the natural lifespan of a fandom is unlimited. when well tended a fandom can be functionally immortal. and yet everywhere you look you see newly bred fandoms withering and dying when they’re barely a year old. barely even six months old. fans are looking at their six month old fandoms and saying i think it’s on its last legs, should i euthanise it? when with the proper care that fandom could outlive them for decades. it’s sad. sad state of affairs we’re in.
Sometimes you hear a song and a fic pops into your head full formed. This is a trap. The fic may be fully formed in your brain, but you still Have to write it down. This is an important step that most people forget about.
You looked at your reflection one last time before grabbing your purse and keys while fighting the invisible weight that pulled you towards the couch.
Seb has dared you to go on a blind date in exchange for a week of free coffee, an offer you accepted in a heartbeat. Who would say no to free stuff?
Yet, something in the back of your mind told you maybe you shouldn't have accepted. That you weren't ready to step out of your comfort zone. Not after she left.
But then again, free coffee. For a week.
Upon reaching the restaurant, you inhaled deeply before getting out of the car, smiling at the host that greeted you and followed them to your table.
You looked around and couldn't help the frown at the fact whoever this person was, they could afford a place like this. Not that it was compared to the luxurious restaurants up town, but this didn't scream of burgers and fries and ice cream, which had you taking notes for later. At least if the person was a mess, the food would be enjoyed.
But as you thanked the waitress and took a sip of your wine, the body stepping in front of you had you choking as your heart skipped several beats.
"Hi,"
The voice reached your ears and ignited something dormant in you, like a spark burning up a forest, causing irreparable damage.
Guess my muses are still active. Send prompts or wtv through my inbox to help me come back to writing. Thanks for reading.
"Oh, no." Seb stopped you before you could press your card on the terminal, drawing a frown to your face. "It's already paid."
"... lucky me," you shrugged while taking a sip of your coffee. "May I ask who did it?"
"Umm," he looked around the café, his eyes searching. "She must have left." He mumbled.
"Is a she?" You smirked.
"A beautiful one. Brunette with green eyes. Soft features. Strong accent at times."
The description ignited something burrowed in you, but the alarm on your phone told that you didn't have time to analyze the threatening thought.
"Make sure you thank her next time you see her." You nodded before you grabbed the bagged goodie. "See you on Monday," you blew the barista a kiss before you walked out. The car keys warm on your hand as you unlocked the car.
The day was spent between meetings and visits to ongoing projects to make sure the designs met their deadline. But as it progressed, your mind kept dissecting Seb's description of the woman who had paid for your order in the morning. And every time your heart hoped it was her, your mind convinced you it was wrong. She's been clear when she walked away.
Yet, a part of you -when the loneliness froze your bones, dreamed of her return.
Summary: Pietro had died protecting Reader, and Reader devoted herself to helping her girlfriend Wanda through grief. But what happens when Wanda blames the reader for her brother’s death?
Word Count: 7,151
Warning: Angst, Grief, Sad, Reader’s pronouns are she/her.
A/N: Welcome to the Sad Ending. I warn you! This will make you cry (I think…I did). So get a tissue, make sure you are alone in your room before you read this. Enjoy 😉
*If you haven’t read the part 1, please turn around and go read it first!
Main Masterlist
Part 1 || Happy Ver.
---
---
Previously
Rio regarded her for a long moment.
Then she said something no one else had.
“Death is not cruel,” Rio said. “But it is precise.”
She stepped closer, until Y/N could feel the cold certainty radiating from her.
“You may not take what belongs to me,” Rio continued. “But there are… exceptions.”
Y/N’s breath hitched.
“Exceptions?” she repeated.
Rio smiled—not kindly this time.
“Every resurrection has a cost,” she said. “And the universe always collects.”
Y/N didn’t hesitate.
“Name it.”
Rio’s eyes flicked—not to Y/N’s body, but somewhere deeper.
“Careful,” Death murmured. “You might already be paying it.”
The air shifted.
And for the first time since this began, Y/N realized—
She had found what she was looking for.
And it terrified her.
---
Y/N didn’t sleep on the flight back to the compound.
She couldn’t.
She walked through the hangar with measured steps, breath shallow, heart pounding so loudly she was sure someone would hear it. Pietro walked beside her—solid, warm, real in a way that still didn’t feel possible. He looked around with wide eyes, taking everything in, like a man stepping into a future he was never meant to see.
Behind him, leaning casually against nothing at all, Rio watched.
Death’s gaze lingered on Y/N with quiet amusement.
“You kept your word,” Y/N said under her breath, not daring to look back again.
“I always do,” Rio replied softly. “Enjoy the moment. They are… fragile.”
Y/N swallowed, then turned away. She didn’t look back when Rio faded into the shadows, didn’t watch Death dissolve into absence. She couldn’t afford to think about what this meant.
Right now, there was only one thing that mattered.
Wanda.
---
The compound was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that settled in during the hours before dawn, when grief and thoughts grew heavier.
Y/N led Pietro down the familiar hallway, past doors that had once been filled with laughter and life. He slowed, fingers brushing the wall like he needed the grounding.
“This is my room,” Y/N said softly, opening the door.
The light flicked on, warm and dim. Pietro stepped inside, looking around, then back at her.
“You’re sure this is real?” he asked quietly.
Y/N’s throat tightened.
“I wouldn’t bring you here if it wasn’t,” she said. “Please. Just—wait here. I need to get her.”
Pietro nodded, trusting her without question. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The door closed behind her with a soft click that echoed far too loudly in her chest.
---
Wanda’s door stood at the end of the hall.
Y/N stopped several feet away.
For a long moment, she couldn’t move.
This door had become a line she wasn’t allowed to cross anymore. She could still feel Wanda’s words carved into her—I wish it had been you. The way Wanda had looked through her like she was nothing. The way love had turned into something sharp and punishing.
Y/N lifted her hand.
Lowered it.
Lifted it again.
She knocked.
Once.
Nothing.
She knocked again, knuckles aching, heart in her throat.
A third time.
The door opened abruptly.
Wanda stood there, hair loose, eyes rimmed red with exhaustion. For half a second—just half—something flickered across her face.
Relief.
It vanished almost instantly, replaced by cold anger.
“What do you want?” Wanda snapped. “I told you to leave me alone.”
Y/N inhaled sharply.
“I know,” she said quietly. “And I’m sorry.”
Wanda’s jaw tightened. “Then why are you here?”
Y/N swallowed, forcing herself to meet Wanda’s eyes.
“I have something to show you.”
Wanda scoffed. “I don’t care what it is. You don’t get to keep coming back like nothing happened. You don’t get to—”
“I know,” Y/N interrupted softly, pain lacing every word. “I know I hurt you just by existing right now. I know you hate me. But please—just this once.”
Wanda’s hands clenched at her sides.
“I don’t hate you,” she said harshly. “I just don’t want to see you.”
Y/N flinched—but didn’t step back.
“Five minutes,” she whispered. “That’s all I’m asking. If you still want me gone after… I’ll go. I promise.”
Silence stretched between them.
Wanda searched Y/N’s face, as if trying to find manipulation, guilt, anything familiar to push against. But all she found was raw, trembling hope—and fear.
“…Fine,” Wanda said at last, voice tight. “Five minutes.”
Y/N nodded, relief nearly buckling her knees.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
She turned and walked down the hallway, heart hammering with every step. Wanda followed, arms crossed, expression guarded, already bracing for disappointment.
They stopped outside Y/N’s room.
Y/N hesitated one last time, fingers resting on the handle.
“Whatever happens,” she said quietly, not turning around, “I need you to listen before you decide.”
Wanda didn’t respond.
Y/N opened the door.
The light spilled into the hallway.
And there—standing in the middle of the room, looking uncertain and very much alive—
“Wanda?” Pietro said gently.
The world stopped.
Wanda froze.
Her breath caught so violently it hurt. Her eyes flicked from Y/N to the figure in the room and back again, mind rejecting what it was seeing.
“No,” she whispered. “No—this isn’t funny.”
Pietro took a hesitant step forward.
“Hey, sestra,” he said softly. “I’m here.”
Wanda staggered back like she’d been struck.
Pietro barely had time to brace himself.
Wanda’s breath hitched, a broken sound tearing out of her chest—and then she was moving. She crossed the room in a heartbeat, red energy flaring instinctively around her before collapsing completely as she crashed into him.
“Pietro—” she sobbed, hands fisting in his jacket like she was afraid he might vanish if she loosened her grip. “Pietro, oh my God—”
He wrapped his arms around her instantly, holding her tight, one hand cradling the back of her head the way he had when they were children, when the world had been cruel and he’d been all she had left.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice thick. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Wanda shook against him, tears soaking into his shirt, her magic sputtering wildly before settling, curling inward as if even it was exhausted from grief. She pressed her face into his chest, breathing him in like proof—warm, solid, real.
“I watched you die,” she cried. “I felt it. I felt you leave.”
“I know,” Pietro murmured, eyes burning as he stared over her shoulder. “I felt you too.”
At the doorway, Y/N stood frozen.
She hadn’t meant to cry—not now, not when this moment belonged to them—but the tears came anyway, blurring her vision as she watched the two people she loved most in the world finally find each other again.
She pressed a hand over her mouth to keep from making a sound.
Every sacrifice.
Every rejection.
Every cruel word Wanda had thrown at her.
It had all been for this.
Her legs trembled, and she leaned against the doorframe, silent tears tracking down her face as Wanda clung to Pietro like a lifeline.
Y/N smiled through the ache in her chest.
He’s back, she thought, equal parts relief and heartbreak. She’s whole again.
Pietro’s eyes lifted then, meeting Y/N’s across the room.
Understanding passed between them instantly.
Gratitude.
A quiet, devastating thank you.
And sadness
Y/N nodded, wiping at her tears, stepping back just enough to give them space—because she always had, because she always would.
She turned slightly away, giving Wanda privacy even now.
---
Few hours later as everyone was awake, the compound was anything but quiet.
The shock rippled through the team in waves—Steve freezing mid-stride when he saw Pietro in the common area, Natasha’s hand instinctively going to a weapon before her face softened into disbelief, Clint just staring like the universe had finally decided to be kind to him for once.
“Okay,” Tony said finally, breaking the silence, eyes wide behind his glasses. “Either I’m still asleep, or someone owes me a very long explanation.”
No one really understood how.
But they understood what.
Pietro Maximoff was alive.
And Wanda—quiet, closed-off Wanda—was smiling.
A real smile. Bright and unguarded and achingly familiar.
That was enough.
They didn’t ask too many questions. Not yet. Instead, the compound filled with noise and warmth and something dangerously close to joy. Someone put on music. Clint brought out drinks. Steve clapped Pietro on the shoulder like he was afraid he might vanish if he didn’t feel him there.
They held a party—not loud, not wild, but full of laughter and relief and stories retold like blessings.
Y/N stayed mostly at the edges, watching Wanda laugh with her brother, watching Pietro tease her the way he always had. Every sound of Wanda’s happiness felt like both a victory and a bruise.
But she smiled anyway.
---
Later that night, long after the others drifted off, Wanda, Pietro, and Y/N ended up piled onto Wanda’s bed like they had years ago—backs against the headboard, blankets half-tangled, an old sitcom playing quietly on the screen.
The laughter was softer now. Easier.
Pietro snorted at a terrible joke, Wanda covering her mouth as she laughed, eyes bright with unshed tears of joy. Y/N leaned back, arms folded loosely, content to just be there.
For a while, it felt like Sokovia again.
Before the bombs.
Before Hydra.
Before everything broke.
Eventually, Pietro yawned loudly.
“Okay,” he said, stretching. “I’m dead—or was dead—I need sleep.”
Wanda laughed, nudging him. “You’re impossible.”
“Still your brother,” he grinned.
Y/N stood, smoothing her shirt. “I’m gonna head to my room.”
Pietro gave her a look—soft, grateful. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” she replied.
She slipped out quietly, pulling the door closed behind her.
---
She barely made it three steps down the hallway before she heard it.
“Y/N—wait.”
She turned.
Wanda stood there, barefoot, arms wrapped around herself, eyes searching Y/N’s face with a vulnerability Y/N hadn’t seen in months.
