. Picked her up from wherever she ended up on those nights, occasionally cleaned up her room. But she never asked.
You hum, urging her to continue.
“You didn’t need to know anything about me to be…nice. You weren’t kind–” she laughs, and you shake your head against her shoulder. “But you were nice. You helped me more than you could ever know.” She pulls back for a moment, bringing her hands up to cradle your face. “You’re worth more than you could ever know.”
You smile, resting your forehead against hers. “You’re a terrible judge of character.”
Wanda chuckles before closing the gap, bringing you into a short kiss, and for just a moment, you pretend that you don’t know this is going to end badly.
If neither of you ever get better, truly better, it’ll end tragically. It’s an inevitability.
Wanda pulls back. “Don’t think like that.”
You chew at the inside of your cheek. “It’s true, though.”
“No. I’ll help you,” she says. “I can help you. The way you helped me.”
You offer her a weak smile. “Maybe just…call your friends for now.”
The witch sighs, nodding as she drops her arms and reaches for her phone.
You’re not completely wrong. After your…laughing fit, you left her to stew in her thoughts while you scrolled through twitter, or something. It’s like you never lashed out at her, begged her to touch you when you so clearly didn’t want it.
You moved on almost as quickly as the heat faded, but Wanda couldn’t. All she could do was stare at the TV. Even when the screen eventually faded to black, she still stared at the logo floating aimlessly around – never hitting the corner quite the way she wanted it to. Just staring until she dozed off.
Even in her best moments, she still wishes it all could end. Not because she’s miserable, but because she’s so content – so happy – that she’d like it to stop right there. If only she could stop time right when she saw you again. To experience that kind of euphoria for the rest of her life.
On her good days, her really good days, she sometimes missed that…emptiness.
It was strangely comfortable, despite how cold it felt. At least she was in it, and not anticipating it. But, as if to prove her wrong, her brain would shove her back down when she wants it least. Pushing her into the darkness, screaming at her, “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
It isn’t. It’s always worse than she remembers.
Wanda shakes herself out of her reverie, turning her attention back to her phone, but right as she’s about to dial Nat’s number, she pauses, turning toward you.
“...Do you like Chinese food?”
You recoil. “I fucking hate that shit.”
❅❅❅
“Why now? I’ll be there in 30 minutes–” Wanda shuts her eyes for a moment, frustrated when Natasha interrupts her again. You shoot her a glance as you scour the aisles, offering her a comforting smile before turning your attention back to the snacks.
“Nat, you really don’t have to meet me here, I’m telling you– oh my god,” she pinches the bridge of her nose, the basket on her arm sliding down to her elbow. You turn back just in time to see her give in, shoulders slumping. “Fine. Yes. We’re at a store. No, don’t— Nat, don’t do that.”
You snort quietly, grabbing a pack of banana chips and dropping it into the basket without looking. You’ve had the weirdest craving for them the moment you decided to leave the facility.
“Natasha?” Wanda looks down at the screen for a split second before bringing it back up. “Hello?”
She groans, shifting the basket on her arm. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to call them—” Her gaze drops. “Banana chips?”
You don’t even look at her. “They’re really good. What happened?”
Wanda exhales, sifting through the growing pile of junk you’ve collected. “She’s coming.”
“Figured,” you mutter, tossing a pack of beef jerky into the basket. The bell at the front of the store jingles. You instinctively duck.
Wanda glances over, and finds an old lady shuffling in. “She’s not that fast.”
You narrow your eyes at her, before straightening up. “You can’t be too safe. Your brother was a speedster, no?” you mutter, trying to calculate the price of your snacks in your head.
“He, uh–” Wanda sputters for a moment. “Yes.”
It’s been a while since someone’s brought him up so casually. It’s never occurred to her that you’ve only known him as gone. How easily you say ‘he was’.
Wanda chews at her lip, glancing at the door.
“So,” she starts, following you toward the hum of the frozen section. “Do I really not have to do anything with this?” Wanda lifts her wrist.
