#cyou

[westwriteswhatever]

Choosing You

Chapter 7: Fuzzy

WandaNat x Fem!Reader

Chapter Summary: Panic erupts upon waking up in an unfamiliar room. Your body weighs you down, trying to convince you to stay still. Between bedtime stories and a bath, can you let go for a moment?

Word Count: 16.1 k

Warnings for this Chapter: MDNI, dom/sub dynamics begin, describes a panic attack, obscenely long chapter

Series Masterlist AO3 —

Your eyes drift open. Your brain screams at you to shut them, but the warning is muffled by the fog surrounding it. You track the texture of the ceiling that's lit dimly with a soft yellow-orange glow. No stains. No peeling drywall. No cracks.

This isn't your room.

Your eyes widen.

You try to lift your arms, but the duvet is tucked so tightly against your sides and presses so heavily against your chest, it feels like it weighs fifty pounds. When you manage to drag your hands out, your skin freezes. You raise your hands a few inches, but gravity catches your wrists, dropping them back down onto the fabric with a dull thud. You breathe in through your mouth, hoping the extra oxygen will help you process. Instead, the dry air hits your throat, triggering a fit of coughs that rattle your ribs.

Your jaw clamps shut instantly. You bury your face deep into the crook of your elbow, choking back the sound until your throat burns. You freeze, eyes darting to the corners of the dim room, waiting for the cold disapproving looks of your parents. They hated it when you showed any sign of weakness.

Nothing happens. You're alone. Silence fills the space.

Your palm presses flat against the mattress to push yourself up. The surface gives way too easily, swallowing your hand in the plush material. You force your torso upright. The movement sends a spike of heat through your body, your pulse drums hard against your eardrums. Your fingers claw at your chest, finding the collar of your shirt. The neckline hangs low, just above your breasts. The same top you wore to the party.

The room is massive. The foot of the bed ends feet before a polished wooden dresser that's twice the size of your desk at home. Your hand slides blindly across the mattress, swiping until it knocks into something solid. The texture of the plastic case feels familiar. Your phone.

You flip it over. The screen lights up.

4:17 AM.

A cold sweat breaks out across your hairline and spreads to your limbs. Your finger taps the screen, pulling up the transit application. The nearest bus stop is a ten-minute walk, and the ride itself takes over half an hour.

Your shift starts at five. If you run to the bus stop now, you'll only be a few minutes late. You have to work. You need to.

You slide the phone into the pocket of your skirt, the weight making you uneven.

You swing your legs over the edge. Your bare calves hit the air, instantly erupting in goosebumps. When your feet touch the floor, your knees buckle outward, sending you sideways. Your hipbone clips the corner of a piece of furniture with a sharp crack, but the pain doesn't register over your racing pulse. You press your palm flat against the wall, dragging your body along until your fingers wrap around the door handle.

The cool metal cuts into your palm like ice. You stare at the white wood of the door frame. Your thoughts finally clear for a moment, the danger of the situation setting in.

Where are you?

The fear you expect to course through your system doesn't come.

Your free hand rises, pressing gently against your cheek. The skin there feels like it's burning, but a gentle, comfortable warmth permeates and spreads like a salve. You press harder, squishing your cheek against your palm.

Natasha.

The alarm written across her face. Her hands beneath your thighs. Your cheek pressed against her shoulder. Your arms wrapping around her tighter.

You sway unsteadily on your feet, your knuckles turning white as you grip the door handle to keep from falling.

Why had she been there?

"Natasha. We have a lot to talk about."

How does Yelena know Natasha?

The shake in Yelena's voice. Kate's smile vanishing when you told her you wouldn't be talking to them after this. You swallow harshly, your throat aching at the constriction.

Work. You need to go to work. You left these people behind on your own. You're choosing to leave Natasha and Wanda behind too. This is the last time you'll accept their hands reaching for you. You need to let go.

You apply pressure to the door handle. The latch releases with a click. Your shoulders pull inwards, waiting to hear footsteps, but only your ragged breaths break the silence.

You pull the door toward you, inch by inch, relieving the tension so the hinges don't creak. You release the handle, replacing your grip with the smooth edge of the door frame. You force your foot up before taking a quiet step forward.

The dark space you expected to navigate is flooded with moonlight. The light catches your skin, illuminating the vast floor in front of you. The pale brown wood glints under the glow, each shine directing you on where to go.

Your head shifts to the left. A long hallway with doors lining the walls, stretches into a seemingly endless void, the blue light dissolving into darkness the further you look.

Every bone in your neck grinds and creaks as you turn your head to the right. Diagonal to you, a grand staircase sweeps downward into a lower level. The steps and handrail match the light wood beneath your feet, framed by pristine white balusters that drop away into the shadows below.

Your eyes track across the floor. To the far right, another hallway funnels into the dark like a tunnel at night. You tilt your face upward, eyes climbing the wall above the staircase. Your neck strains against the height of the ceiling. Windows line the entire perimeter of the upper wall, casting massive grids of light across the floor. Through the glass on the right, you can just barely make out the pale outline of the moon.

Shifting your eyes back to your feet, you take a breath, releasing it as you take another step forward. You press your fingers against the doorframe, holding them there for a beat before pushing off the wood. The momentum makes the next few steps easier, but it doesn’t last long. Your steps become slower, shorter. Your breaths come out harshly, as if you’re running a mile instead of walking a few feet.

You’re finally within arm's length of the stairs. Sweat drips down your back. Whether it's from the exertion or the fire burning beneath your skin that extinguishes but never fails to light up again and burn harsher, it's hard to say. The moisture cools against your skin, sending shivers down your spine every time you pause. Every contraction of your muscles feels taxing. And you don’t have anything left to give.

Reaching out, your arm shakes as you lift it higher, finally finding purchase on the railing. You pull yourself forward, assisting your weight by sliding your socks against the floor. You lean your torso heavily against the wood. Your eyes flick around frantically, trying to map out the endless space below the staircase, but your vision refuses to focus. Instead, you look down at the step directly beneath you. It's only a few inches, but the drop looks like a cliffside.

Your phone shifts in your pocket.

Go. You don’t have time to waste.

Your foot slides off the edge and hovers just above the first step. Your fingers grip the handrail with whatever strength you can find. It doesn’t feel like enough. Not with the way your anchoring leg shakes and wobbles, threatening to buckle completely. Your foot finally lands on the step. You slide your hand forward along the rail and hunch forward.

Pain radiates through your legs. Your fingers threaten to release, but you hold on desperately. The staircase below you doesn't seem to end. A drop of sweat slips down your nose and lands on your lips. It tastes salty. Your jaw tightens, your teeth grinding together until the tension in your temples throb. Your vision shakes along with your foot as you force yourself to keep moving.

Your foot is just about to land on the next step when your fingers slip off the rail.

Your sole hits the wood, but your momentum is already throwing you forward. Your eyes snap shut. You brace for the impact of your body making contact with the wooden steps, wishing you had the time to cover your ears—wishing you could block out the sickening sound that's about to come.

But it never does.

Frantic, heavy breaths echo from behind you. You almost mistake them for your own, but the patterns don't overlap. You inhale, but a hot, ragged exhale hits the crown of your head. A crushing grip locks around your biceps, pulling your weight back so violently your face contorts into a wince. Blunt fingertips dig deep into your skin, sending a dull ache through the muscle.

You open your eyes slowly and look down.

A pair of strong arms are wrapped around your chest, anchoring you securely. A warmth that isn't your own presses flush against your back. They lean back, sitting on the step behind you. Your trembling thighs are pinned flat against the solid, unyielding ones directly beneath you. You didn't fall.

"What are you doing?" the voice behind you grits out breathlessly.

Natasha.

Your shoulders slump despite you. It's frustrating.

"I… thank you for catching me," you start, your voice trembling violently from the residual adrenaline. You clear your throat, forcing some semblance of the polite tone you usually display. "But I really need to go. Thank you for letting me stay here tonight."

You try to wiggle your shoulders out of her grasp, but her grip doesn't budge an inch.

"You almost fell," she says, her voice rising. It echoes in the large space. "You would've fallen. Do you understand that?"

You wrap your hand around her fingers on your bicep, trying to pry them open. "I understand that, and I'm sorry for the trouble. I don't know what I need to do to make up for it, but right now I need to go." Your voice begins to rise along with hers, ignoring the strain in your throat.

"To your shift?" She lets out a sharp breath of disbelief. "Is that what's important right now? You have a fever. You can barely stand, let alone walk."

Your blood begins to pump violently through your veins, heat spiking through your forehead. A knot of frustration tightens in your chest, winding so hard you expect it to snap. You channel the anger into your muscles, using the sudden jolt to tear yourself out of her grasp. You reach your arms to the side, gripping the handrail with both hands and forcing yourself up.

You turn around to face Natasha.

Her expression is lethal. Her green eyes flash under the moonlight, her gaze locked into a sharp glare. Her jaw is clamped tight, her lips pulled into a thin line. She doesn't say a word, observing your posture carefully, as if waiting to see how far you'll push.

She's wearing an oversized t-shirt and pink polka-dot pajama pants. The sight would be comical if her stare didn't feel like it was throwing daggers at you.

"It's important to me," you rally back, your voice cracking under the harsh tone. "What does it even have to do with you?"

You stop. Your breath catches in your throat as her words replay in your head.

"And…" you start, your fingers tightening around the handrail until your knuckles ache. "How do you even know about my shift?"

She unclenches her jaw, letting out a short sigh.

"I saw the reminder on your lockscreen," she states calmly. "And I turned off your alarm."

Your eyes narrow at her, your heart pounding uncontrollably. "What made you think that was okay?" you ask in disbelief, your voice breaking.

You look away from her, forcing the surge of emotions down until you feel steady again. "Never mind. I have to go."

You turn to go down the stairs, but Natasha is faster. Her hand wraps around your wrist, holding you in place.

"Just stop for a second and think," she says, her tone level again. "Do you really think you can work in the condition you're in?"

You turn back to face her. You shake your arm, trying to free yourself from her grasp, but the adrenaline is fading. She loosens her grip, but doesn't let go.

"You don't get it," you whisper, looking down at your feet.

You're standing on the step directly below her, your body right between her legs. Looking down at her doesn't make you feel more in control. The anger is fading into something else. Something familiar. Something you had shown in front of Wanda, but refuse to do in front of Natasha.

"I don't get what?" Natasha asks softly.

In your peripheral vision, you can see her tilt her head, trying to meet your eyes. It's maddening. You just want to be left alone.

"You don't get anything," you whisper out harshly.

You bite the inside of your cheek, pressing your teeth down harder until it feels like the skin is going to break. Your breaths come out quicker, too fast. Your chest is tightening, making it harder to get a full breath in. You reach up with your free hand and grip desperately at the collar of your shirt, pulling it away from your neck to try and find some air.

"Baby, let's calm down for a second," Natasha says, her tone soothing.

How can you calm down when it feels like you've reached the top of a roller coaster? The tracks are already tilting forward. It's too late to stop the motion.

You release your grip on your collar, your arm rising shakily until your hand meets your hair. You run your fingers through the strands, scraping your nails hard down your scalp as you comb through. This is your bosses' house. You're acting crazy. She's just trying to help you.

But you need to work. You don't have enough in savings for your next university term yet. Rent has to be paid. If you don't show up to your shift, your coworkers will have the burden of extra work, and it's too early in the morning to ask anyone to cover.

You hadn't looked in a mirror since you were in the breakroom with Nicole last night. Your hair must look ridiculous. Knots strewn about, strands sticking out in every direction. You slept in the same clothes you wore out, messing up their clean sheets. You look down. The white fabric of the skirt makes the heavy wrinkles even more apparent.

Your hand drops from your hair to your skirt. You smooth down the fabric with your palm incessantly until your skin burns, the bandage on your hand threatening to rip off.

Everything is becoming hazy. Whether it's from the frantic breaths you can't seem to get under control, or your heart pounding so hard it feels like it's trying to escape your chest, it's hard to say.

It's getting difficult to hear anything. The sound of your palms rubbing against your skirt becomes muffled. You can feel your lungs expanding and contracting quickly, but the actual sound of your breathing is barely audible through the pounding in your ears. Your fingertips are beginning to turn cold, the chill bordering on painful.

You barely register Natasha's hand gripping your wrist tighter. Her voice sounds distant, like it's echoing from the deep hallway you couldn't see the end of.

"Baby, I'm going to pull you closer, okay?"

She waits for a moment, but you can't seem to form a response. She pulls you in by the wrist. Your shins press against the edge of the step and your knees buckle, but you don't hit the ground. Natasha's other hand slides beneath your arm, lifting your deadweight until you're sitting on one of her thighs. She releases her grip on your wrist, moving her palm to your back to support you as she swings your legs over her lap.

Somehow, you find your voice. "I… I don't," you tremble out.

"Shh," she whispers. Her hand finds the side of your head, pressing lightly until your ear rests against her chest. "Let's just breathe for a moment."