“I—” Wanda swallowed. “Thank you.”
Y/N blinked. “You don’t have to—”
“I don’t know what you did,” Wanda continued, voice shaking. “I don’t know how you brought him back. And I don’t care. I just—thank you.”
Y/N smiled gently. “I’d do anything for you.”
Wanda’s breath hitched.
“And I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “For how I treated you. For ignoring you. For what I said.” Her voice broke. “None of that was okay.”
Y/N shook her head softly. “Wanda, it’s okay. You were grieving. I understand.”
Wanda stepped forward and pulled Y/N into a hug—tight, desperate, grounding.
“No,” Wanda whispered into her shoulder. “It wasn’t okay. And I need you to know that.”
She pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes shining. “I love you. And I would do anything for you to forgive me.”
Y/N’s chest ached.
She lifted a hand, brushing Wanda’s cheek with her thumb.
“There’s really nothing to forgive,” she said quietly. “I never hated you. Not for a second.”
Wanda let out a shaky breath and hugged her again, arms tightening, clinging like she was afraid Y/N might disappear if she let go.
“Do you forgive me?” Wanda whispered, voice trembling. “Please… tell me you do.”
Y/N closed her eyes.
“And—” Wanda pulled back just enough to look at her, desperation flooding her features. “Are you still mine? Am I still yours?”
The question shattered something fragile inside Y/N.
She exhaled slowly and eased out of the hug, hands lingering at Wanda’s waist for a heartbeat before she lifted one to Wanda’s cheek. Her thumb brushed gently.
“Wanda,” Y/N said softly, “there really is nothing to forgive. For you… I would do anything. You know that.”
Wanda nodded frantically. “I know. And I’ll do anything too. I swear. I’ll never treat you like that again. I promise. Just—just give me another chance.”
Y/N’s smile was gentle. Devastated.
“I believe you,” she said honestly. “I do.”
Hope flared in Wanda’s eyes.
“But…” Y/N’s voice cracked, just slightly. “I can’t be with you anymore.”
The word hit like a gunshot.
Wanda’s face drained of color. “What?” she whispered. “No—no, you don’t mean that. We can fix this. I was grieving, I was angry, I—”
“I know,” Y/N interrupted softly. “And I love you. That’s why this hurts.”
Wanda shook her head, tears spilling freely now. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything. Please, I need you. I love you.”
Y/N’s eyes shone, but she didn’t look away.
“I believe every word you’re saying,” she murmured. “But I can’t be with you anymore because… I won’t be able to. Not physically.”
Wanda froze.
“What do you mean?” she asked, fear creeping into her voice. “What are you talking about?”
Y/N swallowed.
“It was the only way,” she said quietly. “To bring Pietro back.”
Wanda’s breath hitched. “What did you do?”
Y/N hesitated—just a second too long.
“What did you do?” Wanda repeated, panic rising fast.
Y/N’s hand slipped from her cheek.
“I made a deal,” she said. “With Death.”
The hallway felt suddenly colder.
Wanda’s knees nearly buckled. “No,” she whispered. “No, you wouldn’t—you couldn’t—”
“Her name is Rio,” Y/N continued gently, like she was afraid Wanda might break if she spoke too loudly. “She said a life had to be exchanged for another. Balance. That Pietro could return… but only if someone else took his place.”
Wanda’s sob tore free, raw and animal.
“No—no, no, no,” she cried, clutching at Y/N’s shirt. “Take it back. You can’t—you can’t do this.”
Y/N held her, forehead resting against Wanda’s.
“It's okay,” she whispered. “You needed him.”
Wanda shook her head violently, her fingers twisting in Y/N’s shirt like she could anchor her there by force.
“No,” she sobbed. “No, I didn’t need him at the cost of you. I never— I never asked for that.”
Y/N’s expression softened, heartbreak etched into every line of her face.
“You didn’t have to ask,” she murmured. “I heard you anyway.”
Wanda flinched.
The words she had thrown in grief—the cruel, venomous ones—hung between them now like ghosts.
I wish it had been you.
Her breath fractured. “I didn’t mean that,” she whispered, voice barely audible. “I was broken. I was angry. I wanted someone to hurt the way I was hurting.”
“I know,” Y/N said gently. “And I never held it against you.”
“But I do,” Wanda choked. “I hold it against myself.”
Y/N reached up, brushing tears from Wanda’s cheeks with trembling thumbs.
Wanda’s grip tightened around her wrists, as if afraid the words themselves might pull Y/N away.
“This was my choice,” Y/N repeated softly. “Not yours. Not Pietro’s. Mine.”
Wanda shook her head, tears spilling faster. “You don’t get to decide that alone. You don’t get to decide you’re worth less.”
Y/N’s expression faltered—but only for a second.
“I’m not worth less,” she said gently. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?” Wanda demanded, voice breaking. “Because it sounds like you’re trying to tell me I’ll be fine without you.”
Y/N swallowed.
“I saw you,” she whispered. “After he died. I saw what it did to you.”
Wanda froze.
“You stopped sleeping,” Y/N continued quietly. “You stopped eating. You stopped looking at me like I existed. You looked… empty. Like someone had hollowed you out and left only the anger.”
Wanda’s face crumpled. “I was grieving—”
“I know,” Y/N said quickly. “And I’m not blaming you. I’m not. But I saw something I couldn’t ignore.”
Her voice trembled now.
“You needed him in a way you didn’t need me.”
The words landed heavy and raw between them.
Wanda stared at her like she’d been struck.
“That’s not true,” she whispered.
Y/N gave her a sad smile.
“He’s your twin. Your other half. He’s been there since before you even knew who you were. When he died… it didn’t just hurt you. It took part of your identity with him.”
She hesitated.
“And you have Vision.”
Wanda blinked, confused even through her tears. “Vision?”
Y/N nodded faintly. “He understands your grief. He’s steady. He’s… good for you. I’ve seen the way you talk to him. The way you look at him. The way you let him protect you like I used to.”
Wanda’s mouth opened in stunned disbelief. “Y/N—”
“You won’t be alone,” Y/N pressed on gently, as if convincing herself as much as Wanda. “You’ll have Pietro back. You’ll have Vision. You’ll have the team. You’ll be surrounded by people who love you.”
Her thumb brushed across Wanda’s cheek one more time.
“All I’ve ever wanted,” she whispered, “is for you to be happy.”
Wanda let out a broken sound somewhere between a sob and a protest.
“You think I’d be happy without you?” she demanded. “You think that’s how this works?”
Y/N’s composure cracked then—just slightly.
“I think,” she said carefully, “that you’ll survive me.”
The truth in her eyes was devastating.
“And after everything,” she continued, voice shaking now, “after the way you looked at me and said you wished it had been me instead… I realized something.”
Wanda went still.
“You were already choosing a world without me in it,” Y/N finished softly. “I just made sure you wouldn’t have to.”
Silence slammed into the hallway.
Wanda’s hands slid from Y/N’s wrists to her face, holding her like something infinitely fragile.
“I was angry,” she whispered fiercely. “I was drowning. I lashed out at the person closest to me because I knew you wouldn’t leave.”
Her voice shattered.
“I never stopped loving you.”
Y/N’s breath hitched.
“But you did need him,” Y/N said, tears finally spilling freely. “And now you have him. That’s enough for me.”
Wanda shook her head over and over, as if she could physically reject the reality forming around them.
“You are not second to anyone,” she said through clenched teeth. “Not to Pietro. Not to Vision. Not to anyone. Do you understand me?”
Y/N smiled through her tears.
“I don’t need to be first,” she whispered. “I just need you safe. Whole. Smiling the way you were tonight.”
Her hand slid down to rest over Wanda’s heart.
“And if I have to disappear for that to happen… then I’m okay with it.”
Wanda grabbed her hand and pressed it harder against her chest.
“Then you don’t know me at all,” Wanda cried. “Because my happiness was never him or Vision or anyone else. It was you. It has always been you.”
For the first time, doubt flickered in Y/N’s eyes.
Just a crack.
Just enough to hurt.
The doubt in Y/N’s eyes shattered when the cold returned.
Not sharp.
Not sudden.
Just… inevitable.
She felt it like a clock ticking beneath her skin.
She inhaled slowly.
“Wanda…” Her voice was softer now. Fragile.
Wanda cupped her face tighter. “No. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t.”
Y/N’s throat worked as she forced the words out.
“It’s too late.”
Wanda froze.
“What do you mean too late?”
Y/N swallowed.
“When I made the deal… it wasn’t immediate.” Her fingers trembled where they rested at Wanda’s waist. “I ask Rio to give me time.”
“How much?” Wanda demanded.
Y/N’s silence answered before she did.
Wanda’s breath began to shake. “How much, Y/N?”
“…forty-eight hours.”
The number dropped like a blade between them.
Wanda stepped back as if physically struck. “No.”
“It was the only way,” Y/N whispered. “I asked for enough time to bring him home. To see you smile again. To make sure you were okay.”
“You think I’m okay?” Wanda’s voice rose, frantic. “You think I will ever be okay knowing you’re counting down to—”
Her words dissolved into sobs.
Y/N reached for her again, but her hands were colder now.
“I didn’t want to just disappear,” Y/N continued softly. “I wanted one last day. With you. With him. With everyone.”
Wanda stared at her hands like they were already fading.
“When does it end?” she asked, voice hollow.
“Tomorrow night,” Y/N admitted. “Midnight.”
The hallway felt like it was closing in.
“You don’t get to schedule your death like a meeting,” Wanda whispered, fury threading through her grief. Scarlet energy flickered weakly at her fingertips. “We can fix this. I can fix this. I can break the deal. I can find her.”
“You can’t break balance,” Y/N said gently. “If you try, it’ll only cost more.”
“I don’t care!” Wanda shouted.
“I do,” Y/N snapped back for the first time.
The word echoed.
Silence followed.
Y/N’s voice softened immediately.
“I care because if it costs you… then this was pointless.”
Wanda’s knees buckled slightly. Y/N caught her.
“You don’t get to decide my happiness,” Wanda whispered against her shoulder. “You don’t get to sacrifice yourself because you thought I needed someone else more.”
Y/N closed her eyes.
“I saw you tonight,” she murmured. “Laughing. Breathing. Whole. For the first time since Sokovia.”
“That wasn’t because you’re leaving,” Wanda cried. “It was because you brought him back. You were standing right there.”
Y/N’s composure finally cracked.
“I didn’t know if you’d ever look at me like that again,” she admitted, voice breaking. “After what you said… after the way you pulled away… I thought maybe loving you meant letting you go.”
Wanda grabbed her face fiercely.
“Loving me means staying,” she said through tears. “It means fighting. It means not deciding you’re expendable.”
Y/N let out a shaky breath.
“I have twenty-four hours,” she repeated quietly. “I can’t change that. But I can choose how we spend them.”
Wanda’s expression shifted—from panic to something deeper.
Terror.
“You expect me to just… what? Pretend? Smile? Say goodbye?”
“No,” Y/N whispered. “I expect you to be with me.”
The simplicity of it hurt more than anything else.
“Stay,” Y/N continued. “Not because you owe me. Not because you’re scared. But because you want to.”
Wanda’s hands slid down to grip Y/N’s shirt, holding her like a lifeline.
“I want you alive,” she said.
“I know.”
“I don’t want twenty-four hours.”
“I know.”
“I want years.”
Y/N’s lips trembled.
“So did I.”
The weight of the ticking clock settled between them.
Twenty-four hours.
One day.
One sunrise.
One last night.
Wanda pressed her forehead against Y/N’s, breath unsteady.
“Then we don’t waste a single second,” she whispered.
But even as she said it, her arms tightened—because for the first time, she could feel it too.
The faint, creeping cold beneath Y/N’s skin.
And time—
Time was already moving.
---
Wanda cried for a long time.
Not the violent, world-breaking sobs from before—but the quiet kind. The kind that shook through her ribs and left her clinging to Y/N like she was afraid sleep itself might steal her away.
Y/N didn’t rush her.
She just held her.
When Wanda’s legs finally gave out completely, Y/N lifted her without a word. Wanda wrapped herself around her automatically, face buried in her neck, breathing uneven and fragile.