You turn, glancing at the burn before pulling open the freezer door. A cloud of frost rolls out, biting at your skin. “I guess you could disinfect it, I never did.”
“And now you have scars,” she mutters, reaching over to hold the door open for you.
“Burn scars are cool as fuck,” you shrug, reaching for a pint of ice cream. “My brother has a cigarette scar, always thought it was badass.”
“Are you telling me to let it scar?” Wanda asks, her brows furrowing.
“Just saying, it’d be cool.” You mumble, the cold air from the freezer making your breath visible. “And it’d take the attention away from the…other ones.”
Wanda hums, considering it as you scan the various frozen desserts, your lips moving as you mutter under your breath. You take a box out, flip it to check the back, then slide it back onto the shelf. Over and over.
You’re not even planning on buying any. It’s just crazy how many calories these manage to have. You used to only eat ice-cream if you were planning to purge anyway.
You reach the frozen meals, and the front bell jingles again. You don’t duck this time.
Natasha Romanoff stands just inside the entrance, sunglasses still on despite being indoors. She scans the store in a single, efficient sweep before her gaze locks onto Wanda. Clad in a beige coat, she makes a beeline towards her friend, weaving through the aisles. She doesn’t even notice you, immediately bringing Wanda into a bone-crushing hug.
Wanda stiffens for half a second before melting into it, her forehead pressing briefly into Natasha’s shoulder. The redhead pulls back, hands sliding down Wanda’s arms. “Are you okay?”
The witch nods, and it’s only when you reach over to grab the basket from Wanda that Natasha acknowledges your presence.
You freeze mid-reach, hand hovering over the basket.
“You,” she says, voice low.
You glance at Wanda, then back at Natasha.
Her eyes drop to your cast, following your arm towards the junk in the basket, then locks eyes with you. “You’re still…doing this?”
“Doing what?” you ask, tilting your head. Natasha glances at Wanda, who’s avoiding both of your eyes, and your jaw drops. “You told her?!” you ask, disbelief written across your features. Also, you’re getting banana chips and beef jerky in the basket. Why would you ever purge those? You guess they don’t know anything about that stuff. But still.
“I’m sorry! She’s my friend,” she admits, wincing slightly.
“Oh my god,” you mutter, rubbing a hand down your face.
“Both of you, shut up,” Natasha says, shutting down the argument. She points at Wanda. “You’re going home. Now.”
“Wait, wait—” you interject, gesturing vaguely at the frozen aisle. “She’s my ride back. What am I supposed to do?”
“Don’t care,” Natasha says. She starts to pull Wanda toward the exit, but the witch digs her heels in.
“Nat, stop,” Wanda pleads. She glances at you, her face twisted with a guilt that makes your stomach turn. “I’m not leaving her here. I’m the reason she’s even out of the facility.”
You nod. “Yeah, exactly.”
Natasha groans, clenching her eyes shut. You and Wanda glance at each other for a moment before Natasha speaks again. “Fine, you know what? I’ll drive you home.”
A pause.
“What are you on about?” you ask, and Wanda looks expectantly at Natasha, wondering the same thing.
“I don’t trust you two together. For all I know you’re going to manipulate her into–”
Your jaw drops. “Manipulate?!”
“Yeah, manipulate. Because I can’t see any other reason Wanda would want to run off with you.”
Wanda opens her mouth to argue, but you jump in before she gets a chance. “Who do you think I am, exactly?”
Natasha shakes her head, clearly not willing to entertain this any further. “Wanda, take your car and go back to the tower. I’m taking her back to whatever hole in the wall she lives in.”
You scoff. “Bitch.”
“Why are you like this?” Nat asks, and for a second you almost think she’s genuinely asking. She turns her focus back to Wanda, her gaze softening just a fraction. “Go, Wanda. We’ll talk when I get back.”
Wanda looks between the two of you, her fingers twitching as if she’s about to push Natasha out of the way and drag you out.
Wanda bites her lip, focusing on the stiffness in Natasha’s posture, the faint dark circles under her eyes, the tension coiled in her jaw. She’s put her friend through enough, already.