It's different from the way she held you in the car, but the proximity immediately brings back Yelena's voice. Your muscles lock. You tense your entire body, preparing to push away from her. Yelena and Kate are probably here. They probably heard the commotion. You need to leave.

"Yelena and Kate got a ride back to their apartment," Natasha says, cutting through the silence. "They didn't tell me anything. They want to talk to you first."

Your shoulders slump.

Your hearing clears gradually. The steady thumping of Natasha's heartbeat begins to register against your ear. The rhythm is even and slow. Her hand begins to pat against your back in a gentle, steady beat. With the movement against your spine and the echoing sound of her heart, it becomes impossible to think about anything else.

Your thoughts begin to slow. The spiral spins slower and slower, losing its momentum. Your breathing shifts, matching the timing of her pats. Your own pulse begins to regulate, slowing down until it mirrors the steady rhythm beneath your ear.

Guilt claws from within your chest. She's sitting on a hard wooden stair step at four in the morning, holding you together to keep you from completely breaking down.

You were supposed to let go. But the remaining tension in your muscles drains away the longer you listen.

Your eyes close. Your head sinks further into her, your cheek squishing against her t-shirt. Your hand drifts blindly down her side, finding the soft hem of her shirt, your fingers closing around the fabric in a gentle grip.

The exhaustion finally settles. The space goes completely silent. It's hard to track how much time is passing when the steady beats against your ear quiet any lingering sense of urgency.

Natasha clears her throat softly. "I'm sorry I turned off your alarm without telling you. I wanted to wake you up to ask about your shift, but you were sleeping so soundly. Your body needed the rest," she murmurs.

Her hand slides down to the wrist she held earlier, her thumb lightly rubbing the skin where your veins meet your palm. "And I'm sorry for holding on too tightly. I was worried you would fall backward or slip again."

You know.

You know she was just trying to help you the entire time, but it's hard to allow people to aid you when you've been handling things entirely on your own. When you've been told your entire life that reactions like these are a personal fault that should be ignored. You press your face closer against her chest, her warmth permeating through your cheek. You can't find it in yourself to speak right now. You just hope she understands that this is your way of saying it's okay.

The residual trembling in your muscles softens into a light shiver. The cold air begins to bite at your exposed skin.

"Thank you for forgiving me," Natasha says, letting out a breath that hits the crown of your head. "Let's move you back to bed, okay? It's cold out here."

You would much rather stay exactly like this, even with your calves beginning to freeze. But you nod, the fabric of her t-shirt swishing against your cheek. You uncurl your fingers from the hem of her shirt, preparing to stand, but Natasha's hand envelops yours, curling your fingers back over the fabric.

"I've got you. You're a fall risk, after all," she says with a playful huff.

She stops the rhythmic patting on your back, pressing her palm flat against your spine while sliding her other arm beneath the bend in your knees. There's barely a shift in her posture before you feel the solid baseline of her legs leave yours. You open your eyes, blinking against the moonlight. You look up, finding Natasha staring down at you, her lips curved in a soft smile.

"Alright, let's go, princess," she says quietly, a clear teasing lilt in her voice.

She turns around with you in her arms, stepping back up the single stair you had managed to descend. She holds you securely, keeping your head pressed flat against her chest as she navigates back toward the bedroom.

The hallway to your right, previously shrouded in darkness, is slightly lit now. The door to the furthest room stands open, throwing a warm glow across the wooden floorboards. You squint against the light, your gaze meeting a pair of worried green eyes.

Wanda.

She's standing in the doorway, her arms pulled tight around her torso, wrapped in a soft gray robe. There's no telling what she heard or witnessed. Normally, a wave of shame would creep up your throat, but the sight of her only brings a heavy weight of disappointment. A lot of people have wronged you in your life, but Wanda felt different. At least, you had truly wanted her to be different.

You avert your eyes, turning your face away until your nose bumps against Natasha's sternum.

Natasha enters the dim bedroom you had been in, tilting her posture carefully so your head clears the doorframe. She makes her way to the mattress, laying you down gently before sliding her hands out from beneath your weight.

"I'm not saying this to worry you, but you should contact your workplace to let them know you're not coming," Natasha says slowly, keeping her voice steady. "I'll grab some pajamas so you can sleep more comfortably. Your legs felt cold."

She squeezes one of your calves, making you jolt against the sheets. She gives you an amused smile. "Be right back."

She turns away, exiting the room.

You lie in silence for a moment. Your thoughts are moving much slower now. Your hand remains curled in the exact same shape it was when you were holding her shirt.

Natasha told you to let work know you wouldn't be coming. You should listen. You reach to your side, pulling your phone out from your pocket. You tap the screen with your thumb, holding the glass above your face to unlock it.

4:55 AM.

Time had passed in a complete blur. It didn't feel like you had been sitting at the stairs with Natasha for that long. The wave of panic you expect to bloom in your chest doesn't come, as if muted by the heavy, relaxed state of your body.

You open your messages and pull up the chat history of one of the coworkers you're supposed to open with today.

I'm really sorry, but I'm really not feeling well and can't make it in.

The text back is almost immediate.

Girl, you work too hard anyways. Take it easy. We've got it covered. Feel better!

You breathe out a sigh of relief and close your eyes, tossing your phone to the side. Maybe the obligation of work had been weighing on you more than you realized. Your body sinks deeper into the mattress, the heavy covers beneath you finally warming your frozen calves. Your mind begins to drift away, darkness within reach.

A hand squeezes your sock-covered foot gently, forcing your eyes back open.

Natasha stands beside the foot of the bed, a shirt and fuzzy pajama pants hanging over her forearm. Her steps had been so quiet. The same way you hadn't heard her approach at the staircase.

Even in this space, lit only by a nightlight to your left, she shines. The warm hue emitting from the light accentuates the whispers of orange in her hair. It's a welcome sight to your drooping eyes.

Natasha reaches out a hand. "Can you get up for a little to change? It'll feel better to get out of those clothes."

You lift your arm with effort. It shakes from the illness you tried to ignore and the tension your body held and released just earlier. Natasha moves closer, clasping her hand in yours. She pulls you toward her, bringing you up into a sitting position.

She releases your hand to set the clothing down on the mattress, but the moment you lose her support, your torso tilts backward, plopping you right back onto the bed.

You stare up at the ceiling, exactly like you did when you first woke up here while Natasha chuckles quietly beside you. Your eyes drift to hers, finding them looking down at you adoringly.

"Are you too exhausted, detka?"

You nod tiredly, the hair on the back of your head shifting against the sheets. It's an honesty you rarely show, usually hiding how you really feel behind a mask engineered to fit the situation. But you truly are exhausted.

Natasha smiles at you softly, the corners of her eyes crinkling just a little. Her expression changes slowly, her eyebrows knitting together in thought, before she finally meets your hazy gaze again. It looks like she's made up her mind about something.

"Can I help you change?" she asks straightforwardly. "It's okay if you don't want me to. We can get you tucked in with what you're already wearing."

She begins to look away, as though assuming you've already decided on refusal.

Your eyes drift to the fuzzy pants hanging off her forearm. You can just make out half of a blue polka-dot pattern hidden under the navy shirt resting on top. The fabric looks soft. Your thoughts float back to when Natasha held you in her arms on the stairs. Her steady heartbeat, the rhythmic pats against your spine, the exact moment you decided to let go and allow your body to surrender and turn into a blob. It felt good to let go and let her take care of you.

"Can you help me change?" you ask, your voice small and scratchy. "I want to wear the fuzzy pants," you admit honestly.

She turns back to you, her eyes widening slightly before her lips curve into a soft smile. "Of course," she says quietly.

She sets the clothes down at the foot of the bed before her hands find their way under the bend of your knees and your back again. She slides you back a little across the mattress before lifting your torso up. Your shoulder blades tap against the headboard, and you allow yourself to lean back fully against the wood.

She looks down at you with a slightly troubled smile. "Is it okay if I take your shirt off? The neckline is a bit low, and I'm afraid the cold air will make your throat worse."

You nod softly in acceptance, your eyelids barely staying open. You're so sleepy. "Just…" you start, your voice trailing. "Can I keep my bra on?" You're out of it, but the instinct to preserve your dignity remains.

"Of course, sleepyhead," Natasha says, her voice gentle. "Let me know if you get uncomfortable."

Her fingers find the hem of your shirt, lifting the fabric slowly. The dread you used to feel when past boyfriends did this would be completely overwhelming, leaving you trapped in your own head for hours. But Natasha’s hands are just warm. Her eyes stay locked onto yours, never drifting a single millimeter below your chin even as your shirt raises higher.

She gently maneuvers your arms through the sleeve holes, taking on most of the weight of your limbs even when you try to help. Your bare back presses against the cool headboard when she lifts the fabric over your head, careful not to let the collar drag across your face.

"Okay," Natasha says, releasing a quiet breath. "Just a little more."

The tone she's using reminds you of the way people's voices brighten and raise a pitch when they talk to children, but somehow it doesn't feel insulting.

Instead, it feels encouraging.

She grabs the navy shirt off the bed, spreading the neckline wide before pulling it over your head. You never feel the brief constriction you normally do when putting on shirts. She slides your arms through the sleeves patiently.

She sticks her tongue out at you when you manage to fight the urge to close your eyes and meet her gaze.

The gesture is such a sharp contrast from when you first spoke to her in her office.

It's silly. So silly that your face breaks out into a small, sleepy grin.

Between goofy expressions and sleepy smiles, the shirt is on before you know it. The fabric rests softly against your torso. You look down to your side where Natasha placed your arm down gently. The sleeve stretches past your hand. You squeeze the cuff between your fingers, feeling the worn, soft cotton.

You look up slowly at Natasha, who is looking back at you with so much affection. The gaze would normally spark a multitude of frantic questions, but right now you just bask in it.

"Cute," she murmurs. She meets your eyes with determination. "Just the hard part left."

Her fingers find the zipper of your skirt. Just like with your shirt, her eyes never leave yours. She waits for a moment, watching you carefully.

"It's okay," you whisper softly, your eyelids fluttering closed to preserve what little energy you have left.

You hear her take a breath before the sound of your zipper tracks down, echoing through the quiet room. Cool air hits your hipbone, but your body doesn't even have the strength to shiver. She slides the fabric down until she's forced to stop.

"Sleepy baby," she calls out gently. "I know you're tired and you want to sleep, but the fuzzy pants are waiting for you. Can you lift yourself just a little?"

You groan tiredly, not wanting to move a single muscle.

But the fuzzy pants.

You press your palms flat into the mattress and force your bottom to lift just a fraction. It's just enough for Natasha to slide the skirt out from under you and pull it over your ankles. Your weight plops back down onto the mattress, and you let your head tilt back to tap against the headboard again.

A calloused hand wraps around your ankle, lifting your legs one by one until the waistband of the fuzzy pants rests at your thighs.

"One more time," Natasha says encouragingly.

You let out a dramatic sigh. Natasha chuckles lightly as you force your bottom to lift off the mattress again. The fuzzy waistband brushes over your hipbones, settling comfortably into place. The thick fabric warms your legs immediately. You open your eyes begrudgingly, wanting to see the polka dots fully. They spread across the entire expanse of the pants, the patterns shifting with the curve of your legs. You grin happily.

"Do you like them that much?" Natasha asks with amusement, already folding the wrinkled clothes she just removed from your body.

You really need to sleep. Your thoughts are moving slowly, but completely uninhibited. You turn your gaze to the side, looking down at Natasha's pants to track the pink polka dots.

"We match," you proclaim, your voice small, scratchy, but happy.

Natasha's movements freeze from where she's placing your folded clothes on top of the dresser. She turns her head slightly, just enough for you to catch the corner of her smile.

"We do," she says softly.

She turns back to finishing her task for a moment before walking back toward the bedside. She's holding a mug and a white medicine tablet. You can tell just by looking at it that it's going to be difficult to swallow.

"Can you open your mouth, baby? It's medicine. It should lessen your symptoms."

You blink at her slowly, her words registering at a snail's pace. You part your lips slightly. Natasha presses the tablet against your lips, pushing it past them gently with her index finger. Her fingertip lingers on your bottom lip for a second before she brings the mug to your mouth. She tilts the mug in small increments, letting the water spread through your mouth.

"Good," Natasha says encouragingly. "Drink slowly," she reminds you.

You swish your tongue around, locating the tablet and swallowing it down with the water. You wince as the hard pill scrapes against the raw, swollen walls of your throat. Natasha sets the mug down on the nightstand beside you. Her thumb finds your lower lip, wiping away a stray droplet of water that was threatening to fall.

She smiles softly down at you. "Good girl," she praises.

Your heartbeat picks up at the praise. It's reminiscent of the time Wanda called you a smart girl, but the feeling hits harder this time. A deep, gentle warmth blossoms in your chest, spreading through the rest of your body like sunrays brushing against your skin.