Y/N carried her down the hall to her room—the same room where everything had changed only hours ago.
Now it felt small. Intimate. Heavy with borrowed time.
She laid Wanda gently on the bed and slipped in beside her, pulling the blankets over them both. Wanda curled against her immediately, fingers knotting into Y/N’s shirt like she had earlier in the hallway.
For a while, they just breathed.
Y/N stroked her hair slowly, rhythmically, pressing soft kisses to her temple whenever her sobs returned. She whispered nothing dramatic. No promises she couldn’t keep.
Just, “I’m here.”
Eventually, Wanda’s breathing evened out.
Her tears slowed.
Her body relaxed into something softer than panic.
She lifted her head slightly, eyes swollen and red—but clear.
And then she kissed Y/N.
It wasn’t rushed.
It wasn’t desperate.
It was slow. Intentional. Like she was memorizing the shape of her mouth.
Y/N’s hand came up instinctively, cupping her cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath her eye.
Wanda leaned into the touch.
When they parted, Y/N rested her forehead against hers.
“How about we go away tomorrow?” Y/N asked quietly. “Just the two of us.”
Wanda blinked. “Away?”
“Anywhere,” Y/N murmured. “Somewhere quiet. No team. No walls. No ticking clocks. Just us.”
Wanda’s throat tightened.
“…Yes,” she whispered immediately. “Yes. I don’t care where.”
A faint smile touched Y/N’s lips.
“Okay.”
They lay there a little longer, the weight of the coming day pressing in—but softened by closeness.
Just before sleep could take them, Wanda’s fingers traced lightly over Y/N’s chest.
Her voice was small when she spoke.
“Make love to me.”
Y/N stilled.
She searched Wanda’s face carefully. “Are you sure?”
It had been a long time. Too long. Grief had built distance between them in ways neither of them had known how to bridge.
Wanda nodded, eyes shining—not frantic now, but certain.
“I need you,” she said softly. “I need to remember how it feels. To be yours.”
Her hand slid over Y/N’s heart.
“And I need you to remember that I was always yours.”
Y/N hesitated only a second longer.
Then she kissed her again.
Slow.
Reverent.
What followed wasn’t frantic or reckless.
It was tender.
Intentional.
Every touch lingered. Every breath shared. Every whispered “I love you” carried weight that felt infinite. They moved together like they were relearning each other—like they were stitching closed the distance grief had torn open.
Wanda clung to her, not in fear this time—but in belonging.
And Y/N held her like something sacred.
The night stretched long and quiet around them.
They didn’t sleep much.
They didn’t need to.
---
Morning came softly.
A pale wash of light filtered through the curtains.
Wanda stirred first—but before she fully opened her eyes, she felt it.
Fingers brushing gently along her cheek.
Slow.
Careful.
She blinked awake.
Y/N was already watching her.
Her expression was peaceful. Tired. But warm.
Like she was committing every detail of Wanda’s face to memory.
Wanda’s breath hitched immediately.
The reality of it crashed back in.
Twenty-four hours.
Now less.
Tears filled her eyes without warning.
“No,” she whispered, voice breaking again.
Y/N’s thumb brushed away the first tear before it could fall.
“Hey,” she murmured softly.
Wanda covered Y/N’s hand with hers, pressing it harder against her face like she could anchor it there forever.
“I don’t want to wake up in a world without you,” she cried quietly.
Y/N leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.
“Then don’t think about that world,” she whispered. “Think about today.”
Wanda shook her head, tears slipping free anyway.
But she didn’t look away.
And Y/N didn’t stop caressing her cheek.
For now—
She was still here.
---
They left early.
No one at the compound tried to stop them. No one asked questions. The looks they received—soft, knowing, heavy—were enough.
Y/N drove.
Wanda sat close in the passenger seat, their fingers intertwined over the center console, thumbs brushing back and forth like they were afraid to let go even for a second.
The city slowly gave way to quieter streets.
And then—
A small Sokovian restaurant tucked between two brick buildings, warm light glowing through its windows.
Wanda blinked when she saw the sign.
“You found this?” she asked softly.
“Months ago,” Y/N admitted. “I didn’t tell you because… I thought we’d come here when things felt lighter.”
Wanda’s throat tightened.
Inside, the scent of paprika and fresh bread wrapped around them instantly. Soft Sokovian music played from a speaker near the counter. The owner greeted them in their native language, surprised but kind.
For a moment—
It felt like home.
They ordered dishes they hadn’t tasted since childhood. Wanda laughed when Y/N insisted on getting too much food “just in case.” Y/N teased her when she got sauce on her cheek. Wanda leaned over and kissed it away.
They smiled.
They laughed.
They held hands across the table like nothing was ending.
But beneath it—
There was a fracture.
Every time their eyes met and lingered too long.
Every time silence settled just a second heavier than it should have.
Y/N kept telling herself the same thing over and over:
She’s going to be okay.
Pietro is back.
She won’t be alone.
That had to be enough.
When they left, the sky was already dimming into twilight.
They didn’t rush home.
They walked slowly.
Hands linked.
Shoulders brushing.
Like they were stretching time thin.
---
Night came too quickly.
They were back in Y/N’s bedroom, lights low, the world outside quiet and indifferent.
Wanda lay on her side, propped up on one elbow, just looking at her.
Not talking.
Just tracing her gaze over every detail.
The curve of her jaw.
The scar near her collarbone.
The small crease that formed between her brows when she thought too hard.
Y/N lay on her back, one arm tucked behind her head, the other resting on Wanda’s waist.
“You’re staring,” Y/N murmured softly.
Wanda swallowed. “I’m memorizing.”
Y/N’s smile was faint.
“You won’t forget me.”
Wanda didn’t answer that.
Because forgetting wasn’t what terrified her.
Living with the memory was.
The digital clock on the nightstand glowed red in the darkness.
9:57 PM.
The seconds felt louder than they should have.
Wanda’s breathing shifted.
9:59 PM.
Her fingers tightened slightly against Y/N’s shirt.
10:00 PM.
Wanda sat up abruptly.
“No,” she breathed.
Y/N followed her movement, pushing herself up slowly. “Hey—”
“It’s getting closer,” Wanda said, panic creeping into her voice. “There’s only two hours left.”
Scarlet energy flickered faintly at her fingertips—not explosive, but unstable.
“I can feel it,” she whispered. “Like something’s counting down.”
Y/N reached for her, cupping her face gently.
“Wanda. Look at me.”
Wanda’s eyes were glassy with unshed tears.
“Ten o’clock,” she choked. “In two hours—”
“Not yet,” Y/N said firmly but softly. “I’m still here.”
Wanda shook her head, her breathing starting to spiral.
“No, no, no, I can’t just sit here and wait. I can’t just watch the clock—”
Y/N pulled her into her chest, holding her tightly.
“Then don’t watch it,” she whispered against her hair. “Don’t give it power.”
Wanda clung to her desperately.
“I’m not ready,” she admitted, voice small and breaking. “I thought I was being strong all day but I’m not. I’m not ready.”
Y/N closed her eyes, pressing her cheek against Wanda’s temple.
“I’m not either,” she confessed quietly.
That broke Wanda more than anything.
Wanda pulled back just enough to look at her.
“Then don’t go,” she pleaded.
Y/N’s hand trembled slightly as she brushed Wanda’s hair behind her ear.
“If I stay past midnight,” she said softly, “balance will take something else. I won’t risk that.”
Wanda’s jaw clenched.
“I don’t care about balance.”
“I do,” Y/N answered gently. “Because if it takes you instead, I’ll never forgive myself.”
The room fell silent except for Wanda’s uneven breathing.
10:08 PM.
The red numbers glowed like a warning.
Wanda slid back down onto the bed, pulling Y/N with her, wrapping herself around her as tightly as she could.
“Then don’t leave me alone,” Wanda whispered. “When it happens.”
“I won’t,” Y/N promised.
Wanda pressed her face into Y/N’s neck, trying to commit her scent, her warmth, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat to memory.
The clock kept moving.
10:17 PM.
10:31 PM.
10:46 PM.
Each minute louder than the last.
And Wanda—
Wanda began to shake.
11:00 PM.
The room felt smaller.
Quieter.
Heavier.
Wanda didn’t move from where she was wrapped around Y/N. Their legs tangled. Arms locked tight. Foreheads pressed together so closely their breaths blended.
Y/N held her face in both hands, thumbs brushing softly beneath Wanda’s eyes every time fresh tears fell.
“Hey,” Y/N whispered gently. “Look at me.”
Wanda was already looking.
She hadn’t looked away in nearly an hour.
Her red-rimmed eyes traced every detail like she was carving Y/N into her memory.
“I love you,” Y/N said softly.
Wanda’s grip tightened.
“I love you more,” she choked.
Y/N smiled faintly. “Not possible.”
Wanda shook her head, sobbing quietly but refusing to look away.
Y/N spent the last hour speaking in low, steady whispers.
About the first time they met.
About the way Wanda used to scrunch her nose when she was concentrating.
About how brave she was. How strong. How much light she carried even when she didn’t see it herself.
“You’re going to be okay,” Y/N murmured again and again, brushing her thumb across Wanda’s cheek. “You have Pietro. You have the team. You have a future.”
“I want you in it,” Wanda whispered.
“I know.”
“You promised me lifetimes.”
“And I meant it,” Y/N replied softly. “Just… maybe not the way we thought.”
Wanda pressed her forehead harder against hers, as if she could physically keep her anchored.
The digital clock glowed in the darkness.
11:32 PM.
11:47 PM.
11:55 PM.
Wanda’s breathing became erratic again.
“Don’t,” she begged quietly. “Don’t leave me.”
Y/N’s hands slid down to Wanda’s shoulders, grounding her.
“I need you to be strong for me,” she whispered.
“I don’t want to be strong,” Wanda cried.
Y/N leaned forward, kissing her gently. Slow. Deep. Lingering.
When they parted, she rested their foreheads together again.
“I love you,” Y/N said.
The air shifted.
Subtle.
Cold.
Wanda felt it instantly.
A presence.
Behind her.
Ancient. Patient. Precise.
Her body stiffened.
Y/N’s hands tightened slightly on her face.
“Don’t turn around,” Y/N whispered softly.
Wanda’s breath trembled. “She’s here.”
“I know.”
The clock flipped.
11:59 PM.
Wanda’s fingers dug into Y/N’s shirt desperately.
“No,” she whispered.
The numbers changed.
12:00 AM.
The room grew colder.
Rio stood behind Wanda, silent and inevitable.
Wanda started to twist, but Y/N held her face firmly.
“Stay with me,” Y/N whispered. “Please.”
Wanda’s eyes were wide, flooded with tears.
“It’s time,” Y/N said gently.
Wanda shook her head violently.
“No—”
Y/N kissed her.
Slow.
Certain.
Final.
Every ounce of love poured into that single touch.
When they parted, Y/N kept her forehead pressed to Wanda’s.
“I love you,” she breathed one last time.
Wanda’s lips trembled. “I love you.”
Y/N smiled softly.
Then she closed her eyes.
Her body relaxed in Wanda’s arms.
Her breathing stilled.
And it never started again.
The cold lifted.
Rio stepped forward quietly, watching the moment with that same calm precision.
“It is done,” Death said softly.
Wanda didn’t hear her.
Wanda was still holding Y/N.
Still pressing her forehead to hers.
Still whispering, “Wake up. Please wake up.”
But Y/N didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t answer.
Rio faded from the room as silently as she had appeared.
And Wanda—
Wanda let out a scream that shattered the night.
---
Wanda unraveled in ways no one knew how to reach.
She stopped speaking.
Stopped eating.
Stopped sleeping.
Her magic lashed out uncontrollably—walls cracking, glass shattering, the air humming with grief so thick it felt poisonous. Sometimes she screamed Y/N’s name until her throat tore raw. Other times she sat perfectly still for hours, knees pulled to her chest, staring at nothing like she was already halfway gone herself.
Pietro tried.
God, he tried.
He held her when she shook. He talked when she wouldn’t. He filled the silence with stories from Sokovia, with memories, with anything that might tether her back to the present.
But none of it reached her.
Because Pietro knew the truth.