She exhales slowly, letting her shoulders slump, and you tense. You glance at her, incredulous. “Wait, what? You’re just—”
“I’ll call you,” Wanda whispers. She leans in, pressing a short, chaste peck to your forehead. Before you can even reach out to grab her sleeve, she pivots toward the door, her silhouette blurring into the beige of Natasha’s coat.
The door chimes as it shuts behind her.
You stand there, your arm still half-extended toward the space Wanda just occupied, feeling the faint, lingering heat from her kiss cooling on your forehead.
Natasha looks back, waiting until Wanda is out of sight before gently taking the basket from you and setting it on the ground. “Come on,”
You chew at your lip, glancing between Natasha and the door. It’s always so easy for her to leave. You stare at the spot she disappeared through, like she might re-materialize if you give it long enough.
“She’s not coming back in,” Natasha says, her voice low and surprisingly devoid of malice.
There’s no use in waiting. No use in shoving yourself back into the same old spiral. She didn’t abandon you. She’s not leaving forever. She’ll…call you.
You shake the thought away. Your mom’s probably worried by now. Probably.
“Can I at least pay for these–”
“No.”
❅❅❅
You can’t stand white.
Whenever you moved houses, your posters and knicknacks would be up before anything else. Anything to cover the mind-numbing white walls of a new room. You couldn’t do that in the facility. Well, you didn’t think to do that. Not until you saw Wanda put up her own little photo of her brother.
It was small, with crease marks. Like it was folded up in her wallet for years before she stuck it on the wall.
The first few days at the facility, you were restless. Couldn’t bear the unbearably plain white walls and white tile and white bed sheets and–
Anyways. It must’ve been what eventually drove you toward that episode. You’ve had bad breakups before – it couldn’t have just been that. Well, it wasn’t even really a breakup. Wanda just…she couldn’t handle saying goodbye. Well, she kissed you, if that counts. Maybe she couldn’t bear the idea of you being alone. No, that’s stupid. She left, after all. Maybe–
No. You’re not letting yourself fall down this spiral again. Once was…sufficient. You can’t believe you’re even still thinking about that. You barely remember it, honestly. You got sad, broke your arm, then Agatha took you to the nurse. You’re probably just…crazy.
There’s nothing to dwell on, because Wanda’s back. Or she was.
Even if she leaves, she’ll always have that little mark on her wrist.
You know, from personal experience, burns never fade. They’ll lighten up, turn a moldy kind of pink, but they’ll always be there. She might forget your favorite animal, how you like your tea – might even forget the color of your eyes. But she’ll never forget you.
You really hope she decides to let it scar. That she chooses that scab to nervously pick at.
You try not to take her running off personally. She likes you. She wouldn’t have holed up in a shitty motel with you if she didn’t. But you can’t help but wonder: what happens when she inevitably gets better? What happens when she doesn’t have to depend on you anymore?
She has the strongest support system you’ve ever seen. She’s going to realize that she’s all you have, but you’re not all she has. You’re the "bad influence" she’ll talk about in therapy three years from now when she’s finally, truly "whole."
You wonder if that's what you are to Kate now. You miss her.
A particularly nasty speedbump pulls you out of your reverie.
You jolt forward despite the seatbelt, your cast knocking awkwardly against the door with a dull thunk. Natasha doesn’t apologize, just adjusts her grip on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road.
“Jesus,” you mutter.
Silence stretches. Awkward, but intentionally so. You think, anyway. Natasha seems like the kind of person to thrive on these kinds of silences. Weirdo.
You pick at the edge of your cast. “You know,” you say lightly, because that’s your default, “for someone who hates me, you’re being awfully charitable.”
Natasha exhales through her nose. “I don’t hate you.”
“Sure,” you huff.
“I don’t trust you,” she corrects. “There’s a difference.”
You hum, resting your head against the window. You think the conversation’s going to die down, but Natasha speaks again.
“How did you get that?” she asks, flipping the blinker as she makes a turn. “The cast.”