Even though you're one long blink away from falling asleep, you want more. You look up at Natasha expectantly, waiting for the next thing she asks you to do, or the next thing she does for you.

She taps the pad of her thumb against your lip, her eyes amused. "Let's get you tucked in. You need to sleep to recover."

She lifts your legs carefully, freeing the duvet from beneath you before shifting you back into the center of the mattress. She tucks the thick blanket tightly into your sides, sealing you in so no cold air can get through. With the oversized long-sleeve shirt and the fuzzy pants, the deep chill from earlier feels like a distant memory.

You peer ahead toward the foot of the bed, watching Natasha grab your folded clothes. Is she leaving? The thought sparks a sudden wave of panic.

"Can you…" you start, but the dry air catches in your throat, breaking your voice into a harsh fit of coughs.

Natasha rushes to your right side instantly. "Do you need more water? Does your throat hurt a lot? Are you still cold?" she asks in quick succession, her eyebrows pulled together in worry.

You shake your head once the coughing subsides. You sniffle lightly, forcing your throat to relax so you can speak again. "Can you please stay until I fall asleep?" you mumble.

Your voice sounds small. Vulnerable.

But it feels like when Natasha is with you, nothing bad can happen. When she's with you, even when her words are sharp, you feel protected. With her, it feels like you can finally lean your weight into someone else instead of keeping your spine perfectly straight. And in this moment, after such a long time, it feels good to allow someone to take care of you.

More than good.

"Of course," Natasha whispers.

The mattress dips slightly as she settles down beside you, her back leaning against the wooden headboard. You tilt your head to the side to look at her. She stares straight ahead at the wall above the dresser, a slight frown on her face. Her eyebrows are pulled together in thought. But all you can focus on is the way the nightlight softens her features, casting a warm glow across her skin like the sun setting at the end of the day. Her eyes shine like emeralds even in the dim room. Your gaze travels down the curve and angle of her nose, tracing down to her lips, which are pulled downward.

Suddenly, her lips curve into a teasing smile, but there's a touch of sadness in it. It's the same melancholic smile she gave you back in her office, right before you were about to ask what all of this meant.

"You're supposed to be trying to sleep," she murmurs softly, her eyes finally meeting yours.

The heavy bags beneath her eyes are much more visible to you now with the nightlight shining in her direction. A wave of guilt begins to rise in your chest. You're just about to tell her that it's okay for her to leave when she speaks again.

"Should I tell you a bedtime story?" she asks with that same sad smile.

For some reason, you can tell that this is important. You force yourself to blink a few times, gathering whatever moisture you can in your eyes to stay awake. It feels like you need to hear this.

"Yes, please," you respond, trying to sound alert.

Natasha looks down at her lap, her lips pulling into a thin line. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, gnawing lightly for a few moments before releasing a heavy sigh. She smiles to herself, resolutely.

"There once was a girl who was adopted into a family when she was young. So young, her earliest memories were with the family that took her in," she begins slowly. Her gaze shifts back to you, her lips pulling into a small smile. She lifts her left hand, gently placing her palm over your eyes to block out the light. "At least try to pretend that you're trying to sleep," she teases with a low chuckle.

Somehow, it feels more like she's trying to comfort herself with the way the laugh trails off and dies.

"There was a mom, a dad, and a little sister. A happy family." She pauses for a moment. When she starts again, her voice is lighter. "Her parents wanted her to do whatever she wished. The girl had seen other girls perform ballet in shows on TV during the holiday season. The crowd would watch in awe of the performance, just like she did from the living room floor. So she wished to do that. To see her parents and her little sister smile."

Her index finger begins to tap lightly against the side of your head, near your ear. It's a gentle rhythm, matching the soft cadence of her voice.

"And they did. They would come to every recital and every practice if they could find the time. It wasn't long before her little sister decided to start ballet, too, just to spend time with her. They would laugh together all the time at the dance studio."

Even though your eyes are covered, you just know Natasha is smiling as she says this. The light lilt in her voice feels like music. But it doesn't last.

"Years passed with the family only growing closer and closer. Her mom and dad taught her what love felt like. Her little sister taught her that you can be family without sharing the same blood. It was such a happy time," she says, her voice trailing off.

The tapping of her finger stops. You feel the weight of her palm rest against the side of your cheek more heavily, as if she has suddenly lost the strength in her wrist.

"But things change. Things happen. Even if you wish they wouldn't," she whispers.

It almost sounds like she's talking to herself. Disconnected.

"The parents passed away in an accident. It was so sudden, and the events that happened after were as well. She and her little sister were separated without even getting to know where the other was going. The girl was adopted into a new family before she could even register that her parents were gone. She didn't even get to go to their funeral."

Natasha lets out a dry, sarcastic laugh, as though the situation is funny.

But you know it isn't.

"Her new parents began registering her for as many ballet competitions as they could. They wanted the recognition for her achievements. They wanted the other parents in the community to compare their daughters to theirs and feel jealous. And the girl…" Natasha trails off, her voice straining. "And the girl just wanted to be loved again. To be doted on. For her family to smile."

The ache in Natasha's voice is almost palpable. Her fingers press lightly against the side of your face.

Your chest constricts at her words. The reality of wanting to be loved cracks open a part of your heart that you had sealed away years ago to protect yourself.

"So she tried her best. I tried so hard," she breathes out.

You wonder if she even noticed that she just referred to herself, but you keep silent.

"She started eating less because her new mom told her that the other girls were thinner than her," Natasha continues, her voice dropping. "Her legs would shake, but she continued doing pirouettes even when the dizziness would span hours after practice. She started to sleep less, even when she needed it to regain energy for the next day. She was falling apart."

An accent, similar to Yelena's, begins to bleed through her words. You've heard tiny fragments of that accent in Natasha's speech before, but it was always covered up in an instant. You had assumed you misheard. Now, it follows every syllable.

"Her dad told her to be grateful for the money he was spending. That because of that, she must try harder to make the expense worth it."

She lets out a tired sigh.

You reach your right hand out blindly, barely able to lift your arm but finding the fuzziness of her pants. Natasha's free hand envelops yours, lifting it gently and bringing it back to the hem of her shirt. You curl your fingers around the soft fabric, hoping to give her a physical reminder that you're present in the dark with her.

She runs her thumb over the back of your hand in a slow, soothing motion. You wonder if the gesture is for her or for you.

"So the girl won most of her competitions, but her parents always left her with the same line. 'That's to be expected.'" Natasha scoffs at the words. "But when she would get second place, her parents would exit the venue the moment it was announced. Because she wasn't the best, and that wasn't good enough."

The muscle of your inner cheek finds its place between your molars again. You bite down gently, just trying to distract yourself from the hot tears threatening to well up.

The words feel entirely too familiar. It isn't the phrasing itself, but the echo of the memories that follow it. You remember when you were in the second grade, giving your mother a toothy grin that she would match. You remember her kneeling on the floor so her eyes could be level with yours, delivering soft praise over the simplest things.

The warmth of that memory feels a lifetime away.

"But she still chased the idea of being loved by them. Still worked herself endlessly even when her body was begging for her to stop. The art that had made her smile at the TV screen—the art that had made her little sister and her parents who passed away smile—was now something she did robotically. There was no joy left in it."

Natasha keeps her hand on top of yours, but the soothing movement of her thumb stops.

"It wasn't until her second year of university, when she suffered a severe ankle injury, that she finally realized the love she was working so hard to obtain would never come."

She squeezes your hand lightly. You tighten your grip on her shirt in response.

"The injury was an excuse to quit. So, she told her parents that she didn't want to continue doing ballet."

She pauses. Her index finger begins to tap against the side of your face again, but the rhythm is erratic now. It matches the uneven way your own leg shakes when your thoughts are spiraling.

"They told her they didn't have any use for her anymore. That she was ungrateful for being adopted. They asked her what the point was of all the time she had wasted learning ballet. They would have never loved her, no matter how successful she became. So she walked away, and she never saw them again."

It's silent. Her grip on your hand slackens, and the erratic tapping of her finger stops. The rise and fall of both of your breathing is the only sound left in the room.

Is that the end? you can't help but wonder.

Did she ever meet her little sister again? What did she do after walking away from them? Did she ever get to visit her first adopted parents' graves? A multitude of questions swirl through your head, making your temples throb against the fever, but a single question stands out above the rest.

"Does…" you start, your voice small, trembling with emotion. "Does she still love ballet?"

You hear Natasha inhale sharply. When she speaks again, her voice is thick, like the way your voice sounds when you're on the verge of crying.

"Yes," she whispers.

Her thumb rubs against the back of your hand again. "She still loves ballet," she pauses, when her voice begins to crack. "But it also brings sadness."

You nod lightly in understanding, the skin of your forehead shifting against her palm. Because you truly do understand.

"That wasn't much of a bedtime story, was it?" she asks with a watery laugh.

You shake your head, even when your neck begins to ache against the movement. "I liked it," you mumble honestly.

Natasha lifts her hand from over your eyes. You blink a few times, adjusting your vision back to the dimly lit room. Your gaze moves languidly to Natasha. She holds your stare, her eyes shining brightly from the moisture barely being held above her lower lashes. Her gaze is familiar, but there's something beneath it that you haven't seen before. There's a deep affection in her eyes that digs far below the surface.

It makes your heart race as you hold her stare, unable to look away even with sleepiness threatening to take you at any moment.

Her hand, which was once over your eyes, finds its way just below your collarbone. Her palm rests flat right above your breasts, her fingertips resting on the bone. She begins to pat in that steady rhythm that makes your breaths even out. Your eyes begin to droop further.

"Wanda…" she starts slowly, catching your attention briefly. "Wanda told me what she said to you the other day. I'm not going to apologize for her or force you to do anything, but I hope you guys can talk," she ends simply.

Your lips press together lightly, jutting out slightly in a pout.

"Just give it some thought," she says with a light laugh. You're just glad she doesn't sound like she's going to cry anymore.

The warmth of her palm permeates through your chest. Or maybe it's just the warmth of her being beside you.

"When you wake up, we'll find something to eat that's easy on your throat. I'll show you to one of the bathrooms and you can use my products. I'm sure you feel a little uncomfortable not having been able to wash your face," she says, her voice light and analytical, like she's reciting a grocery list from memory.

The break in your routine hadn't gone unnoticed. You can feel the moisturizer you smeared on yesterday morning becoming oily on your face. The sweat that formed and dried while you were sleeping, and the cold sweat that followed, is still sitting on your skin.

"Thank you," you whisper, your eyes closing despite yourself. You try your best to force them open again, but Natasha's hand is too warm and the rhythm of her pats is making your head fuzzy.

"Sleep, detka, it's okay," she murmurs soothingly.

Your thoughts are slowing down so much it feels like your mind is slurring. "What does that mean? Detka?" You've been meaning to ask for a while.

Her patting stops for a brief moment before continuing again in the same steady rhythm. "It means baby in Russian," she says simply.

Baby… you think slowly. The term sends a flutter throughout your stomach.

"Nat," you call out, the last two syllables of her name falling away as your consciousness slips.

"Yes, detka," Natasha whispers, her voice holding a hint of wonder.

"How come…" you trail off, almost falling asleep mid-question. You force your brain to finish the thought. "How come the bad dreams never come when you're with me?" Your voice quiets into a barely audible mumble toward the end.

She doesn't respond for a long time. You're just about to fall asleep, accepting that you won't be getting an answer, when she suddenly speaks in a quiet whisper.

"I don't know, baby girl. I guess you'll have to stay with me to find out."

Your fingers grip her shirt tighter. That doesn't sound like a bad idea, you think to yourself just as your brain shuts down completely.

The last thing you hear is, "Good night, detka. I'll see you when you open your eyes again."

—

You wake to the sound of shuffling footsteps just outside the door. Your eyes open slowly, your brain still syrupy and heavy with sleep. There's a dull tension in your forehead from your sinuses remaining clogged, but the deep body aches that were impossible to ignore at four in the morning have lessened. You swallow, trying to force some moisture back into your throat. It's still swollen. You can feel the slow movement of your saliva tracking down against the tender muscle.

You flex the fingers of your outstretched hand—the one that held onto Natasha's shirt so desperately. Your fingertips only claw at open air. You turn your head abruptly to the right, expecting to find Natasha, but the wall beside the mattress is the only thing greeting you.

You let out a whiny, disappointed groan. She said she would be here.

The bedroom door opens slowly in your peripheral. Your head tilts, your eyes watching the movement as Wanda's face peeks past the doorframe. She forces a small, awkward smile, but there's a desperation in her eyes that you can't ignore.

"Hi, honey," Wanda says softly, her voice pitched low as if she already knows you just woke up. Maybe it's written all over your face. You reach your hand up with heavy effort, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.

"Natasha wanted me to let you know she's sorry she couldn't be here when you woke up," Wanda continues, stepping into the space. "She got called into an emergency meeting at the office. She should be back soon."