Y/N hadn’t just been Wanda’s girlfriend.
She had been her person.
Her home. Her future. The love of her life.
The one Wanda had chosen—not out of grief, not out of loneliness, not out of convenience—but because loving Y/N felt like breathing.
Y/N had been her anchor.
The one who grounded her when emotions became too big, when chaos magic threatened to swallow her whole. The steady voice that reminded her: You’re still here. You’re still you.
That was why Pietro had protected Y/N in Sokovia.
Why he had trusted her with Wanda’s heart.
Because if Wanda ever lost Y/N—
She wouldn’t just lose a partner.
She would lose herself.
---
When Pietro first learned what Y/N had done—what she had traded—
he had been furious.
“You don’t get to decide that!” he had shouted, hands shaking, grief and guilt twisting together in his chest. “You don’t get to die for us like that!”
Y/N hadn’t argued.
She had just looked at him with that soft, impossibly calm smile.
“She needed you back,” she’d said. “And you needed her.”
“That doesn’t make it right,” Pietro snapped.
“I know,” Y/N replied gently. “But I’d do it again.”
That was when Pietro understood something terrifying.
Y/N hadn’t sacrificed herself because she thought she was second.
She had done it because loving Wanda had always meant putting Wanda first—even when it destroyed her.
And Pietro had known, in that moment, that Wanda would never survive this intact.
---
Now, standing outside Wanda’s room as scarlet light pulsed violently beneath the doorframe, Pietro felt useless in a way he never had before.
He was alive.
But the woman who had kept Wanda steady—who had been her balance—was gone.
“What do I do now?” he whispered to the empty hallway. “How am I supposed to help her without you?”
There was no answer.
Only the echo of sacrifice.
Only the silence Y/N had left behind.
And the terrifying truth settling deep in his chest—
that Wanda Maximoff, without the love of her life,
was a storm tearing itself apart from the inside.
---
Vision tried.
Carefully.
He approached her room more than once, voice low, movements deliberate. Not possessive. Not hopeful anymore.
Just concerned.
He stood in the doorway one evening while Wanda sat motionless on the floor, Y/N’s shirt clutched in her hands.
“Wanda,” he said gently. “Please. Let me help you.”
She turned her head slowly.
Her eyes were red-rimmed, hollow. Power flickered faintly beneath her skin like a dying star.
“I don’t need help,” she said flatly.
He hesitated. “You are not alone.”
She let out a brittle, humorless laugh.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I am.”
Vision took a careful step inside. “Y/N would not want this for you.”
The name shattered something fragile.
Scarlet energy flared violently around her fingers.
“Don’t say her name like that,” Wanda said, voice shaking.
“I only meant—”
“You don’t understand,” she cut in, her voice breaking open. “You never did.”
Vision fell silent.
There had been a time—brief, misread—when he thought perhaps there was something more between them.
But he saw it clearly now.
He had mistaken proximity for intimacy.
Wanda’s grief was not the loss of a possibility.
It was the loss of her everything.
“Y/N was my future,” Wanda said, barely above a whisper. “She was my choice. My home. The one I was supposed to grow old with.”
Her magic pulsed once, sharply.
“I never chose anyone else.”
Vision swallowed.
“I am sorry,” he said quietly.
And this time, he meant it without expectation.
Scarlet energy flickered again, unstable—but it did not strike him.
Because this wasn’t anger aimed at him.
It was grief too large for one body.
Vision stepped back, giving her space—not as a rival, not as something lost—
but as a friend who finally understood his place.
Outside the room, the walls still trembled faintly.
Inside, Wanda pressed Y/N’s shirt to her face and broke all over again.
---
Alone again, Wanda collapsed to the floor, fingers digging into her scalp as if she could claw the thoughts out.
Because the voices wouldn’t stop.
Not HYDRA.
Not Ultron.
Her own.
I wish it had been you.
Leave me alone.
I don’t want to see you.
Y/N’s face flashed behind her eyes—hurt, quiet… still loving her anyway.
Wanda choked on a sob so violent it made her whole body shake.
“She brought you food,” Wanda whispered to the empty room. “She waited outside your door. She stayed when you told her not to. She loved you when you were impossible to love.”
Her magic flickered erratically, red light crawling up the walls as memory after memory slammed into her.
Y/N standing outside her room night after night, knocking softly and never forcing her way in.
Y/N stepping back whenever Wanda withdrew—not because she didn’t care, but because she respected her pain.
Y/N apologizing for things that were never her fault.
Y/N smiling at her in that restaurant, pretending not to notice the clock.
Y/N whispering, I love you, at midnight.
“She died loving me,” Wanda sobbed. “And I made her think she wasn’t enough.”
Her breath fractured.
Y/N had never been second.
Never been replaced.
Vision had been a friend. A kind one. A steady presence.
But he had never been her future.
Y/N had been her future.
Her person.
Her home.
And Wanda had made her believe—just for a moment—that she wasn’t chosen.
“She thought I needed Pietro more,” Wanda whispered, rocking slightly. “She thought I could survive her.”
Her hands slammed into the floor.
The concrete cracked instantly.
“She didn’t understand,” Wanda cried. “I didn’t need him instead of her. I needed them both.”
Scarlet energy bled outward in jagged fractures across the walls.
“She gave me everything,” Wanda’s voice broke. “My brother. My smile. My chance to breathe again.”
And what had Wanda given her?
Distance.
Cruelty.
Silence.
“I did this,” Wanda whispered hoarsely. “I made her believe she was expendable.”
The word tasted like poison.
Her power surged violently, lifting her slightly off the ground before slamming back down.
“I killed her,” she sobbed. “Not Death. Not balance. Me.”
No one corrected her.
No one could.
Because if Y/N had believed—even for a second—that Wanda would be happier without her…
That belief had been born from Wanda’s own broken words.
The memories wouldn’t stop.
They piled higher and higher until breathing felt impossible.
Y/N’s voice echoed the loudest—never accusing, never angry.
For you, I would do anything.
Wanda screamed.
It tore out of her chest, raw and primal, shaking the foundations of the compound. And this time—
She didn’t stop it.
Scarlet light bled from her fingertips, then her palms, then her entire body. It poured out of her like grief given form—untamed, unfiltered, unbearable.
Walls buckled.
Glass shattered.
Alarms blared before being swallowed by the roar of chaos magic expanding outward in a perfect, devastating sphere.
Pietro felt it instantly.
He froze mid-step, heart dropping.
“No,” he whispered.
Inside the storm, Wanda rose slowly into the air, eyes blazing crimson, tears streaming endlessly down her face.
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed into the chaos. “I’m so sorry, my love.”
The magic responded to her pain—not with precision, not with control—
But with longing.
The red light exploded outward—
A Hex.
Not born of vengeance.
Not born of hatred.
But of desperate, aching love that refused to accept absence.
Reality trembled.
The sky darkened.
The ground split under the pressure of her sorrow.
At the center of it all stood Wanda Maximoff—
Unanchored.
Unmoored.
Grieving the only person she had ever truly chosen.
And somewhere beyond the tearing veil of magic—
Rio watched.
Not cruel.
Not pleased.
Simply certain.
The balance had been honored.
The cost had been paid.
But even Death understood one immutable truth—
Love that deep does not disappear quietly.
And the world would now have to survive the echo of it.
Hiii. Just saw you were asking for valentine's day requests... may I preeeeeeetty please request Wanda x fem!reader? Civilian au. Both Wanda and Reader are suuuuper busy lately which forces then to spend valentine's day apart but then Wanda comes back home a few days later and makes it up for it? If you add angsty angst into the mix, it's a bonus. Lol. Also, make it super cold weather (is summer here and I'm melting) thaaank you 🫶
Just Another Wednesday
Paring : tattooartist!wanda x fem!baker!reader
Warnings : angst then fluff, mentions of blood (from tattoos) and I think that’s it?
Word Count : 6.9k
A/N : this was so much fun to write! It was my first time writing angst (I think) so I hope you enjoy. Also it’s my longest fic yet. I might have to revisit this pairing because it’s so cute 😭
February 14th doesn’t announce itself.
It slips in the way Wednesdays usually do - unassuming, unremarkable, a day that doesn’t ask for attention and doesn’t wait to be noticed. It arrives suddenly, without ceremony, already in motion before you have time to register it.
The only real difference is that this Wednesday happens to be a holiday.
Valentine’s Day.
Though, if you’re honest, it feels like it’s been Valentine’s Day for weeks now. Maybe longer. The moment the New Year passed, the city started bleeding red and pink and white - storefronts dressed up overnight, heart-shaped everything crowding shelves like it was urgent, like it couldn’t wait.
Menus changed early, too. Special editions. Limited-time items. Coordinated color palettes. Which meant you’ve been making the same pastries on repeat, day after day, long before the fourteenth ever arrived.
Conversation heart cookies were the worst of it.
You iced every single one by hand, even after your wrist started to ache, even after the words stopped feeling cute and started feeling like a chant you couldn’t escape. Be mine. Always. Forever. Call me. XO. The phrases lodged themselves somewhere in your brain, repeating long after you’d gone home, long after you’d washed the sugar from under your nails. You caught yourself hoping - quietly, selfishly - that Valentine’s Day would come and go fast, that once it was over, they’d finally stop.
Then there were the heart-shaped donuts. Raspberry-filled ones, bleeding red when you sliced them open. Others with words iced carefully across the tops. Some dipped in pink glaze, some drowned in sprinkles. Trays and trays of them, lined up like they meant something more than sugar and timing.
And the strawberry pies. Heart-shaped, too. Never single-serve. Always made to be shared. Meant for two. You pinched the dough closed by muscle memory now, mixed the filling without thinking, even as the repetition wore thin. The extra pie that never sold sat heavier than it should have.
It was overkill. Completely, undeniably too much.
Too many hearts. Too much insistence.
And it hadn’t always felt this way.
It just does now.
Because now, you have a girlfriend.
And now, you’ll be swamped with work.
Yet again.
Knowing you’ll both be busy today is something you accepted days ago. It stopped being a surprise the moment the calendar flipped closer to the fourteenth. Holidays are always the worst for bakeries and tattoo parlors - too much demand, too little time, everyone else desperate to mark the day as special.
You learned a long time ago not to fight it.
Still, the thought tries to cling as you pull on your work clothes, as if it wants to follow you out the door. You let out a quiet sigh and shake it off. There isn’t room for it this early in the morning.
Walking into the living room, though, is when it catches.
Wanda.
Your Wanda.
She’s sprawled across the dark leather couch, legs tucked awkwardly beneath her, sketchbook open on her chest like she fell asleep mid-thought. Charcoal smudges her fingertips, faint streaks along the side of her hand, proof she worked until her body finally gave out.
A soft smile pulls at your lips, your chest tightening in a way that feels familiar and dangerous.
She always says you need the sleep more than she needs the bed. The first time she said it, so casually, like it was obvious, your heart cracked just a little. You never told her. You didn’t know how without making it heavier than she already sounded.
You lean down and press a kiss to her temple, the same way you always do. Her nose scrunches instinctively at the touch, but she doesn’t wake. She just shifts slightly, fingers curling tighter around the sketchbook, like she’s afraid it might disappear if she lets go.
You straighten slowly.
The note goes where it always does - by the coffee pot, tucked beneath her usual mug. You don’t have to think about what to write. Your hand knows the words by now.
It’s one you’ve written a hundred times.
One you’ll probably write a hundred more.
Busy day. I’ll be home later than usual. I love you.
You pause for half a second after, pen hovering, then set it down anyway.
Something in your chest aches as you grab your keys and step out the front door, locking it quietly behind you - careful not to wake her, even as the distance starts to settle in.
—
The door unlocks with a familiar click, and the bell above it chimes softly - an announcement meant for customers, not for you. You’ve beaten the sun again, the sky still dim and undecided, and you can’t help thinking it’s almost a race. How much of the day you can get ahead of before it catches up to you.
You flip the lights on, one row at a time, and shrug out of your jacket. The bakery wakes slowly, like it always does. Your feet carry you toward the coffee pot first, steps unhurried. You know better than to rush. The day will take everything out of you regardless. Why waste the quiet before the bulk of the city is even conscious?