“Punched a wall.” Your nose wrinkles at the thought of elaborating.
Natasha scoffs, shaking her head.
You turn fully towards her. “You asked.”
She lets out a slow breath, giving you a moment to stew in the silence. “You don’t strike me as impulsive.”
You let out a harsh laugh, the sound catching even you off guard. “The bulimic who just recently discharged herself ‘against medical advice’ didn’t strike you as impulsive?”
Natasha smirks. “So you know you’re batshit.”
“What? Wait.”
“No, no, no. You said it.”
You open your mouth to argue, before taking a breath. “You know what? I’m not entertaining this.”
Natasha slows the car to a stop, red light bleeding through the windshield as she purses her lips in thought. “I just don’t get it.”
“I punched a wall, what’s there not to get—”
“No, not that,” she lets out an exasperated breath. “Why would Wanda run off with someone like you?”
You scoff. “Suck my whole entire cock.”
“Exactly! Why would– It just–” she pinches the bridge of her nose. “Why you?”
“Is that really so crazy?” you ask, a little hurt. Even if you knew the answer, some part of you wants to just…keep it to yourself. To be the only one Wanda would run to.
The question sits in the small, cramped space of the car, landing a little heavier than you intended. You look out the side window, watching a stray plastic bag tumble across the empty pavement.
“It’s not crazy,” Natasha says, her voice losing that sharp, mocking edge and turning into something much more exhausted. “Wanda spends her whole life being told she’s too much. Too powerful, too dangerous, too emotional. And then she meets you.”
She lifts her foot off the break as the light turns green. The red glow slides off the dashboard, replaced by the flickering light of the streetlamps.
“You’re the only person who tells her it’s okay,” Natasha continues. “You’re the one who says, ‘Don’t bother getting better, just stay here in the dirt with me’.”
“I’m assuming that I won’t change your mind about that unfair assumption.”
She ignores you. “You’re…” she waves a hand around, searching for the right word. “The path of least resistance, to her.”
“No.”
“No?”
“You’re wrong,” you start. “The path of least resistance for her is to put up with your bullshit for long enough to forget how bullshit it is, and then eventually get better.” Or get sick of putting up with it, but you can’t bring yourself to say it out loud.
“That’s what I don’t get,” Natasha says. “She was doing so well. Painting, going on dates–”
“What?”
“Why would she drop all of that for you–”
“Dates, plural?”
“ –and leave me? I’m her friend for fuck’s sake!” Natasha slams her hands against the steering wheel.
“Is that what this is?” you ask, your voice rising to match hers. “You’re– You’re jealous?”
“Don’t you dare,” she snarls “You couldn’t even handle sitting on your ass in a facility. Couldn’t even pretend to be better long enough to get out! And you think you can handle Wanda?”
“Handle her?” you scoff. “Wait, how do you even know that?”
“I read your files, idiot,” she says. It doesn’t sound like a reluctant admission, but like a given. Of course, why wouldn’t you expect her to be a lunatic?
You shake your head. “You’re getting mad at me for making her worse. But she decided to leave, to break into that place while she was staying with you.”
Natasha pulls the car to a stop at the curb. She finally turns to look at you. “Why was she okay?”
“...what?”
“When she first left. She was okay leaving you. Why?”
You sputter, unsure if she’s being rhetorical, but she’s looking at you expectantly. “I don’t know.”
Natasha sighs, disappointed.
“I really don’t,” you say, your voice sounding small even to your own ears. “Maybe she thought I was fine. Or she convinced herself I was. I don't know.” It’s not true. She knew what leaving would do to you. She apologized before she left. She knew.
You’ve started forgetting how that day felt. How low your heart dropped when you saw Clint with her stuff. The only reason you remember it is because you felt it every day from then until she left. You’d wake up, expecting her to be there, only for your heart to sink again. Every absence etching deeper and deeper into your chest.
“Then, what changed? Why did she suddenly…flip?”
You lift your shoulders in a shrug. “Women, amiright?”