Realistically, the explanation makes perfect sense. Natasha is a CEO. She's busy. But the part of you that finally cracked open and allowed her to take care of you views the absence as a betrayal. Wanda's reprimand from the office echoes back into your head, turning your awakening into a grumpy one.

You turn your face away from her, your lips jutting out in a cold pout.

You hear Wanda take a few steps closer to the bed.

"Darling, I know you're not too happy with me. You have every right to be," she says with a quiet sigh. "Can you at least let me show you to the bathroom? You'll feel better after washing your face and getting the sweat off your body," she offers reasonably.

You keep your eyes locked on the wall, the pout still heavy on your lips. But the icky sensation of your unwashed face makes itself known, refusing to leave your thoughts. Trying to ignore it only makes the texture feel more prevalent. The dried sweat feels gross against your skin, forcing your pout to morph into a grimace.

You let out a tired sigh, turning your head to look at Wanda with wary eyes. She's standing awkwardly beside the mattress, as if she doesn't quite know what to do with her hands, but there's a slight, amused smile on her lips.

"I suppose," you respond, your voice scratchy and weak.

"Thank you, honey," Wanda says, as if you are the one doing her a favor.

The idea of pushing yourself upright feels insurmountable. But the thought of letting Wanda assist you after she had been so confidently wrong about you forces your palms to flatten against the mattress. You push your torso up, your face twisting from the sheer effort. Wanda shuffles forward, her arms instinctively raising to help you. You deliver a short glare her way when you manage to sit up completely.

You try to pull your shoulders back into your usual rigid posture, but your fever-ridden body refuses to comply. You let out a sigh of defeat as your shoulders droop right back down.

You glance at Wanda. She's giving you a soft, pitying smile.

You don't need her help.

Then why did you let Natasha help you? the logical part of your brain pipes up.

You look down at your hands resting on your lap. It isn't like you surrendered to Natasha's help easily, but when you finally did, the safety felt addictive. And it isn't that you dislike Wanda. Quite the opposite. You miss your normal conversations with her. You miss her praising you when you diagnosed department solutions. You miss her calling you darling among other terms of endearment. You miss that quiet, grounding warmth that always spreads through your chest when you're near her.

You missed her. A traitorous part of your heart had leaped with joy when her head peeked past the doorframe.

But her words had cut deep. The look she gave you in the office had hurt even more. It reminded you of why you chose to protect yourself.

You force your legs to the side so they hang over the edge of the mattress. Wanda takes a step back, observing you carefully. Her scrutiny fills you with a surge of determination as you press your palms back into the mattress, pushing your weight up until you're standing.

Your thighs begin to shake violently. Along with the fever, you haven't eaten a real meal since the scraps of bread at the restaurant. You lean your torso forward, resting your palm flat against the wall to alleviate the crushing strain on your legs. A fresh layer of sweat begins to bead along your hairline.

Wanda is silent for a moment, tracking your posture, before she speaks with a voice full of soft adoration. "You look precious in my shirt and Natasha's pants."

You shift your eyes from your feet to Wanda, meeting her gaze. She's looking at the cuffs of the navy sleeves that stretch far past your hands. Your chest warms at her words, even as your brain tries to fight the reaction.

You look back down at your feet, shifting your weight so your hand drags along the wall like you did at four in the morning, sliding your way toward the door frame. You glance back, waiting for Wanda to lead the way. She gives you a sad little smile before meeting you at the exit, taking a step past your shoulder.

"Follow me, baby," she directs gently, glancing back over her shoulder to look at you.

Your heart leaps at the term.

She begins taking slow steps down the hallway to the left, toward the furthest door where you had seen her earlier. You release your hand from the wall, trying to take a few steps without assistance. You imagine this must be what a newborn deer looks like trying to walk for the first time. You can't seem to walk in a straight line, your balance wavering hard to the side before you catch yourself and reroute.

Your breaths are coming out hard, your throat straining every time you try to swallow. Your foot clips your ankle when you attempt another step forward. You force your arms out in front of you, bracing to catch your weight so your knees don't slam into the hardwood.

Instead, you feel Wanda's hands lock beneath your armpits, hauling you up before you can drop.

You look up. Wanda's eyes are wide and frantic, carrying a heavy layer of guilt that seems to stretch far beyond this specific moment. "I knew I should have just asked," she mumbles to herself harshly, looking down at your wobbly stance.

You try to lean back to stand on your own, but she refuses to budge. "You're going to fall at this rate, darling," she says straightforwardly, her gaze locking onto yours. "Hold onto my hand."

She shifts her grip from beneath your arms, clasping one of your hands firmly in hers. She levels a teasing look at your face when you try to wiggle your fingers out of her grasp. "Or would you prefer I carry you?"

You roll your eyes dramatically—even when the sudden movement shoots a sharp pain right through your forehead—before giving up on escaping her grip. Wanda giggles lightly, then raises a single brow at you. There's a distinct touch of warning in her green eyes.

"Don't be a brat, honey."

You stare at her, your lips slightly parted at the reprimand.

Wanda turns away, a small smile playing on her lips. She positions your clasped hands higher, bracing her arm so you can push down against her palm, taking on a significant portion of your weight to steady you. She perfectly matches your slow pace, only taking one long stride after every two of your smaller, shakier steps.

You pass by a line of closed and open doors, lacking the energy to even look until you eventually cross the threshold into Wanda and Natasha's bedroom.

It's gigantic.

Sunlight shines through sheer white curtains, filtering the glare against the polished floor. A massive bed dominates the center of the space, its frame positioned flush against the far wall. It looks like six people could easily fit across the mattress. Mountains of decorative pillows lean against the headboard, stretching out toward the middle of the duvet. You can just barely make out two pillows tucked beneath the pile, encased in black and scarlet pillowcases.

Wanda is already guiding you into their en-suite bathroom before you can take in the rest of the layout.

With the sheer scale of the bedroom, the massive size of the bathroom comes as no surprise, but the clean beauty of the design catches your attention. White marble tiles with gray streaks line the floor. The walls are a pristine white, making the skylight above rain down sunlight that makes the space even brighter.

To your left, a double vanity features more counter space than you could ever dream of owning. An array of high-end skincare bottles are neatly displayed on opposite sides of the two sinks, their silhouettes reflected back by the massive mirror hanging above. Next to the counter, a dedicated vanity station matches the clean white theme of the room. A plush, comfortable armchair is positioned right in front of the glass.

It's exactly where Wanda directs you. She guides your hand until your fingers grasp the cushioned sides of the armchair, letting you finally sink your weight down into the seat.

You glance over your shoulder when the roar of rushing water begins to echo through the tiles. Wanda is kneeling beside the large, opulent bathtub that sits across from the double vanity. She turns her head to look at you once she adjusts the knobs to find the right temperature.

"It shouldn't take too long to fill," she says, wiping her wet fingers on her thigh. "I figured a bath might be better. You could easily slip in the shower in your condition."

You stare at her, taking in her appearance. You hadn't noticed it out in the hallway, but this is the most casual you've ever seen her. She 's wearing wide-legged denim jeans and a light gray sweatshirt that looks soft even from where you're sitting. The aesthetic reminds you of a typical "mom" outfit.

It suits her perfectly.

Steam begins to swirl around your cheeks as the water level rises in the tub. The heat clears your sinuses momentarily, allowing your nose to catch the citrusy scent of the bubble bath solution you watched Wanda generously pour into the running water. Even with Wanda standing feet away, her own scent of jasmine cuts through the citrus, making your thoughts muddled.

You turn your head back to the front, dropping your gaze to your lap. You stare at the hand that just held hers.

Wanda begins to hum quietly in the background. It's an unfamiliar tune, but the sound sets your mind at ease. Something about being here, sitting in this massive bathroom while Wanda readies a bath for you with her sleeves rolled up, makes the stubbornness in your chest loosen a fraction.

It's illogical. It's entirely unlike you. You were prepared to leave them this morning. Really, you were prepared to leave them yesterday, determined to refuse their help and continue your life the way you have been. You don’t know how long this will last, and the uncertainty is terrifying. But beneath the fear, beneath the lingering stress of missing work and your shrinking paycheck, all you feel is a crushing wave of relief.

Relief that even when you pushed them away, they're still here.

A swell of quiet happiness spreads through your chest, but it stalls before it can reach your fingertips.

Wanda. You hadn't forgotten.

You hear the latch of the cabinet beneath the sink click open. You turn your head to find Wanda opening a package for a fresh toothbrush. She turns on the faucet, wetting the bristles before applying a line of toothpaste. She meets your eyes with a small smile, handing it to you carefully.

"I forgot to give you toiletries. I promise I'm not usually this bad of a host," she says with a quiet laugh.

You reach for the toothbrush, your fingers overlapping hers for a brief second before she lets go. "Thank you," you mumble, your manners automatic.

She smiles down at you at the sound of your voice. You begin to brush your teeth, grateful to maintain some semblance of your normal routine and feel a layer of grime leave your body. You hear Wanda turn on the faucet again to fill a small cup with water.

She begins to speak over the roar of the bath running behind you and the stream of the sink.

"Sweetheart," she starts, looking down into the porcelain basin with a sad smile. "I've been wanting to talk to you since that moment in the office. Not just to talk, but to apologize." She shuts off the faucet and turns fully toward the chair, regret written across every line of her face.

You continue to brush your teeth thoroughly, letting the friction of the bristles ground you. Your forearm is already beginning to ache from the exertion.

"It was wrong of me to assume anything, especially in the way that I did." She sighs, a heavy sound directed at herself. "You were already having a tough day, and I just went and made it so much worse. I hurt you."

Her voice grows thick, her eyes beginning to shine as moisture builds along her lower lashes. Your heart aches at the sight, but an instinct tells you not to interrupt her right now, even though you know you've already forgiven her.

"I can be overbearing, I know," she says with a wry, self-deprecating smile. "I'm a worrier, and I get attached easily. I make rash decisions when I care about someone. But instead of just assuming things, I should have asked you. For that, I am so sorry. You didn't deserve my accusation, beautiful girl."

Since the moment you became an adult, and even before then, you hadn't heard another adult admit their faults like this. So raw. You hadn't had anyone apologize to you so sincerely. The realization hits hard—your parents had the ability to apologize to you this entire time, but they actively chose not to. Or maybe they simply refused to acknowledge their own flaws.

The toothbrush hangs loosely in your mouth, the actual task having been completed halfway through Wanda's apology. Your eyes drop to the floor. It's difficult to find the right words to say right now, and it isn't like you can speak with your mouth full of toothpaste foam anyway.

Wanda hands you the cup of water she filled. You accept it gratefully. She holds her free hand out again, and you stare up at her in silent question.

She smiles at you, blinking a few times to clear the remaining moisture from her eyes. "I can take the toothbrush from you, darling. Your arm is probably tired."

Wanda always seems to know exactly how you feel before you can even articulate the words. You hand it over.

You bring the rim of the cup to your lips, letting the water swirl into your mouth. You swish the liquid from side to side, ensuring no foam is left behind behind your molars. You groan internally, realizing you'll have to force your shaky legs to stand just to spit it out into the sink.

Suddenly, a new cup appears in your vision. Wanda is handing it to you, having stepped over from the sink where she's already rinsing your toothbrush. You take it from her, trading her for the water cup. You spit the foam into the new cup.

You run your tongue against your teeth, relieved by the squeaky-clean texture. Wanda takes the used cup from your hand, too, returning to the sink to wash everything thoroughly.

Your cheeks begin to burn, embarrassment hitting as you realize you're making Wanda do everything for you. But when you turn to look at her, ready to insist that you can clean up after yourself, the protest dies in your throat.

All you can see is the genuine, happy smile on Wanda's face.

Why would she be happy to do this for you? you can't help but wonder.

You watch Wanda's movements while your thoughts keep you far away. She turns off the faucet, setting everything to the side to dry except for your toothbrush. She places it in a cup alongside a red one.

She turns around, your eyes tracking her as she walks over to shut off the heavy torrent of water in the bathtub. The basin is filled so that the water sits just above your breasts. A thick, opaque sheet of bubbles sits on top of the water.

Wanda shifts to look at you, an unsure smile playing on her lips. "The bath is ready," she starts slowly. Her voice morphing into a careful cadence. "Can you undress on your own, or would you like some help?"

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, gnawing lightly while your thoughts race. Frankly, you're exhausted. Your limbs feel like lead. But Wanda has already done so much for you, even when you haven't technically vocalized your forgiveness yet.

A thin wall of awkward tension still hangs in the steamy air between you two.

But then you remember the moment in the office when Wanda dropped her coat over your head to preserve your dignity. You remember the way her smile bloomed the moment you giggled and all the times she looked at you after.

That memory is what helps you find your voice.

"Yes, please," you murmur, meeting her green eyes.