You tie your apron tight at your waist, cinching the knot so it won’t slip later. It’s supposed to be white - plain, standard, forgettable - but lately it never stays that way. Glaze, icing, food-safe dye bleed into the fabric until the color dulls, turning pinkish, then red. Evidence of weeks spent preparing for a day that insists on being felt.
The display case is empty.
Anything left from yesterday was taken home - boxed up for families, for lovers, for people who would sit down together and split something sweet at the end of the night. You pause there longer than necessary, hands resting on the glass.
You could take something for Wanda. You think that every morning. Something small, maybe. Leave it by the coffee pot at home, like a quiet offering.
But the thought never lasts.
You always shake it off, already imagining it forgotten on the counter, untouched. Or worse - uneaten not because she didn’t want it, but because she didn’t have time. The idea of it sitting there, waiting to be cherished, makes your chest ache in a way you’ve learned not to dwell on.
Wanda’s schedule has never lined up with yours. It’s always felt like the sun and the moon - existing in the same sky, passing close enough to notice, but never lingering. You leave home early. She gets back late. Opposite ends of the same clock, both doing what you love, both paying the price for it.
It isn’t because of the holiday. Not really. Valentine’s Day just adds pressure to jobs that already demand too much. Bakers are asked to create romance by the dozen. Tattoo artists are paid to stencil love into skin.
This - whatever this feeling is between you - exists outside of that.
It’s quiet. Not tense, exactly. Just hollow, like something meant to be full has been left unattended.
And it’s been like this for a while now.
You don’t press it.
Neither does she.
But you both know - without ever saying it - that love isn’t supposed to feel like this. It isn’t meant to hurt so steadily, so quietly.
Other people need you. Clients. Customers. Coworkers. So you both keep moving, working through the ache, through the emptiness of missed hours and shared spaces that never quite overlap. You tell yourselves it’s temporary. That it’s enough.
For now.
—
Wanda wakes up at 9:58 a.m., her body deciding she’s had enough sleep without asking her opinion.
She yawns, arms stretching above her head, and her sketchbook slips from her chest and hits the floor with a soft thud. She ignores it, blinking toward the clock instead.
“Great,” she mutters, voice still rough with sleep.
She missed you again.
The thought comes easily, without drama. It’s familiar. Expected.
Wanda starts the coffee pot before stepping into the shower, steam filling the bathroom as the machine hums to life in the kitchen. She doesn’t see the note - not yet.
At that same moment, you’re elbows deep in dough, fingers pressing and folding as muscle memory takes over.
The process is repetitive. Comforting, almost. Mixing. Kneading. Letting it rise. Rolling it out, cutting the shapes, turning circles into hearts. Letting them rest. Frying. Decorating.
It’s busy - it always is around this time. People stopping in before long shifts or early lunches. Couples lingering in front of the display case, pointing, smiling, choosing pastries together.
Others call ahead, wanting to surprise their significant other with a dozen donuts instead of flowers.
It’s sweet. Genuinely.
But it doesn’t satisfy you.
Back at the apartment, Wanda pours herself a cup of coffee, grabbing her usual mug from the cabinet. Her eyes land on the bright yellow sticky note tucked beneath it.
She reads it, lips pressing into something that almost resembles a smile.
But she already knew that part - that you’d be home later than normal. You always are.
She reaches for her phone, hesitates only a second before replying to your words.
Got your note, I’ll be late too. Don’t wait up.
Another pause.
Then she adds,
I love you too.
She isn’t sure why she replies, she knows you’re busy. Maybe because you put the effort into leaving a note. Maybe because it still feels expected. Maybe because she’s tired - tired of passing each other like strangers, of living on opposite ends of the clock, of loving someone she rarely gets to see.
But she still means it, and that scares her more than if she didn’t at all.
Your phone buzzes twice while you’re working, the second notification coming a little later than the first. You notice it - of course you do - but your hands are coated in icing, movements rushed as another tray waits behind you.
You’ll check it later.
And that hurts Wanda almost as much as the delayed message hurts you when you finally read it.
—
The tattoo parlor smells like smoke mixed with antiseptic - two scents that shouldn’t belong together, but somehow do.
Wanda gets there early, a full hour before the shop opens. She moves through the space on autopilot, cleaning her station with the same careful efficiency you use at yours. Wiping down surfaces. Lining up tools. Making sure everything is exactly where it should be.
Control, in small, manageable pieces.
The shop is running Valentine’s Day flash specials. Flat rates. Pre-drawn designs. Walk-ins only.
She already knows what’s waiting for her.
Sheets of paper covered in hearts and roses, initials and dates written in looping script. Tiny symbols of permanence, meant to be decided on a whim. Promises people are sure they can keep.
There’s a couple’s deal too - come in together, leave with matching tattoos. A discount for love made visible, inked into skin side by side.
Wanda doesn’t look at those for long.
Half-Priced Heartbreakers is the other promotion. The one meant for people who hate the holiday. Broken hearts split clean down the middle. Daggers. Knives. Words like love hurts etched in bold, unforgiving lines.
It’s the opposite of what Valentine’s Day is supposed to be.
But Wanda can’t bring herself to blame them.
—
The stencil is on, the placement good enough for the client.
Wanda doesn’t comment on it beyond that. It doesn’t need to be perfect - it just needs to be where they asked. She’s done this design four times already today.
A barbed wire heart.
Protected.
Hurting.
She doesn’t think while she tattoos. Not really. She lets the heavy rock music bleed through the shop, lets the steady pulse of the machine fill the space where her thoughts would normally sit. The vibration travels up her wrist, familiar enough to be grounding.
It’s supposed to help.
It isn’t working.
Her mind drifts anyway - to you, to whatever you might be doing at this exact moment. If you’ve seen her message. If you replied and she missed it. Her phone is on silent, tucked beneath her jacket on the table in the corner, out of sight and out of reach. She told herself it was so she wouldn’t get distracted.
She doesn’t know who she was lying to.
Her chipped black nail polish stands out starkly against the white paper towel as she wipes away excess ink and blood. The red blooms and smears, familiar in a way that makes her chest tighten. It reminds her of your apron by the end of the month - stained with food dye, never quite white anymore.
Different messes. The same color.
The lines are perfect. They always are.
Her hand never shakes, even as it aches - even as every muscle in her fingers wants something else entirely. Wants the weight of your hand in hers. Wants the warmth she hasn’t felt properly in weeks.
You’re the same way, she thinks.
Careful with the piping bag, steady as you draw hearts or write soft words onto the blank canvas of a sugar cookie. Precise. Gentle. Creating something meant to be loved by someone else.
Her eyes flick to the clock mounted above the mirror, counting down minutes she doesn’t feel like she owns anymore. She wonders how much longer she’ll be here.
Or how much longer it will be before she sees you again.
Lately, she only sees you when you’re unconscious - your body curled into her pillow, breathing slow and even. She watches you for a moment longer than she should, memorizing the way you look when you aren’t exhausted.
She never wakes you.
She can’t.
Wanda hasn’t been able to show you that she loves you the way she wants to lately.
Not in big ways. Not in the ways people expect.
So she lets you take her side of the bed, even when she gets home late enough that it’s barely warm anymore. She curls up on the couch instead, telling herself it’s easier than waking you, easier than seeing how tired you look.
She replaces the sugar in the jar before it runs out, even though she knows you’ll notice anyway. She does it quietly, without saying a word.
She doodles little notes in the margins of her sketchbook and sticks them to the fridge - crooked hearts, half-formed flowers, reminders written in her careful handwriting. When you spot one, a soft smile finds its way to your face before you even realize it’s there.
And you’re the same.
You always pull a blanket over her when she falls asleep somewhere she didn’t mean to - the couch, the chair, sometimes the bed itself when she finally makes it there. You never wake her. You just tuck it in around her shoulders and leave.
You save leftovers she can eat when she gets home at one in the morning, or pack them up so she can take them to work the next day. You label the containers even though she knows which ones are hers.
You leave notes every morning, the same ones, written a hundred different ways. Reminding her that you love her. That you’re still here. Even if you can’t see each other the way you want to.
Something about all of it makes Wanda’s grip tighten around the machine.
Just once. Hard. The vibration stutters for a fraction of a second before she forces her hand to relax again, breath steadying as she continues the line.
She knows the feeling building in her chest - the ache, the pressure, the quiet panic of it - is worse than any tattoo she’s ever given.
And like ink, she can’t erase it.
—
You finally read the message hours later, when the bakery isn’t as chaotic. It’s late afternoon now - only a handful of hours until closing. The rush has thinned to a trickle.
You wipe your hands on your apron and unlock your phone.
You stare at the second text longer than the first.
I love you too.
The words stare back at you as your thumbs hover over the screen.
Still at work?
Of course she is. It’s only four.
You sigh and delete the message before you can think too hard about it.
Partners come in to pick up orders they placed the week before, happy smiles on their faces as you hand them neatly tied boxes. They thank you. Tell you how perfect everything looks. How their significant other is going to love it.
You nod and smile back, practiced and warm.
There’s only one box left in the display case. A white one with red twine, labeled for a guy named Peter. He’d said he was going to give it to his girlfriend. Sounded nervous when he ordered it.
You glance at the clock.
4:58 p.m.
Two minutes until closing.
You wait a little longer than you need to. But when the minute hand shifts again, you know he either forgot… or they broke up.
Your shoulders sink as you look at the untouched box.
You picture him standing awkwardly at a door somewhere, rehearsing what to say. Or maybe not standing anywhere at all. Maybe he changed his mind.
You swallow.
It’s almost the same thing, isn’t it?
Trying to do something nice. Trying to keep something soft alive.
The only difference is that you still have time.
You could still save yours.
He doesn’t get that chance.
—
At the same time, a couple sits in Wanda’s chair, their voices low but sharp enough that every word carries.
They’re arguing in hushed hisses.
About placement. About size. About whether they even want to get the tattoos at all.
“It’s permanent,” one of them says.
“That’s the point,” the other shoots back.
Wanda keeps her eyes on the sketch in front of her, but she hears everything.
She thinks about you. About the fights you’ve had - quiet, restrained, never loud enough to shatter anything. Just enough to bruise.
In some ways, she almost wishes you would yell.
Say something reckless. Something honest. Something that proves there’s still heat behind all this distance.
Because lately, the silence feels worse.
Actions used to be enough. The notes. The food. The blanket pulled over her shoulders.
Now she wants you standing in front of her, saying everything you’ve been swallowing.
But Wanda knows that might break something she doesn’t know how to fix.
So she doesn’t press.
She doesn’t interrupt the couple.
She just… lets it be.
—
You close up shop, locking the door behind you.
Your hands ache. Stiff. Sore.
They always do after twelve hours of constant movement - kneading, lifting, piping, wiping. It feels like the bones themselves are tired.
Wanda’s hands ache too, you know that. But she’s not far enough into her shift to notice it yet.
Sometimes it feels like you both have the same job - just in different fonts.
Especially today.
You create sweetness for couples trying to celebrate something. She marks their skin with something permanent. You both shape symbols of love for other people, all day long.
You shake the thought off as you start the walk home.
It’s nice out. Not too cold. Not too many hills. Just a lot of people.
A lot of couples.
Hands linked. Shoulders brushing. Laughter spilling into the sidewalk.
The tattoo parlor sits on the other side of town, only two streets away from your bakery.
But you go home instead.
You fix yourself something simple for dinner. Take a long shower. Let the hot water loosen your wrists and quiet your thoughts for a few minutes.
It doesn’t last.
—
It’s 7 p.m. when Wanda finally gets a break.
She stretches, rolling her shoulders and massaging her wrists, fingers flexing open and closed. Even with the machine turned off, her hand still feels like it’s vibrating.
A coworker brought a box of sweets. Left them on the counter in the back.
For a second, Wanda half hopes - half dreads - that they’re from your bakery.
They’re not.
The relief hits first. Quick and sharp.
Then the disappointment settles in behind it.
She misses your baking. The way you balance sweetness. The way you never overdo the icing.
She takes a bite of one anyway.
Too doughy. Too much sugar. The icing sits heavy on her tongue, leaving behind something faintly bitter.
She throws the rest of the cookie away.