Natasha narrows her eyes at your lame joke, before slouching back in her seat, rubbing her palms into her eyes. You want to explain yourself. To tell her that maybe Wanda just…likes you. You almost compare it to the way a King keeps a jester around, but scratch the metaphor as soon as it pops into your head. You’re more than that to her, you know it.
But you could never explain it to Natasha. You can’t even explain it to yourself.
The redhead sighs, finally turning towards you, and you brace yourself for another yelling match.
“You hungry?”
❅❅❅
Welcome home, Ms. Maximoff.
Friday’s voice echoes down the quiet hallway as Wanda steps inside. Her feet press into the hard tile, and something about it feels wrong. As though her shoes are meant to sink just a couple millimeters into it.
It reminds her of the time she’d found an abandoned trampoline with Pietro, and they’d jumped around for so long that she could feel the bounce long after they’d gone home.
She stops in front of her door, staring at it for a moment. Red tendrils make their way out of her hands, floating upwards to form the numbers ‘402’ on her door. Wanda lets her lips tilt upwards at the sight, before waving a hand and watching the numbers dissipate.
The click of the door opening echoes throughout the hall, seeping into her room as she steps in.
Her heart jumps at the sight of a figure standing at her window.
“...Vision?”
He turns away from the glass, sunlight casting a long shadow across the carpet. He is dressed simply, a sweater and slacks, looking exactly as he did from their date. She doesn’t see him around the tower very often. Mostly because she doesn’t want to.
“Wanda,” he greets, a smile blossoming on his face. He says her name so gently, so sweetly. He always does. He moves toward her, stopping just outside the space that would feel intrusive. “How are you?”
Wanda keeps her hand on the door handle. “I’m just... I'm back.”
“So you are,” Vision nods, clearly struggling to navigate this…reunion. “Would you like something to eat?”
Wanda approaches her bed, the question already going out the other ear as she falls face-down into the sheets. The bed dips beside her as Vision takes a seat by her legs, patiently waiting for an answer.
He stays put, silently watching as she basks in the comfort of her bed. In the darkness of the pillow, it’s easy to let the lines of reality blur. If she doesn’t look at him, if she just feels the presence of someone sitting beside her, she can pretend. She remembers those first few days, when you would sit at the edge of her bed, talking about nothing just to fill the space. You were always so restless, shifting your weight, clicking a pen, or picking at a loose thread. She huffs out a weak laugh. You’re only a phone call away. It’s been about an hour since she’d last seen you and she already misses you. Silly.
It’s been an hour…Where’s Natasha?
“Wanda?”
She internally groans, the fantasy shattered as she lifts her head. “I’m not hungry, Vis.”
Vision offers a small, apologetic tilt of his head. “Yes, of course. You’ve had quite a week.”
Wanda almost wants to roll her eyes, but she knows Vision is trying his best. She’s been so caught up in all of this, in trying to prove that she’s better, she’s forgotten that it was all because of you. The feelings of a somehow perpetually happy person seeping into her own.
Even though you’re the closest to her you’ve ever been, she can’t feel you the way she used to. Can’t feed off of you.
Wanda shakes the thought.
“Why are you here, Vision?” she asks.
The humanoid sputters at the sudden question. “Well, I heard you were on your way back, so I tried to cook something to remind you of home.”
Wanda’s lips tilt upward, “What?”
“Paprikash. I’m not entirely sure if it’s going well.”
Vision extends an arm toward the door, inviting her to witness the disaster. Wanda huffs, letting the man lead her toward the kitchen.
He mutters something under his breath as he rushes toward the pot, stirring the contents as Wanda takes in the mess of ingredients on the counters. She glances at the pot. “May I?”
Vision hesitates before handing her the ladle.
She stirs the thick, red liquid slowly, before bringing it up to her lips. Vision leans forward to watch her, waiting for her reaction.
Wanda nods, dropping the ladle and reaching for the salt shaker. “Not bad.”
Vision relaxes visibly, the tension leaving his shoulders. “I followed the recipe as closely as possible. Though I can’t season ‘to taste’ as the recipe asks.”