Her eyes widen slightly before she brings her expression back under control. You force yourself to stand, bracing your palm flat against the marble edge of the vanity to keep yourself steady. Wanda rushes to your side immediately, locking her fingers with yours to ensure your safety. You can't help the small smile that forms on your face at the sheer velocity of her worry. If you were to lose your balance and fall backward, you would simply land right back in the cushioned armchair.

Her gaze searches yours, as if asking if you're entirely sure. You squeeze her hand, lifting your wrists slightly to signal your compliance.

She nods, keeping her gaze locked on your eyes as her fingers catch the hem of the navy shirt and pull it upward. It's a seamless process. She lifts your arms, slips the cotton sleeves off your wrists, and keeps your weight anchored the entire time. Her eyes never waver from yours. Even with the heavy steam filling the bathroom, your exposed skin erupts in goosebumps. The shirt had been keeping you much warmer than you realized. Your limbs begin to tremble lightly, a deep shiver forming against the air.

Wanda's hands move faster. Her fingers brush against your hipbones to drag the fuzzy pants down, sending a sudden flutter straight through your stomach. Except the sensation travels lower, making your cheeks burn with a sudden spike of heat as the realization hits. You avert your eyes from her face, biting your lower lip to ignore the involuntary reaction while she's just trying to take care of you.

Wanda's arm wraps around your upper body, her fingertips pressing against the metal clasp of your bra. She pauses.

"Darling," she calls out softly, catching your attention. "I'm going to take it off quickly along with your underwear so you can get into the water as soon as possible. You're shaking."

You nod solemnly, refusing to admit that the cold isn't the only reason you're shaking.

The distinct snap of your bra clasp releasing echoes through the tiles. She slides the straps off your shoulders. In your peripheral vision, you watch her look directly past your shoulder, her eyes never drifting toward your chest. Her fingers slip beneath the fabric of your underwear, pulling them down quickly and tapping your calves to signal you to lift your feet.

When she stands up straight again, she extends her hand with a small smile, keeping her gaze pinned to yours. You place your palm back in hers, grasping her fingers much tighter than before, allowing her to absorb the bulk of your weight as you step toward the porcelain lip of the tub. The feeling of your bandage rubbing against your skin makes you stop just before entering. You remove them carefully, finding the skin beneath healed. Wanda watches you with a slight frown, lifting the wastebasket for you to throw them away. You force your wobbly legs up afterwards, stepping over the edge.

You submerge yourself in the warm water, pressing your bare back against the porcelain, facing completely away from the double vanity.

Wanda shuffles around behind the tub. You peer back over your shoulder. She takes a step toward the door, then steps back, pacing over and over as if she can't make up her mind. She takes a deep breath before catching your gaze.

"Honey, I'll wait outside. I don't want to make you uncomfortable," she says quickly, already pivoting toward the door before you can even respond. "I know your throat hurts, but I'll keep my ears open. Please call me if you need help, okay?"

You don't know what possesses you. Maybe it's because Natasha stayed with you all night, keeping the bad dreams away. Maybe it's because Natasha wasn't there when you opened your eyes like she promised. Or maybe it's simply Wanda's apology, and the fact that you missed her despite everything.

You don't want her to leave you.

You reach out over the porcelain edge, gripping her jeans with wet fingers, curling your hand tightly into the denim.

She freezes instantly, turning back to you with wide eyes. You look up at her, your gaze pleading.

"Stay? Please?" you ask, your voice small.

Wanda's eyes soften the longer she looks down at your face, her lips curving into the gentlest smile. "Of course, honey," she whispers.

You hold each other's gaze for a silent beat before you realize your fingers are still clamped onto her pants. The denim has turned a dark, heavy blue where the bathwater seeped into the fabric. You tear your hand away immediately, submerging your wet skin back under the layer of bubbles.

"Sorry, Wanda," you murmur apologetically.

She steps closer to the tub, brushing her hand over your cheekbone with incredible softness. "Don't be sorry, darling."

Her hand rests against your skin for a moment before she walks over to the vanity armchair. She sits down, positioning the chair so you're both faced away from each other, preserving your privacy.

"I'll be right here," she says into the room. "I have shampoo, conditioner, and body wash lined up along the rim. But I think you should just soak for a bit to let your muscles relax."

The bathroom falls silent. The warm water feels good against your skin, relieving the remaining ache in your joints. You raise your hand, running your fingertips idly through the thick layer of bubbles. The question you never got to ask Natasha surfaces in your head, refusing to be pushed down. You need to know.

"Wanda," you call out softly.

"Yes, darling?"

"Why…" you start, trying to find the right words. "Why do you and Natasha treat me differently? I didn't do anything to deserve it. I just don't get it. Why me?" you ask earnestly.

When it remain silent for a long while, you turn your head to look back over your shoulder.

Wanda has turned around in the armchair to look at you, her green eyes incredibly soft and full of affection.

"Why not you?"

Why not you? you repeat in your head.

A multitude of answers form immediately. You're just a broke university student. Your entire life consists of work and school. You don't have a favorite food, you don't have hobbies, and you don't even have people you're close to anymore. You do and say things strictly to reach an end goal. Your entire personality is something engineered for you by your parents. There's nothing special about you.

For a moment, a sharp ray of sunlight cuts across the room, hitting the bathtub. You swear the reflection against the bubbles flashes a faint scarlet, but the color fades a fraction of a second later.

"You're special," Wanda says simply, breaking the silence. "Not because of Natasha and I watching over you, but because you're you."

You stare at her in disbelief, trying to process her words. Because you're you? You can't fathom why that would make you special in any way. If anything, it makes you the complete opposite. Yet, Wanda's eyes don't show a single sign of deception.

You turn your face away from her, unable to accept it. Your hands begin to fidget beneath the surface of the water, your fingernails automatically searching for the skin of your palm to dig in. Your thoughts begin to race, the routes twisting negative as self-deprecating words spread through your mind.

But Wanda begins to speak.

It isn't about anything monumental. It isn't even about you. She simply begins to talk about work and what she's been doing these past two days.

She tells you that the new manager in accounting is doing well, and that she's already planning to offer them a full contract. She sounds exasperated when she describes a cross-corporate meeting she attended, detailing how the men in the boardroom initially looked down on her, only to frantically pivot the second they realized she's the CFO of RMG. She talks about the grocery shopping she did on Thursday, the bright flowers she spotted along the road, and Natasha taking her out for dinner.

You listen carefully, her voice disrupting your thoughts before they can loop. You find yourself picturing the flowers she described. You imagine the expressions those men must have worn when they realized who she is.

Your fingers relax under the water. You stop pressing your nails into your palms, clasping your hands loosely together instead.

Wanda finishes speaking, letting the silence float lightly in the air.

You didn't realize how much you missed her. The effortless way she maps exactly how you're feeling. The way the sound of her voice sets your mind at ease. You don't want it to be awkward between you anymore.

The genuine happiness you saw on her face while she was rinsing your toothbrush and taking care of you flashes through your head.

Your pulse begins to beat a little faster. You glance back over your shoulder, watching Wanda as she looks away from the tub, idly organizing the cosmetics on the vanity counter.

"Um… Wanda?" you call out shyly, your voice shaking with uncertainty. "Can you please help me wash my hair? My arms are tired."

Wanda's head turns instantly, her green eyes wide and bright. An elated smile breaks across her face as she rushes to stand.

"Of course," she responds happily.

She navigates back to your side, positioning herself so her knees are flat on the tiles right in front of the tub. She detaches the handheld hose from the side wall, turning the dial and testing the water temperature against the porcelain. She turns to you with a bright smile once she finds the right balance.

Your heart warms at the sight of her—sleeves rolled up to her elbows, leaning over the rim of the bathtub. And it's all just for you.

The corners of your lips curl upward into a small, happy smile. You hope Wanda knows this is your way of telling her that you forgive her. The actual words themselves don't feel like enough to bridge the gap.

"Ready, baby? Close your eyes," she says, her voice light.

Based on the sheer warmth of her smile, you think she does know. You close your eyes, completely certain that you're in safe hands.

—

The water in the tub drains away, leaving behind thin remnants of bubbles clinging to the porcelain walls. You pull your legs tightly against your chest as Wanda rinses the soap around you, before finally running a stream of clean water over your skin. Without the sheet of bubbles, you feel exposed. But Wanda's eyes never waver where they shouldn't—where you haven't allowed them to go. Instead, she stays focused on the task at hand, asking you playful questions that make it impossible to think about anything else.

You wrap your arms around your shins, trying to conserve the warmth that's beginning to seep out of your pores. You look up at Wanda, trying to calculate the options: stand up and expose your entire naked body, or stay seated in the tub and try to hide the shivers that are beginning to form.

You don't have to wonder for long.

Wanda snatches a yellow towel robe off one of the hooks on the wall, handing it over with a satisfied smile. You reach for the fabric, feeling its soft, heavy texture.

"Wait a second, honey," she says, suddenly pulling the robe up so it completely blocks her line of sight, shielding her eyes. She reaches out her free hand blindly toward you. "Now you can stand." Her voice dips back into an anxious register. "But please be careful not to slip."

You reach for her hand. Her fingers curl around yours instantly, holding you steady as you begin to push yourself up, careful to make sure your bare feet have traction against the slippery porcelain. You step out over the lip of the tub, your feet landing squarely on the thick towel Wanda placed on the floor.

You lift your arm shakily, slipping your hand into one of the wide sleeves. Wanda releases her grip, catching the wrist that's safely within the fabric to help you maneuver your other arm into the opposite side. She wraps the heavy yellow robe completely around your frame, tying the belt securely around your waist.

Suddenly, everything goes dark.

You look down, only able to see your own feet. You feel the gentle weight of Wanda's hand on the crown of your head. She pulls the extra fabric backward, and your vision clears. She guides you by the waist, turning you around until you're facing the massive double vanity mirror.

She holds your shoulders gently, resting her head right next to yours as she smiles at your reflection in the glass. "Don't you look adorable, sweetheart?" she gushes.

You hadn't noticed the large hood on the robe earlier. It rests securely over your head, soaking up the remaining moisture from your hair so the water doesn't drip down your neck and shoulders.

You look at her reflection through the glass instead. Your eyes trace the curve of her lips, which are upturned into a wide smile. You look down at the wide sleeves of the robe, finding a pattern of little suns wearing sunglasses stamped throughout the yellow fabric. It's warm.

Wanda is still staring at your reflection expectantly. "I… I guess so?" you respond unsurely. You always kept your appearance strictly maintained, but anything beyond that wasn't something you ever thought about.

Wanda shakes her head, her eyes closing for a brief second. She opens them, meeting your gaze directly in the mirror. "You do look adorable," she says, as if there's absolutely no doubt about the fact. Her eyes soften, her lips forming into a smile that is full of deep affection. "Our little sunshine," she says contently.

Your chest blooms with sudden warmth. You look away shyly, your ears heating up at the attention you're receiving. You hear Wanda laugh quietly next to your ear. She guides you carefully back to the vanity armchair, squeezing your shoulder lightly as you sit.

"I'm going to grab you a fresh pair of clothes," she says, preparing to step away.

You reach out blindly, grabbing the sleeve of her sweatshirt before she can leave the room. The words rush out of your mouth before you can even think to audit them. "Fuzzy pants?" you request, tilting your head up to look at her.

Her smile widens. She taps the tip of your nose with the pad of her index finger like she did in her office.

"Anything for you," she responds, turning away to head into the bedroom.

You sit patiently, leaning your weight against the backrest. Your legs swing lightly beneath the chair with what little strength you can muster. Then, your legs pause their motion.

You need to call Angie to let her know you won't be able to make it to your restaurant shift tonight. You bite the inside of your cheek. You hate the idea of disappointing her.

Wanda enters the bathroom again. White fuzzy pajama pants patterned with red hearts and a black sweatshirt are folded neatly in her hands. A pair of clean white underwear sits on top of the pile. Your chin dips, heat creeping up your neck. You can't help but wonder whose underwear you're borrowing.

You shake your head lightly, forcing your mind to stay on track. "Wanda? Can I call my manager? I have to let her know I'm sick and can't make it in tonight."

Wanda looks down at you, her head tilted as she sets the folded clothes on top of the vanity counter beside the chair. She gives you a slightly confused smile. "Of course you can, honey," she says slowly.

You look down at your lap, realization dawning on you.

Why did you just ask her for permission? It just felt like you should.

Getting assisted into your clothes is becoming a familiar affair, the process entirely streamlined at this point. With the heavy yellow robe still loosely draped over your frame, your dignity is preserved as she slips the clean underwear past your thighs, letting you pull the elastic up the rest of the way. You choose to forgo a bra, the thick black sweatshirt making it unnecessary.

The moment the waistband of the new fuzzy pants rests against your hipbones and the towel robe is removed, Wanda levels you with a serious stare.

"Darling," she starts, her voice wavering a bit. "Can I ask why you smelled like smoke that day in the office?"