Wanda checks the time.
You’re probably home by now.
She still has three more hours on shift. And after that, she needs to sketch out designs for upcoming clients.
A tired sigh leaves her chest.
She imagines going home early. Laying beside you while she works instead.
But she doesn’t trust herself.
Not to get distracted. Not to start something that turns into a fight. Not to say something she can’t take back.
So she shakes the thought away and heads back to her station.
—
10 p.m.
You’ve been tossing since the moment you laid down.
The room is quiet, but your brain won’t be.
Stupid, you think.
But it’s not your brain keeping you awake.
It’s your heart.
You stare at the ceiling for another minute before exhaling sharply.
“Fuck it.”
You throw the covers off and sit up.
Sweatpants. Hoodie. Keys already in your hand before you can talk yourself out of it.
—
“Yeah, goodnight,” Wanda says, her voice hoarse as she waves to her coworker. The door shuts behind him with a hollow thud, the lock clicking into place.
The shop feels bigger when it’s empty.
Her phone connects to the speakers automatically, soft music filling the quiet space. Nothing heavy now - just something low and steady. The tablet waits on the counter, a blank canvas for tomorrow’s design. She sits down, rolling her shoulders once before getting to work.
The neon outside hums faintly through the glass.
Not even twenty minutes pass before her phone pings.
The sound cuts cleanly through the music.
There’s a flicker of hope before she even looks.
Always hoping.
She flips the phone over.
It’s you.
I’m outside. Open up.
Her heart stutters.
Wanda turns toward the window, and there you are - bundled in a hoodie, hands shoved into your pockets, hood up against the cold. The sidewalk glows faint pink from the neon sign above the shop.
She’s unlocking the door before she thinks about it.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, stepping aside to let you in. “You’re going to get sick.”
You don’t answer at first. You just step inside, the warmth swallowing you as she shuts the door behind you.
It’s quiet. Her playlist hums softly in the background - you recognize it. One she made on a night she couldn’t sleep.
“We have to talk,” you say after a moment.
Wanda’s brows pull together. “Now?”
A short breath leaves you, almost a laugh. Almost a scoff. “Yes. Now. Right now.”
Her arms cross over her chest, leather jacket creaking softly with the movement. Defensive. Guarded.
“About what?”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no humor in it. “You know what.”
Her face shifts.
She does know.
You both sit down. Not too close. The chairs angled toward each other - open enough for conversation, distant enough to retreat if needed.
“I, uh…” You clear your throat. Your hands are shaking a little. “I miss you. And I hate it.”
Wanda inhales to respond, but you lift a hand.
“Let me finish. Please.”
She nods once.
“I hate waking up alone knowing you’re in the living room on that shitty couch. I hate that the only time we talk is through sticky notes and text messages. It feels like we’re too busy for each other.” Your voice tightens. “And I know you feel it too.”
Wanda’s hands clench in her lap. You can’t tell if it’s pain or anger.
Why would she be angry?
Everything you said is true. It’s what you’ve both been circling for weeks.
She exhales slowly, running a hand through her dark auburn hair - under the neon glow it looks almost wine-red, the light catching in it like something burning low.
If she agrees, it feels like defeat.
If she disagrees, it becomes a lie.
So she settles on the only thing left.
“You’re right,” Wanda says quietly, fingers fiddling with the rings on her hand. “We’re both busy. We haven’t… done anything except exist in the same house.”
Your face shifts - something fragile flickering across it.
The question slips out before you can stop it.
“Do you even still love me?”
It’s barely audible.
So soft Wanda thinks she misheard.
“What?” Her voice cracks.
Your arms fold over your chest like you’re trying to hold your heart inside your body. “Do you love me? Is this—” You gesture weakly between you. “Is this love? Should we even be together?”
The words hang there. Heavy. Irreversible.
You’ve both thought it.
Neither of you have ever said it out loud.
“Are you really asking me that?” Wanda’s tone sharpens, not loud yet - but edged.
You let out a hollow laugh. “Yeah. I am. We barely talk, Wanda. I barely see you. We haven’t been home at the same time for more than four hours in weeks. I tried changing my schedule - I did. It didn’t help. It feels like you’re here but you’re not.”
“You’re blaming me?” It doesn’t sound like a question.
You open your mouth, but she’s already standing.
“It’s my fault? Are you kidding me right now?”
“I understand a relationship is a two-person job—”
“Do you?” she snaps, stepping closer, pointing at your chest. “Do you understand? Because I feel like it’s my fault all the time. Like I can’t even do what I love - work here - without thinking you resent me for it.”
Your face falls.
You hadn’t seen it like that.
But she keeps going, voice rising now.
“You can work ungodly hours at your bakery and that’s fine. But when I do it, it’s a problem? Why?”
You stand too, frustration finally boiling over.
“Because I miss you and you’re right in front of me!” you shout. “That’s not how it’s supposed to be!”
The words echo in the empty shop.
Wanda’s mouth opens. Closes.
She misses you too. So badly it feels like something physical.
But you’re already turning toward the door.
“Wait, Y/N—” She reaches out, fingers brushing your sleeve.
The glass door shuts between you.
And suddenly there’s a barrier where there wasn’t one before.
—
You walk without knowing where you’re headed, just needing distance from the shop, from the neon sign still buzzing in your ears, from the way your voice broke when you said you missed her and meant it more than you’ve meant anything in weeks.
Your breath comes out in thin clouds that disappear too quickly, and the snow beneath your boots crunches steadily, rhythmically, like it’s keeping time with your heartbeat.
It feels unfair in a way you can’t quite explain. Not unfair because she doesn’t love you - you know she does - but unfair because loving each other hasn’t been enough lately.
You hear the door open behind you a minute later. You don’t turn around. You don’t have to. You can feel her there.
She doesn’t call your name. She doesn’t try to grab your hand.
She just follows.
Not too close. Not too far. Close enough that if you stopped walking she would run into you. Far enough that you can pretend you’re still alone.
The walk home feels longer than usual, your anger cooling into something heavier with every block. By the time you reach the apartment building your fingers are numb and your throat burns from everything you didn’t say.
You go straight to the bedroom and close the door behind you. Not a slam. Just a quiet click.
You toe off your boots, pull your sweater over your head, and crawl into bed without bothering to turn on the lamp.
For one selfish moment, you hope she’ll sleep on the couch.
The handle turns anyway.
You exhale sharply into your pillow.
She doesn’t speak right away. You hear her moving around the room, changing clothes, setting her rings on the nightstand. The small, ordinary sounds of her existence. The things you missed even when you were angry.
The mattress dips behind you.
Her body presses gently against your back, tentative at first, like she’s testing whether you’ll push her away.
You stiffen.
“It’s just me,” she murmurs, her voice low and worn thin. “I don’t wanna fight anymore. I just want to sleep next to you.”
The honesty in that hurts more than the shouting did.
You stay quiet, but you don’t move away.
Her arm slides around your waist slowly, carefully, giving you space to stop her if you want to. You don’t. Her fingers thread through yours, and when she squeezes lightly, it feels less like a demand and more like a question.
“Just hear me out,” she says softly. “Please.”
There’s a long pause before she continues, like she’s choosing each word deliberately.
“You were right tonight. About missing each other. About it not feeling like we’re… here.” Her thumb rubs over your knuckles absentmindedly. “I didn’t realize how bad it got. I just kept telling myself it was temporary. Busy season. Long hours. It would fix itself.”
Her breath warms the back of your neck when she exhales.
“But it didn’t,” she admits. “And I don’t want to lose you because I was too stubborn to notice.”
Your chest tightens.
“I can change my schedule,” she continues quietly. “I can leave earlier. I can draw at home instead of staying late. I’ll make the time. We’ll make the time. I don’t want our relationship to be sticky notes and ‘see you tomorrow.’”
Her voice cracks just slightly.
“I love you. I’m not going anywhere. Just… give me the chance to prove that.”
The silence afterward feels thick and fragile, like if you speak too quickly it might shatter.
You stare at the wall, thinking about the way she followed you without saying a word, about the way her hand hasn’t let go of yours.
You could stay guarded.
You could tell her you’re still hurt.
Instead, your fingers tighten around hers.
“Okay,” you whisper.
It isn’t loud. It isn’t dramatic.
But she exhales like you just handed her something priceless.
Her forehead rests between your shoulders, and for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep with her breathing steady behind you.
—
The next few days don’t transform everything overnight, but they soften the sharp edges.
Wanda comes home at ten. Every night.
The first time she walks through the door earlier than usual, you glance at the clock twice just to be sure. She shrugs off her jacket and smiles at you like it’s nothing special, like she hasn’t just shifted her whole routine.
She settles beside you on the couch, tablet balanced on her knee, and begins sketching while you lean into her shoulder. She doesn’t comment on the way you fit against her. She just adjusts her arm so it rests more comfortably around you.
You watch her draw more than you watch whatever’s playing on the television. The crease between her brows deepens when she’s focused, and sometimes she chews lightly on her bottom lip when a line isn’t cooperating. There’s a quiet joy in her when something finally clicks - a small, satisfied hum you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t paying attention.
You are.
She’s awake when you leave for work now, even if she swears she’ll go back to sleep afterward. Coffee waits for you on the counter. You leave half a muffin or a test batch cookie beside her tablet, pretending it’s casual.
She always hums when she takes a bite.
It does something to you every time.
The texts come easier too. Not desperate. Not checking in to make sure the other person hasn’t drifted away.
Just small pieces of your day shared because you want to.
A picture of flour on your apron.
A complaint about a client who wanted a dragon the size of a coin.
A simple miss you.
It’s not perfect. You still get busy. You still miss each other sometimes.
But it doesn’t feel like you’re losing ground anymore.
It feels like you’re standing on it together.
—
The weekend sneaks up on you both, and somehow you both end up calling out of work within minutes of each other. You hear her in the kitchen making an excuse about “family stuff,” and when she hangs up, she walks into the living room to find you staring at your phone with the same guilty expression.
For a second you just look at each other.
Then you both start laughing.
It feels like relief.
The day is spent watching movies, talking, trying to learn how to exist together again.
And then it’s nearly three in the morning when the idea comes to you.
“I want one,” you say suddenly.
Wanda looks up from where she’s half-curled on the couch. “One what?”
“A tattoo.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, amused and suspicious. “Right now?”
You shrug, even though your heart is racing. “Why not?”
The shop is quiet when you get there. The overhead lights cast everything in a steady glow, and the familiar smell of disinfectant and ink wraps around you. It feels different at this time - quieter, heavier, like the walls are listening.
“Are you sure?” she asks again, more serious now. “It’s permanent.”
You let out a slow, shaky exhale, trying to steady yourself. This isn’t just ink. It isn’t just a tiny heart.
It’s commitment.
To the relationship.
To her.
To the fragile, stubborn bond you both almost let slip through your fingers.
“I know,” you say softly, the words laced with trust.
Her gloved thumb brushes over your wrist, pressing gently where your pulse beats. It jumps under her touch and she notices, the corner of her mouth lifting.
She doesn’t reach for a stencil. She just picks up the marker and begins to freehand it, adjusting the curve slightly to fit the natural bend of your wrist.
The heart is small. Clean. Positioned exactly where she always holds you.
“You could’ve used a stencil,” you tease quietly.
She rolls her eyes without looking up. “Do you want me to stop?”
You laugh softly. “No. I trust you.”
That makes her glance up.
The machine buzzes to life and she stretches your skin carefully with her thumb pressed into your palm.
“Ready?” she asks.
You nod.
The needle meets your skin, sharp and hot at first, but manageable. You keep your eyes on her face instead of the pain. The bright LED lights catch every angle of her features - the sharp line of her jaw, the faint crease between her brows when she focuses.
Sometimes she bites her lip in concentration. Other times she smiles slightly, knowing you’re watching her like she’s the only thing in the room worth seeing.
“Am I making you nervous, Maximoff?” you ask lightly as she finishes the first pass, her hand gentle as she wipes your skin with a paper towel.
Her eyes flick up to yours, green bright under the lights, and she smiles. “Just a tad,” she admits. “It’s not every day I get to tattoo my girlfriend.”
The word lands warm and steady in your chest.