She seasons the pot properly, muscle memory guiding her hand. Paprikash was never complicated, just took a bit of patience. Vision watches her skim through the labels of the various spices he’s spread out.
“You don’t have to hover,” she mutters, squinting her eyes at the cinnamon he set out for some reason.
“I’m not,” he replies, then steps back. “...I suppose I am.”
She hums in acknowledgment and keeps stirring. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable, just unnecessary. A kind of silence that could be filled.
You would’ve filled it.
She imagines you perched on the counter, legs swinging, offering unhelpful commentary. Definitely burning your mouth. She’s never seen it happen. The food at the facility was never especially hot, but she imagines it nonetheless.
The thought lands warm in her chest. A rare thing for her to think of something that makes her happy. To imagine a future that’s worth living for.
“I’m glad I could lift your spirits,” Vision says, still watching her.
Wanda realizes she’s smiling.
She looks back down at the pot. “Me too.”
❅❅❅
“How do you even know about this place?”
You shrug as Natasha slides in the booth across from you. “Noticed we’re close to the facility, remembered this was near.”
She tilts her head. “The facility is a 20 minute drive from here.”
You purse your lips, wondering how you, Kate and Wanda made it all the way over here high as kites. “Oh, well. Still close.”
A waitress comes by, eyes on Natasha as she hands her a menu first. Natasha smirks, and you figure this makes her feel like an alpha dog, or something. The waitress lingers a second too long near Natasha before finally sliding a sticky, plastic-covered menu onto the table in front of you. Right as you’re about to grab it, the waitress stops you.
Her hand stays flat on the plastic menu, pinning it to the table. She’s staring at you now, her eyes squinting. You glance at Natasha, then back at the waitress.
“Wait,” she says. She looks at your forehead, then back into your eyes. “I know you. You were here with the two other girls. The tall one and the pretty one.”
You know who she’s talking about, but both attributes could be applied to either. She’d be ass at ‘Guess Who?’
Natasha narrows her eyes at you, and you clear your throat. “No, sorry. Guess I just have one of those faces.”
“...Huh.” The waitress stares at you a moment longer, before finally lifting her hand off the menu and walking away, but not without a second glance.
“One of those faces?” Natasha mocks, scanning the menu.
“Can’t help it,” you shrug. “I’m just an average ol’ joe.”
It’d be a nightmare for someone to recognize you right now. You probably looked a mess last you were here. It was the second time you’d ever purged in public, and you don’t want to go through that again. You don’t remember the reflection you saw looking back at you, but you’re sure it was a horrific sight.
It’s always been a pet-peave of yours, post-purge faces in movies. The most they’d get is a puffy nose, maybe reddish eyes.
Weirdly, though, you remember exactly how Kate looked. Her face was so puffed up you’d think she just woken up after a night of chugging down salt. Eyes bloodshot, and it almost looked like she’d popped some blood vessels in her face.
You know it's because she was doing it wrong. Not the purging, but the binging. Maybe she’d learnt from some movie, or something. You can’t eat then purge just like that. It just…doesn’t work. But even as you saw her scarfing down burgers and fries and other carbs, you didn’t tell her.
You want to say it's because you care, that telling her would only be making her worse. Teaching her to be worse. But some part of you – a sick, sick part of you – knows it’s because you wanted to be worse than her.
Natasha is still watching you. She hasn't missed the way your eyes glazed over for a second as you looked at the menu. She’s a spy; she knows what a "thousand-yard stare" looks like. Especially since you’re looking at the breakfast specials when it’s about…
She lifts her arm, pulling her sleeve back to check her watch.
…4 pm.
Natasha purses her lips, setting down the menu. “So, how did you and Wanda become friends?”
You’re snapped out of your reverie. “Oh, uh– Basically annoyed her into it.”
She hums. “Y’know, she really didn’t like you when you first met.”
“...Okay.”
“No, that’s not–” she shakes her head. “What I meant is that she hated you, and you somehow charmed her. Then she forgets about you, and comes back again. What is it about you?”