You look down at one of the red hearts on your pants, your eyes tracing the curves. Answering this question would inevitably lead to more. It would mean tearing open a can of worms that you purposely keep sealed. It's not something you want to get into right now.

Right now? the final part of the thought echoes back in your head. Someday, you hope you'll find the courage to share it—in the way Natasha shared her history with you.

"I can't," you respond resolutely, your voice beginning to sound different as your sinuses clog again. "But I didn't smoke."

"I believe you," she says instantly, without a shred of hesitation. She looks up toward the ceiling for a moment in thought before meeting your eyes again. "I hope one day you're able to tell me why."

She gives you an understanding smile that makes a sudden prick of guilt tighten across your skin.

A sharp knock against the wooden doorframe forces both of you to look toward the door.

Natasha is standing there, wearing a sharp black power suit. The tailored fabric screams authority. You imagine it must intimidate hundreds of people in boardrooms, but the expression she's delivering right now is the complete opposite. She smiles at you softly.

"Hi, girls," she greets, her raspy voice filtering into the bathroom. "I see we're all fresh and clean now?"

You sniffle, trying to clear your nose. "Yes," you respond, looking away from her.

"And still not feeling too well," she says. You can see her tracking your posture in your peripheral vision, her expression shifting into something apologetic. "I'm sorry for not being here when you woke up," she adds, her voice dipping lower.

You press your lips together, forming a stubborn, grumpy pout.

Wanda chuckles beside you.

"I brought food back with me. How about we eat together?" Natasha asks, tilting her upper body down slightly to force you to meet her eyes.

You look up at Wanda, nodding your head lightly to give your consent.

Wanda laughs brightly, turning her head to look at Natasha. "Our sweet girl says that'll work."

Natasha rolls her eyes, but amusement lines her features when she looks back at you. "And is our sweet girl still feeling weak?"

You let out a heavy sigh, shifting your gaze back to Wanda, and nod your head solemnly.

Wanda winks down at you, turning back to Natasha. "Our sweet girl says—"

"I saw," Natasha cuts in, staring at Wanda with a deadpan, blank face. She steps past the threshold and walks up to the armchair.

"Can I carry you downstairs, baby? I don't want you to almost fall again." Her tone shifts instantly, her voice turning soft and pleading.

You stare at her blankly as she tilts her head from side to side, trying to curry your favor.

Wanda pipes up. "How about me, honey? Can I carry you?"

You turn your gaze away from Natasha and give Wanda a small grin. "Yes, please."

You lift your arms as high as your depleted strength allows. Wanda leans down, guiding your wrists over her shoulders. She shimmies her hands beneath your thighs and lifts you up with surprising ease. You press your cheek flat against Wanda's gray sweatshirt, looking back over her shoulder at Natasha.

Natasha's gaze isn't on you. It's locked onto Wanda, who's smiling triumphantly. Natasha's lips pull into a frown as Wanda turns and begins to walk out of the bathroom. Natasha follows closely behind the two of you.

"Nat, grab her phone," Wanda commands, not even bothering to look back.

You pick your head up from the soft cotton of the sweatshirt, peering past Wanda's shoulder as Natasha rolls her eyes in annoyance, but listens anyways, entering the room you had slept in.

Wanda walks down the grand staircase slowly, keeping her movements measured so your body doesn't bounce in her arms. The first floor opens into view. It's a massive, wide-open layout with daylight drifting in from towering windows at every angle. The light brown floorboards match the upper level perfectly. You turn your head, catching a glimpse of a huge, plush white couch facing a massive television screen in the living room, but you aren't able to take in the rest of the space before Wanda transitions into a quicker pace toward the dining area.

She sets you down gently onto a polished wooden chair pulled against an elegant white dining table. There are three other empty seats surrounding you. Two large brown takeout bags rest in the center of the table.

You turn your head to track Wanda as she frets about the kitchen, opening drawers to grab utensils. It's by far the largest kitchen you've ever seen. High-end steel appliances and endless storage space are displayed proudly along long marble countertops. A massive white island sits in the middle of the kitchen, the clean metal edges of a stove built into the stone. You find yourself wanting Wanda to finish what she's doing and just come back to sit next to you.

You jump slightly in your seat when a hand places your phone directly into your palm. Natasha. She always has a way of sneaking up on you without making a sound.

"For you, princess," she says teasingly, sliding the device into your fingers before reaching into the takeout bags to unpack the containers.

"Thank you," you mumble honestly.

Natasha nods down at you, opening a takeout box that you instantly recognize. It's from the same wrap place they ordered from before.

You unlock your screen, surprised to find that it's only 1:41 PM. You pull up Angie's contact and press the call button. It only takes two rings for her to pick up.

"This is a surprise," Angie says, her voice echoing over a loud rustling sound. It sounds like she's shuffling inventory around the restaurant.

"I'm really sorry, but I need to call out sick tonight," you say quickly, forcing the words out before you can lose your nerve.

The line goes dead silent for a brief second. Then, Angie's worried voice breaks through the speaker. "Sweetie, you sound absolutely terrible. Thank you for letting me know, and it's totally fine, by the way. Noah needs to work harder anyways." She pauses for a moment, the rustling stopping. "Should I bring you some soup or anything? Have you eaten?"

You look down at the table at the soft sound of a container being placed right in front of your hand. A paper cup of steaming hot soup sits on the table. You glance up at Natasha, who gives you a small, reassuring smile.

"No, I have food here. Thank you though, Angie," you respond into the phone. The image of Nicole crosses your mind. "Also… can you please let Nicole know I'm okay? I had to leave the party early and I never got the chance to tell her."

"Of course, sweetie, I'll let her know," Angie promises. "Just take care of yourself, you hear?"

You smile to yourself, the knot of guilt in your chest unraveling. "I promise I will."

"Good, good," she says. The shuffling sound starts up again. "I've gotta go, sweetie. I'll see you when you're better."

The line clicks dead before you can get another word in.

You release a sigh, placing your phone down on the table. Wanda appears beside your chair, setting a metal spoon next to the container of soup.

"Did it go well?" she asks, sliding into the seat to your right.

You nod at her. "It did."

Natasha takes a seat to your left, her suit jacket brushing against your arm. You reach out, picking up the spoon, the cool metal seeping through your fingers. You dip it into the container, scooping up a generous amount of soup. You bring it toward your mouth, your entire forearm shaking from exertion, but you stubbornly refuse to spill a single drop.

The edge of the spoon touches your lip, sending burning pain through your lower lip. You wince at the heat but force the rest of the soup into your mouth, swallowing it down despite the burn.

Suddenly, the spoon is no longer in your fingers. You glance up to see Wanda holding it instead. She levels a playful glare at you.

"Darling, if it's difficult, then you can just say so."

She dips the spoon back into the paper cup, bringing up a spoonful. She raises it to her own lips, blowing away the rising steam to cool the liquid down. You attempt to reach for the spoon with a trembling hand, but Wanda smoothly moves it out of your reach.

"I can do it," you say stubbornly.

"Oh, you definitely can," Wanda says, her voice light. "But you don't have to."

She brings the spoon back to your lips. It doesn't burn like it did before. The temperature is perfectly warm.

"Open up, sweetheart," Wanda says encouragingly.

You part your lips hesitantly, and the warm soup enters your mouth. You can't taste much with your sinuses completely clogged, but the warm liquid immediately soothes your raw throat as it goes down.

"Good girl," Wanda says, her voice bright praise.

Your stomach flutters, a wave of warm happiness blooming through your chest. You automatically part your lips again, wanting to hear her praise you more. Wanda smiles at you, the bridge of her nose wrinkling playfully as she scoops more of the soup, careful to ensure the temperature is just right before offering it. The liquid flows smoothly down your throat.

"Thank you for eating so well," Wanda coos softly.

You grin to yourself, your brain beginning to slow. Your thoughts begin to stick and drag against each other, as though they're dripping in honey.

Wanda looks past your shoulder for a moment, raising a single eyebrow. "Oh, lighten up," she says with a light laugh. "Eat your food, Natty," Wanda says, her tone bordering on mocking.

You turn your head slowly, catching Natasha with a frown on her face. You silently mouth the nickname to yourself, testing the syllables. Natty.

"Do you like the way that sounds?" Wanda asks from your right, her voice curious.

You nod, your eyes still locked on Natasha, who has now picked up half of her wrap. You do like the way it sounds.

"Can you tell Natty to eat her food?" Wanda asks, her voice dipping lower.

You don't even think twice, ready to listen to whatever Wanda tells you.

"Natty…" you begin, blinking blearily at her. "Can you eat your food?" you ask shyly.

Natasha turns her head to face you instantly. Her eyes are wide, but the affection in them is unmistakable. Her expression softens, a gentle smile forming on her lips.

"Yes," Natasha responds, her voice dropping into a light, unusually soft register. "Natty will eat her food." She brings the wrap to her mouth and takes a bite.

You turn your head back to Wanda immediately, your eyes wide and expectant.

Wanda reaches out, caressing your flushed cheek with her hand. "Thank you, baby," she coos at you.

You grin toothily back at her, basking in the praise. Wanda looks up toward the ceiling, in thought but there's a playfulness in her eyes. "Hmm…" she drawls. "I feel a little bit left out without a nickname from you."

She meets your eyes again, her expression light, but there's an unreadable weight underneath the playfulness that you can't quite decipher. "Maybe something that also ends with a y?"

Natasha bursts into a sudden fit of coughs from beside you.

A nickname that ends with y? you think to yourself. Your eyebrows furrow in concentration, trying to force your brain to function. Only one idea surfaces through the thick, heavy syrup behind your eyes. Wandy? No, that sounds terrible. Your forehead begins to throb the harder you try to think of options.

"Wanda is just being silly. You don't need to strain yourself over it," Natasha says, clearing her throat.

"Am I?" Wanda asks innocently. "Maybe we'll change yours, too, Nat. Make it a matching pair with mine."

Natasha stares back at her blankly, but a rosy tinge forms across her cheeks.

Does that make her happy? you wonder slowly. Maybe if you can think of the perfect nickname, Wanda will look at you and praise you again.

"Wanda," Natasha says, an edge cutting into her tone.

You look back and forth between the two of them. Natasha is sending a warning glare across the table. Wanda is smiling innocently, turning her gaze away toward the window.

You can't help but feel like there's more to this conversation that you're missing.

The sharp sound of the doorbell echoes throughout the floor. —

A/N: Sorry for the really long chapter! I'm going to have to take a week, maybe two, off from this story due to work so I wanted to leave you guys with something substantial. Lots happened xD Hopefully some of your questions were answered, though you'll definitely have to read between the lines. I wanted to get into Wanda's backstory too, but it felt weird doing it back to back. It would be too forced.

And yes, the Mommy kink tag has officially been added. Let's be real, it was always leaning this way even if I tried to ignore it. I'll be active on Tumblr even during the break so if you have any ideas of how it should be introduced in the story, let me know!

I really appreciate your guys' thorough comments! ♡ It always brings a smile to my face and pushes me through when I'm struggling writing. Hopefully this somewhat self indulgent chapter turned out okay! — Taglist♡: @kawaiipeacemusic @toe19 @tomy5girls @nrlvr @imaginemeandwho @sweetmissnothing @scarlettbitchx @three3ofswords @truthindreams @beggingonmykneesforher @justheretoreadgl

^ If you want to be added to the taglist, let me know!

[gamat3000]

[c--you]

Last Snow

[westwriteswhatever]

Choosing You

Chapter 6: Cotton

WandaNat x Fem!Reader

Chapter Summary: Waking up from your nap doesn't bring the relief you would expect. Unexpectedly harsh words greet you and two people you never thought you would see find their way to you.

Word Count: 9.7k

Warnings for this Chapter: none I think? maybe trauma response

A/N: at this rate no chapter is going to be under 7.5k so I'm just going to post it in full here when I feel up to it. like today :D

Series Masterlist AO3 — You're in a field of cotton balls.

You reach out, burying your fingers into the mass, and squeeze a handful into your fist. They're fuzzy against your palm, yielding with just enough satisfying resistance to soothe the ache in your knuckles. They bloom with warmth. Your fingertips begin to thaw. You can feel the prickle of circulation returning to your skin.

You look up. It's nighttime.

The dark blue sky holds a full moon that rains down a pale glow, turning the white field around you luminous. Stars cluster into constellations in the distance. It's quiet. Not in the way where it scares you. Not in the way where your thoughts attempt to drag you under. It's a peaceful quiet where the world stands still for you.

Just for you.

You open your fist. The cotton balls roll away from your skin, plopping soundlessly onto the white expanse below. You drag your palm across the surface, tracking the soft texture. You press down with your full weight, expecting the fibers to collapse and drop you through, but they hold steady.

You gaze toward the distance, where the dark line of night seems to stretch on without an end. The scenery is identical in every direction.