Girlfriend.
You smile without meaning to, because you know this matters to both of you. This small heart sitting over your pulse is more than decoration - it’s something she’ll trace with her thumb once it’s healed, something you’ll see every time your sleeves are pushed back and your hands are covered in flour and sugar and sweetness. It’s going to live there, quiet and constant.
She’ll be on your mind even more than she already is.
Wanda finishes the linework and leans back slightly, studying it with a critical eye before nodding to herself. “So,” she says, and there’s the faintest hint of nerves in her voice now, “what do you think?”
You look down as she wipes away the foamy cleaner, revealing the finished heart in clean, deliberate lines. For a second you just stare at it, at how perfectly it sits against your skin, at how something so small can feel so significant.
A smile spreads across your face before you can stop it.
“It’s perfect,” you tell her, looking from your wrist back up to her.
Her shoulders ease at that, and she reaches for the saniderm, carefully placing it over the tattoo and smoothing it down with practiced hands. She presses along the edges to make sure it seals, her thumb lingering for a moment longer than necessary.
“Leave it on while it heals,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you.
When she finishes, she pulls off her gloves and cleans her station, movements automatic, but her eyes keep flicking back to you like she needs to make sure you’re still there.
You’re still in the chair, sitting a little taller than her now that she’s on the stool in front of you.
And there’s something about the way she looks up at you - the softer green in her eyes under the harsh lights, the faint smudge of ink on her wrist, the vulnerability she tries and fails to hide - that makes your chest tighten.
You reach for her without thinking.
Your hands slide into her hair, fingers curling gently as you pull her toward you, and her mouth meets yours in a kiss that isn’t rushed or desperate but certain. It says everything you didn’t manage to say during the shared day. It says I’m here. It says I’m choosing you.
Her hands settle on your thighs, warm and steady, drawing you closer as if she’s afraid you might disappear again.
When you pull back, you’re both a little breathless, foreheads resting together, her breath still warm against your lips.
“Next time,” you murmur, voice low but sure, “I’m giving you a tattoo.”
Her lips curve against yours.
“We’ll see,” she whispers.
And somehow, it feels like a promise.
—
Flour is everywhere - dusting the counters, the tile, the edge of the stove - clinging stubbornly to Wanda’s black shirt and tangled at the ends of her hair. It’s on her cheek, too, faint and careless, like she forgot it lingers.
You, somehow, are untouched.
Well. Mostly. It’s only your apron that’s taken the hit, tied snug around your waist like a shield of competence.
The cookies sit in the oven, nearly done, the sweet smell of butter and sugar filling the kitchen and curling into every corner of the apartment. It feels warmer in here than it did at the shop. Softer. The light above the stove is dim and golden, not harsh and clinical, not humming overhead like it’s judging you.
“You’re a mess,” you say, but there’s no bite to it. Just fondness. Just warmth.
Wanda laughs, the sound bright and unguarded, as she attempts to rinse flour from her hands in the sink, only succeeding in turning it into paste along her fingers. “I am not,” she argues weakly, flicking a bit of water in your direction.
You look at her - really look at her - flour-dusted and flushed and standing in your shared kitchen at some ungodly hour of the night, and the sight hits you square in the chest.
“Jesus,” you murmur under your breath.
It slips out like a curse but sounds more like reverence.
If she hears you, she doesn’t call attention to it. But the faint pink that creeps up her neck and the way her eyes linger on you for a second too long tells you she heard it just fine.
The oven timer chimes, breaking the moment, and you move first, slipping on mitts and pulling the tray out carefully. The cookies are golden at the edges, soft in the center, and the cherry jam pooled in the thumbprints glistens under the light - each one shaped into a heart, the two indents meeting at the bottom.
You feel her step closer before she even reaches for one.
Your hand finds hers instinctively, fingers wrapping around her wrist in a gentle squeeze. “Hot,” you remind her softly.
She huffs but lets you guide her hand down, dramatic about it.
You set the tray down to cool, though you both know it’s a suggestion more than a rule. And sure enough, when your back is turned to grab a plate, there’s the faint sound of movement - quick and sneaky - followed by a sharp inhale.
“Wanda,” you warn without looking.
“I’m fine,” she insists through a mouthful, already chewing.
By the time they’re cool enough to eat properly - or by the time her tongue stops burning, whichever comes first - she hums in approval, thumb brushing over the corner of her mouth to catch a bit of spilled jam before slipping it between her lips.
“These are really good,” she says, softer now, more sincere than teasing.
Warmth blooms low in your stomach at the praise, spreading outward until you feel almost light with it.
It isn’t grand. There are no elaborate speeches, no bouquets of flowers, no sweeping declarations. Just flour on the floor, a wrapped tattoo on your wrist, cherry jam hearts slowly disappearing one by one.
Just this.
A new start built in small things. In shared kitchens and soft laughter. In the way the tray slowly empties as you both enjoy the cookies you made together. In staying up too late and talking about nothing until the sky begins to pale and early morning light slips through the blinds in thin, golden lines.
You lean into her side, and she lets you, her arm settling around your waist like it belongs there.
It’s home.
It’s love.
It’s everything in between.
And it rests, steady and certain, in the hands of your Wanda.
yes, I’m a writer. yes, I write whatever I want for myself and my own enjoyment. yes, I am my own primary target audience. yes, I am a greedy little gremlin who feeds on positive comments. yes, I deeply appreciate everyone who comments nice things on my works.
Okay, that's a really good sentence. Typo. Typo. Huh, did I write this? It's actually not bad. Typo. Hm, I would cut out that part now, but it kind of works. TYPO. Oh, this part is really good. That is the wrong word, wtf? I'm enjoying this more than I thought I would. ANOTHER TYPO? FFS.
Okay, so. Since you're looking forward to get into your junksen mafia au, I came to request more hcs. Or a drabble if you feel like. Aubrey gets under anesthesia for some medical issue and she becomes this chaotic sweet girl under the care of Emily who, despite being in their early stages of knowing each other, she makes sure to tease Aubrey about it when she recovers.
I don't make the rules. Thank you 🫶
okay so... this got away from me vee. this is not a drabble, its a oneshot lmfao. i hope you like ittttt
Emily is exhausted. Trying to keep up with work, and her… arrangement with Aubrey, she's not sure how she's still functioning. Truthfully though, the hardest part has been keeping the whole helping-a-Mafia-boss thing a secret from Beca. She's always hated lying in general, but she hates lying to Beca even more. The risks are just too great, so she soothes the guilt by reminding herself that lying keeps her friend safe.
At least she's off tomorrow. Unless she gets another call from an unknown number -– those calls are always Aubrey. Always politely asking for Emily's assistance, posing it as question, as if Emily has to the option to refuse.
As if Emily would refuse even if she could… That thought makes Emily's stomach clench as she enters her bedroom, freshly showered and ready for bed. She sighs and throws herself face down on her bed.
It's fucked up. She's fucked up, because somewhere between that first meeting with Aubrey and every one after, between the intense looks, and the blatant flirting that Aubrey does… somewhere between then and now, Emily's view of the older woman has skewed, and without her knowledge, or her permission, something like infatuation has crept up into her chest and nestled itself messily around her heart.
It's pathetic (and dangerous), because if she thinks about it, she knows she'd do whatever Aubrey asked -– within reason. She knows her morals have gone a little grey in agreeing to help Aubrey, but not so much so that she'd do more than what's required of her.
Groaning, Emily flips over onto her back to look up at the ceiling. I'm fucked, she thinks, not for the first time since she'd met Aubrey all those months ago.
She brings a hand up to scrub tiredly at her forehead and decides she's not going to think about, she's just going to enjoy this night with her best friend. They'll order pizza and watch shitty horror movies and---
Before she can finish the thought, there's a harsh, rapid series of knocks coming from their apartment door. "I got it, Em!" Beca says from somewhere down the hall. The knocks grow frantic and suddenly she feels on edge like-– "Jesus, hold on, dude!" She hears the door open and then a small thump. Emily sits up, heart suddenly in her throat. "Uh… E-Emily?" Beca's voice sounds strange and tight, and Emily stands and rips her door open to rush down the hall and into their cramped living room/kitchen combo.
The sight that greets her has her freezing in her tracks. A tall, blonde headed man has Beca's back pressed to his front, a knife pressed to her throat. "Emily Junk?" If Emily's brain was working better, and maybe if this guy didn't have a knife pressed so tightly to her best friend's throat that Emily can see the way line it creates against delicate skin, then she'd realize how familiar he looks.
"Emily--" Beca rasps. It breaks Emily from her shocked stupor, and she nods jerkily.
"Y-yes," She swallows thickly and takes a step forward. "I-– what---"
The man drags Beca inside and turns to the open doorway. "Hurry up, bring her in." Another man that Emily recognizes as Kolio comes in holding the broken looking body of none other than Aubrey Posen.
Something cold spreads throughout Emily's chest and her throat tightens. There's so much blood. It blooms out on Aubrey's shoulder. Emily feels sick. "Fix her, or I kill her." The man holding Beca says darkly.
Emily blinks, and then she takes a deep breath. "Y--you don't need to do that. I'll-– I'll do what I can, but please just let Beca go," Her gaze moves to Kolio. "Will you set her on the couch?" She asks in a trembling voice.
Kolio moves and gently places Aubrey on the couch, while the man the holds Beca to him only seems to press the knife harder into Beca's skin, making her whimper slightly. "No, you WILL fix her, or I kill your friend." He nearly growls.
Emily's already kneeling beside the couch, shaking fingers unbuttoning what was once a white blouse to get a better look at Aubrey's shoulder, but pauses to glare up at him. "I don't know if you've noticed, but this isn't a fucking hospital, this is my fucking apartment. I don't have high tech medical equipment just lying around. I said I'd do what I could, and I will, but you're going to have to let Beca go. Besides, I'm going to need her help."
"So-–so pretty when you–– when you're angry," Someone wheezes. Emily jumps and looks down to find Aubrey looking at her with a weak smile. Emily's mouth drops open slightly, a little shocked that Aubrey's even conscious. "Asher," Aubrey swallows. "Let the girl go," A hand weakly reaches up to cup Emily's cheek. "I'm in very capable hands," Embarrassingly, and to Emily's horror, the words do illicit a blush to spread across her cheeks, while her heart does funny things inside her chest. "Sorry about him, darling. My brother is a little over-protective."
Asher huffs from his corner in Emily and Aubrey's cramped apartment, before he releases Beca. She stumbles away from him, hand moving up to her throat. Emily tears her gaze away from Aubrey to look up at Beca. Her eyes are glassy, but she isn't crying. She looks some mixture of scared, pissed, and confused. Understandably so.
"What-–what the fuck, dude," Beca says after she checks to make sure she isn't actually bleeding. Her gaze shifts to Emily. "Em, what---"
A wave of guilt washes over Emily, and she almost drops her gaze. "I'm sorry, Beca. I'll-– I'll explain later, but I-–I need you to help me---"
"Why the fuck would I want to help---"
"Please, Beca. I just-–I need you to bring me what I need, alright?"
Aubrey's thumb strokes just over the apple of Emily's cheek. "Ms. Mitchell, don't be upset with-– with Emily. The less you know, the better."
Beca frowns, jaw tight. "Fine. Whatever. Tell me what you need, but I want a fucking explanation later. None of that the less you know bullshit."
Emily nods jerkily. "I need hand towels, the suture kit from the top of my closet, the first aid kit, and the rubbing alcohol, plus all of the pain medication you can find. Please."
Beca disappears, but not before Asher nods for Kolio to follow her. "Make sure she doesn't make any phone calls." He mutters, moving to close the apartment door and lean against it.
Emily brings her attention back to Aubrey, her heart racing in her chest. She gently reaches up to take Aubrey's hand and lay it at her side. "I'm sorry, but I don't have any anesthesia, so all of what I have to do is likely going to hurt. A lot."
Aubrey chuckles weakly, immediately grimacing as the action seems to cause her pain. "I know."
"I'm hoping you pass out from the pain, because if you go into shock, which could kill you. That is, if the blood loss doesn't."
If Aubrey is worried, she doesn't show it. "You do your best, and I'll do mine."