“Why are you still on this?” you groan. “Can’t we sit in silence? Is that allowed?”
The widow nods, and after a total of 15 seconds she glances at you again. “Y’know…” she starts.
“I don’t care. Don’t tell me.”
“....Wanda hasn’t been taking her meds.”
“Why are you revealing this to me? What are you getting out of this exactly?”
Natasha shrugs, picking her menu back up. Performatively, you’re sure. “What happens when she inevitably falls. If she ever…tries – again? Are you going to stick your fingers down her throat–”
“Oh my god. Enough.” You put an end to her ramble. The truth is, that seems easier to deal with than her getting better while you remain stagnant. “And for the record, vomit doesn’t gross me out.”
You’re shocked at the lack of faith Natasha has in her friend. She sees herself as a hero for being able to look past Wanda’s ‘issues’, even if she’s doing a bad job at it. “I met Wanda when she was at her worst, what other expectation would I have?”
Natasha opens her mouth to argue back, but it seems your answer was satisfying enough.
But then, she purses her lips again, and you sigh. “What? What now?”
“What makes you more qualified than me?” She asks, but her shit eating smirk is completely absent. She really wants to know.
“You really need to work on your phrasing, girl.” You huff, shaking your head, but you take a moment to think about it for a moment. “Okay. Uh,” you scramble your brain for a metaphor, despite you not understanding Wanda’s logic either. “Let’s say, you were drowning–”
“Oh, here we go.”
“ –and you were like, super deep into the ocean. Like crazy deep. What would you grab: the arm of someone reaching out, just a few feet above you, or the anchor of a ship ready to lift you back to the surface in the matter of seconds?”
Natasha stares at you, her eyes tracking the movement of your hand as you gesture toward an imaginary ocean between the salt shaker and the ketchup. She doesn't roll her eyes this time. She’s actually processing it.
You raise a hand just as she’s about to answer. “No, don’t answer now. Take some time to think about it properly.”
She raises an eyebrow, before nodding. The waitress eventually comes back, and you ask for a redbull while Natasha just gets plain black coffee.
“I thought you were hungry,” Natasha muses, narrowing her eyes at you.
“I think you’ll find life is much better when you’re not always suspicious of everyone around you,” you grumble, leaning your head back against the top of the booth, feeling the material slide against your hair.
The waitress passes by with a tray of plates for a different booth, the smell of steak trailing after her. You watch her set it down, eyes following the plate as the woman at the booth thanks her. She immediately reaches for a fork and knife, before cutting into it. Your lips tilt down at how pink the inside is, but your stomach grumbles anyway.
You miss not thinking about food. Even though you still purged, before the facility you barely ever had nightmares about overeating, constant thoughts about how you were going to avoid dinner, how you were going to fake bites of food. It was slowing down, you were getting better. In some capacity.
You’re glad to be out, but it’s making you realize how much that place fucked with you.
A can is placed in front of you, pulling you out of your thoughts. Sugar-free, eugh. Even when you counted calories, you’d always sacrifice a couple for the non-diet option.
Natasha blows at the steam rising from her coffee, before taking a sip.
Your eyes settle on the narrow hallway leading to the restrooms. You smile at the memory of Wanda constantly waving her hand under the hand dryer, muffling the noises you were all making. You watch the aftermath play out in front of you: Wanda marching out first, disappointment clearly written across her face. Then, after a moment, you step out, somehow the calmest of the three. Kate follows after you, frantically asking you if you had a plan. God, you miss that girl.
You’re wearing the pants from yesterday, and you reach into your pocket, silently praying it was still there. Natasha watches you mutter a little ‘hell yeah’ under your breath as you pull out a crumpled piece of paper.
Pulling out your phone, you immediately start typing in the number scribbled on the note.
“Who’re you calling?” Natasha asks, looking at you over the edge of the coffee mug.
You stare into the distance as you start drafting a text in your head, ignoring the widow's question. Natasha sets her mug down, eyes fixed on your phone as you finally decide on an opener.
‘hey katniss’
❅❅❅