A movement catches your eye. Your shadow stretches across the white surface, mimicking your posture. You look down at the dark shape. It tracks your frame perfectly, but it lacks any real definition. No features. No edges. Just a flat, black void cutting through the light.

But it's surely you.

When you raise your arm, the shadow raises its arm. When you tilt your head, the dark shape tilts its head.

You pause.

The shadow keeps moving for a fraction of a second before it snaps into a sudden standstill. It stops matching you entirely.

Staring at it makes your heart ache. You're perfectly fine with being a shadow drifting through life. Disappearing the moment the sun comes up to make room for real people—bright people with character, who roam and live and take up space.

You don't have to be special. You don't want to be. You don't need to be.

Flashes of green erupt across the dark sky. Ribbons of vibrant, shifting emerald and mint arc over your head, twisting like the aurora borealis you used to stare at in photos. They dance through the air, curving down toward you as if trying to make you smile.

The shades of green are too specific. You recognize them instantly.

"Please stop," you whisper, the sound catching in your throat. "Please don't treat me like I'm special."

The lights answer by swirling closer, tightening their perimeter until they weave into beautiful patterns around your body.

You had gotten used to the quiet. You had accepted being alone. Doing everything by yourself. Only counting on yourself

A wisp of the green light brushes past your cheekbone. For a moment, the air sparks with warmth and the smell of jasmine blooms. It reminds you of Wanda's hand against your cheek when you shared her desk. That familiar warmth. The kind that makes you want to let your head fall and let her hand support you.

A brighter, vibrant green light wraps around you, completely blocking out everything. It forms a thick, impenetrable wall—exactly like Natasha blocking out the chaotic world past the office doors.

You squeeze your eyes shut, forcing your eyelids together until the pressure makes your temples throb, waiting until it's safe to look again.

When you open them, the sky is empty. The lights are gone without a trace. As if they were never there.

You're alone again.

You're used to this part. But your shoulders slump as if a weight was dropped on them. Your knees bend, the muscles in your thighs trembling as they threaten to drop your weight. You look back up at the empty sky, wishing you could see the green ribbons again, even though you're the one who just begged them to leave.

A part of you had hoped they would stay anyway, even when you turned your back.

It's fine. You're just a shadow, and the gorgeous lights have probably drifted away to find someone more beautiful. Someone who is a real person.

The corners of your mouth twitch upward into a small smile, but your gaze drops. It's exhausting being alone.

You lean back. The space beneath your heels fills with the soft give of the cotton, absorbing your weight as you sink into them. You feel completely weightless. You close your eyes, letting your muscles go slack. Your head tilts to the side, your cheek presses into the soft fibers.

Your heart still hurts. Even here, in this empty space with nothing but the moon, the stars, and the perfect comfort below you—a space made just for you—the reality catches up. You can't run away from the aching want to have someone else shoulder your burdens with you.

Or maybe two people.

The cotton slowly begins to compress beneath your spine, flattening millimeter by millimeter. The loft is disappearing. You don't know how far down the ground is.

Please, just let me stay here, you think, your fingers curling weakly, holding onto the cotton that remains. Let me stay in this place. Forever.

A sudden touch registers against your skin. Soft fingertips press against your ankle, tracing circles right over your veins.

Your eyes fly open. You crane your neck down to look, but the field is empty. There's no one there. You just continue to descend, your body getting heavier and heavier. Somehow, you know there's not much time left.

You lay your head back down, closing your eyes in acceptance.

"It's time to wake up, detka."

The softest, raspy voice reaches your ears, brushing against your skin with the same weight as the fingertips on your ankle.

And you fall.

—

The faint hum of the heater overhead. The rhythm of your own breaths, slow and even. The drag of pages turning in a book.

A hand rests on your ankle. The thumb moves occasionally, tracing a slow arc near the bone and over your veins.

Your eyes blink open. The fabric of the couch’s backrest comes into view, sharpening the more you blink. Your face is pressed into the pillow, squishing your cheek. It feels like there's a thick cloud surrounding your skull. Your thoughts lag, arriving one by one at a snail's pace.

Yesterday. Matt sitting in the common room. His grip on your hand. The suffocating smell of smoke filtering through the vent all night. Your burning eyes. Natasha demanding you take a nap. Her impossibly gentle voice.

You do feel slightly better after sleeping, but it's as though a weighted blanket has been draped over your mind and body. It's easy enough to maneuver around, but it makes itself known and stays as a nuisance in the back of your mind. Pain radiates in your throat when you try to swallow. Maybe you had been asleep longer than you thought.

You shake your head lightly, trying to force the fog away, but the clouds refuse to leave. It's still fuzzy. Thick, like cotton.

You force your shoulders back. Your spine arches slightly and the familiar popping of your vertebrae sounds through the office.

"Mmm…" A whiny groan catches in your throat at the sensation of your neck and back muscles stretching, slowly forcing themselves back to life.

The hand on your ankle squeezes lightly. You force your bleary eyes toward the source. Vibrant green eyes—identical to the light that had shielded you in the dream—are watching you with quiet amusement. A smirk tugs at the corner of her lips.

"How was your nap, sleeping beauty?" Natasha asks. Her tone is teasing, but a light seriousness remains in her eyes as she scans your face, tracking every twitch of your expression.

You blink a few times in a row. Your eyes don't sting as badly as they did earlier, though a slight burn still lingers behind your eyelids. It'll probably take another day to clear the prolonged exposure to the smoke. You still feel a dragging fatigue, but there are things you need to do. Spending your hours studying in Natasha and Wanda's offices instead of executing the regular tasks of an intern is already weighing heavily on your chest.

The office is slightly dim. Natasha must have lowered the blinds while you were asleep.

You flatten your palm against the couch cushion and push yourself up into a seated position. A wave of haziness washes over your vision, making the room sway before it clears within a few moments.

"I slept well. Thank you for the nap," you respond quietly. Your voice sounds weirdly scratchy, and trying to force the words out radiates a burning pain.

Natasha is seated in the open space next to your feet. Her hand remains wrapped around your ankle, the heat of her palm bleeding through your skin. The book she must have been reading is closed, resting flat on her thigh. Her body is shifted entirely toward you, treating you like the center of her attention.

"Your eyes look better than they did earlier," she notes, her thumb rubbing against your skin steadily.

She reaches for a water bottle on the coffee table that wasn't there before you closed your eyes. She cracks the plastic seal open for you and extends it. "Drink, detka. It sounds like your throat is dry."

Your fingers wrap around the plastic. "Thank you," you murmur gratefully.

Swallowing feels like sandpaper grating together. You take a long sip, but the cool moisture does little to ease the friction. The liquid slides down and stings like an open wound being doused with alcohol.

Detka. You repeat the word in your head. It's unfamiliar, but it's the exact same one she used right before you fell asleep. The way she structures her sentences makes it sound like a noun. She's calling you something.

Do you even want to ask? What if it's something bad? Maybe it's synonymous with troublesome.

There are more important things you should be asking, you remind yourself. Why are they treating you like you're special?

You set the bottom of the bottle against your thigh and glance up. Natasha has been watching you the entire time. Her lips are pulled into a rigid line. Her eyes look calculating. The shift is jarring compared to the teasing smile she had just a few minutes ago.

Maybe the thoughts getting stuck in your fuzzy head are showing plainly on your face.

"Nat—" you start, but a sharp knock on the door pulls her focus away.

Natasha’s shoulders look incredibly tense, barely moving as she turns her head toward the entrance.

"Let's talk about it later, okay?" She squeezes your ankle one last time before releasing it entirely. She casts a quick glance back at you, throwing you a smile that looks just a bit melancholic.

"Come in," she calls out.

Wanda walks in, her expression bright with a wide smile. You can almost picture sun rays following her steps as she crosses the room. Her soft yellow dress shirt matches her energy perfectly. It's the complete opposite of the dim room and the heavy mood hanging between you and Natasha.

The unspoken question sits like a wall in the space. Natasha must have anticipated it with how quickly she read your expression.

You smile back at Wanda, though the gesture lacks any real feeling. You're happy to see her, but your thoughts refuse to align properly. New questions twist alongside the old ones in your mind, but you already know they won't be answered right now.

Natasha rises from the couch and extends her arms above her head. She takes a deep breath, stretching her limbs, before looking down at you.

"I have to go to a meeting now." She gazes down at where her hand had just been resting on your ankle. A frown tugs at her lips. She looks like she's fighting a silent battle with herself.

"We'll all talk later," she says, giving a small nod to herself before offering you a tight smile. She reaches down, her fingers briefly brushing the bare skin of your ankle again.

She steps toward Wanda, who is looking between the two of you with a confused half-smile. Natasha leans in and kisses her cheek, whispering something low into her ear.

Wanda's eyebrows furrow at the words. She turns to look at Natasha, but she's already made her way to the door.

"Bye, girls. Have a good study session," Natasha says without turning around.

The door shuts with a soft thud.

Your gaze drifts back to Wanda, whose green eyes soften the longer she looks at you. She rounds the coffee table and slides onto the space right where Natasha was sitting just moments ago.

"Natasha told me you needed a nap. Do you feel better, honey?"

You look down to where your legs are still resting on top of the cushions. A heavy blanket is draped over your lap. The fabric feels far too warm against your heated skin. You shift your weight so your legs hang over the side of the couch, pushing the blanket away and bunching it into a divider between you and Wanda.

"I feel okay," you murmur, forcing a small smile. It isn't entirely the truth, but you do feel marginally better compared to when you arrived this morning.

Wanda scoots a fraction closer to you, ignoring the bunched fabric. "I've been stuck in a board meeting since I got here this morning," she says with a sigh of exasperation. Her eyes gleam as she turns her head to lock onto yours. "Can you guess what it was about?"

Your eyebrows pull together as you rack your brain for an answer. You've hardly discussed actual company logistics since you started your internship. Except for yesterday.

"Was it about the end of the quarter?" you guess with hesitation.

Wanda's nose wrinkles right at the bridge, her smile filling with affection. "Exactly, smart girl. I did say I would schedule a meeting right away after our conversation yesterday."

Her smile is infectious. Your lips curve into a soft grin despite yourself.

She leans in even closer, her shoulder presses lightly against yours. She continues, "I was able to get to the bottom of the accounting bottleneck. You were right, darling. After a few targeted questions, I narrowed it down to one of the senior managers who was creating a disruptive atmosphere while also being far too lax about deadlines."

"So what will happen now?" you ask, your head tilting slightly. You're familiar with mock scenarios in textbooks, but actually witnessing how a large company approaches problems in the real world is entirely new to you.

"Well," Wanda starts, looking up toward the ceiling with a dangerous smile. "That manager has already been replaced as of twenty minutes ago. We'll just have to see how the person who took their spot fares under pressure."

You nod your head slowly in understanding. Good luck to them, you think to yourself. You have a feeling they'll need it based on the sharp glint in Wanda's eyes.

Wanda continues to talk about the meeting. She mentions names of executives you've never met, things that need to be improved, and projects that are going well. Her voice dips into a low register when she's a bit frustrated, then brightens when she talks about things the company is accomplishing.

You sit quietly, listening but not quite absorbing her words. A heavy throbbing is starting to build right behind your temples. Maybe you're still waking up. You nod when it feels appropriate, letting her sentences bounce off your foggy mind. You watch her expressions change—her brows furrowing, then smoothing out. Her eyes rolling, then crinkling at the corners when she smiles. An accent you can't entirely decipher becomes more prominent on certain words.

You could listen to her all day. Her voice feels like music in the quiet space.

Suddenly, she pauses and looks at you with a teasing smile. "Honey, are you even listening to me?"

She reaches out, her palm cupping your jawline while her index finger taps a playful rhythm against your cheek. Her hand feels cool against your skin.

No, not really.

"I'm listening," you respond earnestly. It's painful to speak but you swallow past the burn. You don't want to hurt her feelings.

She lets out a light chuckle. "You look like you're still half asleep," she says, squeezing your cheek lightly before her hand relaxes. She tilts her head, her eyes softening. "Your cheeks are still so warm from when you slept," she notes, leaning in closer to investigate.

Suddenly, her face scrunches up in confusion.

She leans in incredibly close, her chest almost brushing your shoulder as she breathes in deeply. Her hand drops from your face entirely. She leans back, her eyes hardening as she takes you in fully. Her lips pull into a thin line.

"Darling, you really shouldn't smoke," Wanda says, her voice dropping into a stern tone. "It's bad for you."

What?

The clouds swirling around your head clear instantly. Her expression. It's the exact same look that was leveled at you countless times when you were growing up. A look full of disappointment.

Your heart begins to race erratically, thudding violently against your ribs.

"I… I didn't smoke." Your voice trembles from your sharp pulse throbbing painfully in your throat.

Wanda raises one of her eyebrows. Her jaw remains tight.

She doesn't believe you.