Emily's eyes drop back to the few buttons she'd managed to get, before she continues to undo the rest, slowly revealing a white, lacy bra. And as she gently shoves the shirt back on Aubrey's one shoulder, she takes in the hastily put on makeshift bandage.
It's then that both Beca and Kolio return. Beca steps up beside Emily with a handful of items, while Kolio moves to stand next to Asher. "Only pain meds we have are Motrin, and a few pills of Hydrocodone from when you broke your tailbone slipping on ice down the stairs." Beca says, kneeling down and dropping her haul next to Emily.
Emily grimaces at the memory, but nods. "It'll have to do," She picks up the Hydrocodone and untwists the cap, to pop out one of the pills. "I'm giving you one now, before I have to do what I have to, and then If you're conscious, I'll give you another," She waits for Aubrey to nod before she hands the pill over. She looks back over at Asher and Kolio. "I'm assuming it wasn't a through and through, correct?"
Asher gives her a curt nod.
"What's that mean?" Beca asks, looking between Aubrey and Emily.
"It means Emily is going to have to dig out the bullet before she can stitch me up." Aubrey says grimly after swallowing the pain medicine.
Emily grimaces. "I'm sorry," She says, before she moves to pull back the soaked through bandage. The wound isn't gushing blood, but it oozes a little as Aubrey shifts a little to try and glance at it. Beca curses under her breath. "Alright. I'm going to go wash my hands, give the pain medication a little more time, and then I'm going to try and dig it out."
Aubrey nods as Emily stands and moves toward the kitchen sink. She washes her hands thoroughly, scrubbing under her fingernails and uses the moment to take a few slow, deep breaths. She could do this.
She returns to Aubrey's side and settles beside the couch. "Beca, be ready to hand me whatever I ask for," Beca nods as Emily shifts her attention to Aubrey once more. "Ready?" Aubrey nods, gaze a little hazy. Emily hopes its the pain medication kicking in, and not anything else. She leans forward and places one hand on Aubrey's shoulder to keep her still should she jerk up, while the other hovers over the wound.
With one last apologetic look, Emily digs her finger into the wound, feeling around for the bullet. Aubrey's body jerks up and she gasps in pain. One hand reaches up to grip at Emily's arm hard enough to bruise, but Emily doesn't mind, as long as Aubrey doesn't try to pull it away.
The wound squelches as Emily pushes a little further, and… there! "I feel it," She says, before she digs deeper to curl her finger around it. Aubrey, who had apparently been trying to keep quiet, finally loses her battle and cries out as Emily's thumb joins her pointer finger to try and grab the bullet. Her face is pale, and sweat beads at her forehead as her body instinctually tries to move away from Emily's probing fingers. "One of you hold her down!" Asher is there a moment later, strong hand pressing down on Aubrey's good shoulder, while Beca moves to hold down her torso.
Finally, Emily finds a good grip and slowly -– carefully begins to pull it out. "Here, do something with this," She says to Asher as she finally removes her fingers, and the bullet out. Blood oozes from the wound, and Aubrey collapses back onto the couch, panting. Asher frowns, but holds out his hand. Emily drops the blood covered bullet into his palm and looks to Beca. "I need the alcohol and a towel."
Beca, who looks paler than Emily has ever seen her, holds out the items for her. Emily takes the hand towel first, wiping her fingers. She looks back at Aubrey, noting the way she breathes heavily, the way her eyes are shut tightly, and her brows furrow in pain. "I've gotta clean it now." Emily tells her, voice soft and apologetic. Aubrey nods, her hand still tightly holding onto Emily's arm.
It's the sting of the alcohol inside the wound that has Aubrey jerking up, before passing out. "Is-–is she alright?" Beca asks, swallowing thickly as her eyes move nervously to Asher.
Emily uses a clean towel to wipe away the blood and stave off anymore blood flow. "She passed out, which is what I was hoping for. Hopefully she stays out until I'm done suturing. Speaking of, hand me the suture kit."
She'd stolen several from the medical supplies closet at work to practice her stitching when she'd first started her internship. She'd wasted so many bananas, but her stitches were always perfect.
Beca hands over suture kit, having preemptively opened it. Emily gives her a thankful smile and removes the towel from Aubrey's wound to begin suturing the wound closed. A silence falls over them all as she works, her hands steady and sure as they pull and sew skin back together. Once done, Emily takes another clean towel and dabs a bit of alcohol on it to gently clean up any residual blood.
"Well," Emily says on a sigh as she looks up to Asher and Kolio. "Now it's up to her. I don't think she's lost enough blood, but she could still go into shock from pain. I don't recommend moving her yet. When she wakes, I'll give her another pain pill, get her to drink some water, and hopefully get her to rest enough that she can leave to recover at home tomorrow."
Asher nods. "Thank you." He says quietly.
Everyone goes quiet after that. Beca works to clean up the bloodied towels while Emily opens their first aid kit to grab the gauze and tape to cover the wound. Asher and Kolio make themselves comfortable with two stools from their kitchen island, setting them up on either side of the door.
It's not long after that Aubrey awakens with a groan of pain. Emily moves back to her side. "Easy. How are you feeling?"
Aubrey's eyes flutter open to look at her. "Like I've been shot." She croaks.
Emily grimaces. "Here," She uncaps the Hydrocodone and pops out a pill. "Take this. It should hopefully take the edge off a little. Then I'd like to see if you can drink a glass of water before you hopefully get more rest."
"Sure, darling, but -– and I know I've asked quite a lot of you already, but do you think I might be able to borrow a shirt?" Aubrey asks, taking the pill from Emily and swallowing it dry.
Emily blinks. "Oh, yeah-–I uh, I'm sure I have something that will be easy to get on."
Aubrey smiles. "Thank you."
Beca comes back then from throwing the towels in the sink to soak in cold water. "Em, am I-– do you need anything else? I-–I'd like to go to bed." Her eyes move to Asher nervously, before looking back to Emily.
"No, yeah, I'm good… Thank you, and-– and I promise we'll talk about it later." Emily says.
Asher stands from his stool. "Hey, before you go, don't---"
"---make any phone calls or contact anyone, or you'll kill me. Yeah, I got it, asshole," She glares at him, before looking back at Emily. "Goodnight, come get me if you need anything."
"Smart mouthed bitch." Asher mutters as Beca turns to leave. Emily smirks as her friend throws up her middle finger before she disappears down the hall and to the right."
A silence falls between them all, before Aubrey speaks up. "Asher, Kolio, why don't you take walk outside, and check in with everyone else."
Asher looks reluctant to leave his sister alone with Emily, but ultimately the two men leave. "Help me sit up?"
"Aubrey, I don't think---" Emily starts, frowning.
"I'm fine, and I have to sit up anyway so you can help me put on another shirt." Aubrey says, already trying to move.
Emily moves automatically to help her, one arm resting at her back, and the other moving to hold onto her good arm. She's breathing a little heavier by the time she settles back against the cushions. They both glance over to where she'd been laying, and Aubrey grimaces at the blood that had managed to get onto the cushion.
"Sorry, I promise to replace your couch."
Emily chuckles weakly. "It's fine. Not like you could really help it. Anyway, let me go find you a shirt."
It takes some searching, but she finds an oversized flannel that she'd stolen from an old ex boyfriend. She returns to find Aubrey with her eyes closed, another furrow in her brow.
"Hey, you okay?"
Aubrey looks up and smiles. "Yes. It-–it hurts, but the pain medication is dulling it a little-– I don't quite care for how it makes me feel."
Emily gives a sympathetic smile as she sits on the wooden coffee table in front of the couch. "I know. I didn't like it either. Kind of-– kind of like my head wasn't attached to me body, and god, my filter -– which is already on thin ice -– went away completely. Said whatever popped into my head. It was embarrassing. But, anyway. I have a shirt."
Nodding, Aubrey slowly sits up away from the back of the couch, before looking down at her still unbuttoned shirt, and sighing. "This was my favorite blouse." She shoves the sleeves down her arms, and Emily moves in to help, eyes staying on Aubrey's face. It had been easy to keep from looking down further at the lacy bra, but now that Aubrey wasn't actively bleeding out, it was hard to resist the urge to let her eyes wander to exposed skin.
With Emily's help, Aubrey manages to get her ruined shirt off, and the flannel on. "Button me? My hands are a little shaky."
Emily nods, her own hands tremble once as she starts the careful task of buttoning the flannel, her mind choosing this moment to bring up the emotions she'd shut away in order to function and help Aubrey. Aubrey watches her intently. "Emily," A hand reaches up to cup Emily's chin as she buttons the last button. She looks up, face flushing slightly at the gentle touch, and eyes suspiciously glassy. "Are you alright?"
"Not really," She says, resisting the urge to lean into Aubrey's touch. "I'm-– that was a lot, and I-–" She's having a goddamn crisis. "You-–" She reaches up to take Aubrey's hand from her overheated face. "Never mind."
Aubrey tilts her head slightly to study Emily, gaze only a little unfocused, and then her lips curve up into a smug smile. "You were worried."
Emily flushes, sitting back onto the coffee table. "Well, yeah, I mean your brother had a knife to---"
"No," Aubrey cuts her off. "No, you were worried about me."
Emily doesn't answer. Can't. But her face feels like it's on fire.
Aubrey's grin widens. "You're so pretty when you blush."
"Why do you do that?" Emily huffs, a surge of annoyance cutting through her confusing feelings. She clings to it. "Say things like that?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Aubrey stares at her so intently, that Emily has to fight not to look away. "Emily, I like you."
Aubrey's words send Emily's heart into a frenzied dance. "What?"
Aubrey sighs softly. "You are soft and kind, and incredibly smart. Your smile is bright enough to rival a thousand suns, and I would love to do nothing more than to stand in your light and be warmed, though I know I'm not worthy enough." She blinks, looking away.
Emily stares at her, heart beating so hard that she idly wonders if Aubrey can hear it. She can't speak, isn't sure she knows what to say anything.
"I look at you and feel-– well, just that. You make me feel. You remind me that I can still be soft, despite my hard edges and that--– that's something I need every now and then, so I don't get consumed by this life that I was born into." Aubrey looks back up at Emily, eyes softer and vulnerable, something she'd never seen from her before.
Emily swallows thickly. "Aubrey, I-–" She shakes her head. "I shouldn't, but I like you, too. I've been fighting it, but you just draw me back in every time, without even trying. But I don't know what to do with this information."
Aubrey blinks slowly, and Emily can tell the Hydrocodone is really beginning to work. "I don't either, but I really want to kiss you," Then she huffs slightly. "You're right about the filter thing."
Emily laughs softly, but it's full of nerves. "Look, I don't know if I can look past… well, you know. I-– I'd have to do a lot of thinking, but we can talk about it more maybe, if you'd like-– and when you're not high."
"I understand." Aubrey says, lips pulling down into a pout. It's cute, and Emily has to fight the urge to lean forward and kiss it away. She compromises with herself, and, before she can lose her nerve, she leans forward and and cups Aubrey's cheek. Her thumb brushes just beneath Aubrey's eye as she tips her head up a little, and presses a soft, slow kiss to Aubrey's forehead.
Aubrey inhales a little sharply, before she leans into Emily's touch, head turning to press a kiss to the palm of Emily's hand. Something warm blooms beneath her ribs, and she thinks it might be affection.
"I'll grab you a pillow and a blanket." She says when she pulls back.
It takes more effort than she'd like to admit, but Emily eventually pulls herself out of Aubrey's space to head into her bedroom. She grabs the extra blanket she keeps on the foot of her bed, her comforter, and a pillow. When she returns, she sets the pillow at the end of the couch without the blood, and helps Aubrey lay down, before she covers her with the comforter.
Once Aubrey is settled, she moves to the plush chair across from the couch, curling into it like a cat and pulling her spare blanket over her for warmth.
"Good night, Aubrey. I'll be here if you need me." Emily says softly.
"Good night." Aubrey replies, her voice already slow and soft with sleep.
So.. Goddess!Wanda is already craned. Now I need to write it down. And I'm just saying.. you're not ready for this. And neither am I. This could easily be my downfall or I consagrate myself.. we'll see.
kianamaiart
theartofmadeline
turnnoffyourmind