Your hands begin to shake violently against your thighs. You curl your fingers inward, digging your nails deep into the center of your palm. The skin breaks. A dull, wet sting follows, but the actual pain doesn't register through the noise in your chest. You slide your other palm flat on top of the wound, clamping down hard to hide the tremor.

It's too familiar. That look.

It reminds you of the times in high school when you spent days studying for tests and losing sleep, running your system entirely on fumes. You had put your all into it, truly. But when the results arrived, the numbers were just good. Not great.

Your father had always told you that as long as you tried your best, then it was okay. You really had done everything you could, but your absolute best just wasn't enough to satisfy him. After seeing the results, he had looked at you and asked if you had truly tried. You were honest with him. You told him that you had given it your all.

But he gave you the exact same look that Wanda is giving you now. The flat, heavy skepticism that tells you your words means nothing.

Why is the truth never good enough? Why aren't you good enough?

It hurts.

You haven't felt this ache since the day you packed your bags and left your parents' house. The two years that followed had been empty, colorless, and safe. No one could hurt you because you refused to allow anyone to get close enough to try.

You allowed this hurt to happen. By smiling genuinely, laughing wholeheartedly, and opening up even a fraction. By deviating from the way you've been living so far.

Alone.

You pull your shoulders back, locking your spine into a perfectly straight line. Your hand reaches up, your fingers clawing through the tight knots that had formed in your hair while you slept. The strands catch, pulling harshly against your scalp, but you ignore the sting. You force your fingers through anyway, smoothing the hair down until it obeys.

Your hand slides down to your blouse. You glide your palm hard against the soft fabric, smoothing out the wrinkles over your chest until the presentation is pristine. If you stay around Wanda for much longer, you know you might crack.

The strings pull. Your lips tug automatically into your practiced smile.

Reaching out, you grab your phone off the coffee table. The lock screen shows it's right around lunchtime. Pressing the back of your hand against the cushion, you push yourself up into a full stand. Your legs wobble unsteadily under your weight, a cold shudder running through your thighs. It must be from lying down for so long or the lingering residual effects of your sleepless night.

You grab one of the straps of your backpack, hoisting the weight upward, and slide the straps over your shoulders.

"Darling—" Wanda starts, her eyes widening as she watches your sudden movements.

"May I go?" you ask politely, keeping your voice level and deferential. "I haven't been down to the sixtieth floor in a few days, and I'd like to check in with some of the analysts I met. Maybe I can eat lunch and study there for the rest of the day?"

Before she can answer, you reach down for the blanket bunched messily on the couch. Your fingers work quickly, lining up the corners and folding the heavy fabric into a perfect, flawless square.

"Wouldn't it be better to eat with Natasha and I?" Wanda asks quickly, an edge of urgency cutting through her voice. "We're planning to order from one of our favorite restaurants," she says, her tone lightening as if trying to pull you back.

You shake your head, keeping your eyes locked on the folded blanket. "I think I should get to know the people I'll be working with, since my time on this floor will end after tomorrow."

You turn your head toward the wooden door. You don't want to look at Wanda right now.

It's completely silent for a long moment before Wanda releases a heavy sigh.

"Okay," Wanda whispers, her voice cracking slightly before she raises the volume of her voice again. "Okay. I'll see you tomorrow, sweetheart."

The term of endearment that had sent a warm flutter through your chest even a day ago sends a dull ache instead.

You nod, your chin dropping just enough to acknowledge the words. "I'll see you tomorrow. Have a good rest of your day."

You're already moving, your wobbly legs dragging your weight across the carpet toward the exit. You reach out, your fingers wrapping around the cold handle of the door and pulling it open.

"You too, honey," you hear Wanda say quietly behind you.

The wooden door clicks shut behind your back.

A wave of exhaustion makes you press your weight back into your heels, letting your head land gently against the door. The cool wood feels good against your hot scalp. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, your teeth gnawing back and forth.

Your eyes close against the bright space.

There's nothing special about you. You'll just become another nameless intern working at their company. Eventually, their attention will shift to someone brighter than you. Someone who is actually a real person. Someone special.

Your arm lifts, fingers twitching toward the cold handle, wanting to pull it open just to see Wanda again.

Instead, you force your hand back down to your side. The walk toward the elevator feels like wading through mud. You press the button for the sixtieth floor. The doors slide shut.

Just like the emerald lights in your dream, even if you wish they would appear before you again, they won't. Because you're the one that wished them away.

—

The doors slide open to the familiar, low chatter of the sixtieth floor. Analysts offer quick smiles along the walkway. Heading toward the far left corner, you navigate to the desk where you had spent so little time, setting your backpack against the side before taking a seat.

"Haven't seen you in a few days. How's the job shadow been going?"

Eli's playful voice rings out from the neighboring desk. Turning your head toward him, his teasing smile somehow manages to make you feel a bit better.

"It's been going well," you respond, forcing a small smile that fails to reach your eyes.

Eli tilts his head, squinting as he observes your face. "Doesn't look like it," he says bluntly.

Your gaze shifts down to your lap. Silence hangs heavy between you.

"I was kidding?" Eli chuckles awkwardly, clearly trying to salvage the conversation.

Your fingers find the plastic edge of the ID card hanging around your neck. "It's okay," you say, forcing a short laugh. "I'm just a little tired today."

"Whoa!" Eli exclaims suddenly, his tone forcing your chin up. "Your hand is bleeding."

A quick glance down confirms it. A small amount of blood is smeared across both of your palms.

Eli pulls his desk drawer open and reaches for a compact first aid kit. "I always have one of these on me. My boyfriend is a clumsy one," he says with a fond smile before leveling a focused look at your hands. "Is it okay if I take a look?"

You extend your arms toward him, palms up.

The moment his hand slides underneath yours to support your weight, the memory of Matt's crushing grip flashes through your system. Your fingers snap closed into a tight fist instinctively. Your teeth bite down hard on your bottom lip, and you avert your eyes to avoid Eli's searching gaze.

His hand stays exactly where it is below yours, holding your weight up gently. When he speaks, his voice is softer than earlier.

"I don't have any siblings, let alone a sister. So, sometimes I don't really know the best way to comfort girls. Sorry if I was too forward," he says apologetically.

The genuine tone makes you uncurl your fingers slowly. Shaking your head, you finally meet his eyes with a genuine smile. "Yeah, sounds like you need to work on it."

His jaw drops before he levels you with a playful glare. "Oh, don't worry. I'll make sure to clean your hand extra well with the antibacterial wipe. Brace yourself."

True to his word, Eli tears open a small foil packet. He begins to tell a story about the time his boyfriend tripped over absolutely nothing and broke his leg. The cold wipe dabs against your raw skin, his touch growing gentler the closer he gets to the crescent-shaped cuts your nails made.

"He still swears he tripped over a step. Can you believe that? We were walking down a flat sidewalk," he says, shaking his head exasperatedly.

You laugh along with him as the stories keep coming, his voice filling the quiet corner of the floor. Your focus stays anchored on his words. A strange numbness is settling over your skin. You hardly even feel the sharp sting of the alcohol against your open palms.

—

It's a slower night at the restaurant. Nights like these, Angie goes around feeding the waitstaff in the kitchen and asking about everyone's plans.

The metal pass is holding more of your weight than you'd like to admit. Your body has felt almost unbearably hot since leaving the office today, but you've dealt with much worse.

Angie had asked you to wait for a moment before returning to the floor. A quick sweep of your section already confirmed everyone is enjoying their meals.

Finally turning to you, Angie squints her eyes. "You look a bit off, sweetie. You feelin' alright?"

"I'm okay. I just didn't sleep enough last night. I should be fixed up by tomorrow," you say with a tired smile.

She gives you a blank stare like she doesn't believe you. "If you say so," she drawls out before looking through the small windows of the kitchen doors into the dining room. She points in the direction of the bar. "Nicole looks bored out there. Make use of her and take it easy today. It's okay to rely on the team, y'know?"

"I know," you respond with an appeasing tone. "I'll make sure to use her." You push off the pass. It takes a moment to stabilize yourself. Luckily, Angie is still looking into the dining room.

A glance at the clock on the wall shows only around an hour left of your shift. Returning back to the house after your internship today hadn't felt daunting, since you knew Matt would be sleeping in preparation for his shift. But with the conclusion of your restaurant shift overlapping perfectly with the exact hour he wakes up, the idea of stepping back through the front door feels impossible.

A tired sigh escapes your throat. You'll just have to fold the napkins slower tonight to avoid running into him.

—

It's Friday. Usually, the end of the week brings a sense of relief with it being the last day of classes. This week, the relief is entirely different. Come Monday morning, your schedule returns to the regular tasks of a standard intern. You'll finally be able to keep your head down and blend back into the crowd.

An email from Cindy had arrived first thing this morning. She apologized for not being able to escort you due to an assignment she's currently working on, instructing you to head up to Wanda's office on your own.

Wanda. You repeat the name silently in your head.

The thought of her sends immediate pricks of discomfort through your chest. It's hard to distinguish if the feeling is pain or unease. Your arm accidentally brushes against the metal wall of the elevator, sending a sharp wave of pins and needles across your skin.

Ever since your alarm went off, a heavy mound of pressure has been building right behind your eyes and forehead. Lifting your head off the pillow this morning had taken a massive effort despite the mundane motion. Your heated skin feels exceptionally sensitive, turning every slight movement of your limbs into a radiating ache. It's exhausting just to remain standing.

The elevator doors slide open to the C-suite floor, revealing the pristine marble floor. A part of you wishes you could just drop everything and lie flat against that cool stone. But this level of exhaustion and discomfort has become commonplace. You can bear with it.

Breaths become more labored with every step until you reach Wanda's office door. Pressing your hand against the wood takes some of the burden off your body before you knock twice.

Despite the fatigue, you force your mind to stay sharp. This is the last day. You'll only see them in passing after this. The conflicting feelings and the warmth you feel around them will disappear.

Are you okay with that?

The question flashes through your mind against your will.

You have to be okay with this. Maybe it's better that it's now. You knew you would walk away one day, before they could leave you broken. Before you accidentally give pieces of yourself away that can never be retrieved.

"Come in," Wanda calls out from behind the door.

Taking a deep breath, you straighten your posture with effort and plaster on a neutral expression. You turn the handle and push open the door, revealing Wanda sitting at her desk. She stands immediately upon seeing you.

The door shuts behind you.

The same chair from before is pulled up next to her desk in the same spot. The sight makes the pressure in your head build. Stepping up to the desk, Wanda watches you the entire way, her mouth opening and closing as if she doesn't know where to start.

So, you start for her.

"I have a few questions about some of the topics in one of my classes. It's going to be covered pretty extensively on the final. When would you have time to answer them?" you ask politely. You keep your voice low, knowing if you raise it any higher, it'll break and send you into a coughing fit.

"Darling, I think we should talk," Wanda says earnestly, tilting her head to search your eyes that keep averting from hers.

"Is it in relation to my internship?" you ask indifferently, setting your backpack down and pulling out your materials.

The creak of Wanda sitting down is the only sound in the office.

"No," she starts hesitantly. "About yesterday."

Looking up, you plaster on an apologetic smile. You try to ignore the scent of jasmine swirling around you. It pulls at your heart and threatens to break your resolve. Your thumb presses hard into the bandage on your palm.

"My first final is on Monday. I already sent Cindy my schedule," you respond. "Would we be able to schedule a time to talk about it another day? I'm a bit behind on studying."

Wanda looks like she's completely withering away. Her shoulders droop, her hands find each other to grasp tightly, and the corners of her lips pull down. The sight almost makes you want to say anything and everything just to bring back her bright smile. To have her call you smart girl and send that fuzzy feeling through your body like she did a few days ago.

But the instinct to protect your heart overrides everything else. These feelings will pass with time.

"I can answer some questions now," Wanda says with a weak smile.

"Okay," you respond, forcing your eyes down to your notebook page. "I made a note here. How would you…"

—

Natasha never ended up stopping by. She was called into an emergency meeting with investor and public relations in lieu of the upcoming earnings release. It feels fitting.

The look Wanda had given you when you said goodbye instead of I'll see you later still sticks with you even now, standing in the breakroom at the restaurant preparing for your shift. It was a look that made it apparent that this was final.

You take a deep breath in through your mouth. Your nose had become increasingly more clogged as the day wore on. You had to hide your sniffles between performative throat clears that made your throat burn during your time alone with Wanda.

You practice your smile in the breakroom mirror. It's reminiscent of the time before meeting them. It doesn't reach your eyes. It stays strictly within the line of cheerful and flat—just enough of a curve to let people know you're engaged in the conversation. It's hard to hold even this manufactured smile today.

Natasha patting your stomach to even out your breaths. Wanda praising you when you gave her department solutions. That's the problem when you become too comfortable and allow color to seep into your world. When the world turns gray again, you miss the light blue of the sky. You miss the orange-red rays of the sun. The vibrant green of their eyes. It tears a hole through you.

But it'll heal even if it takes a while.

Just get through this shift, you think to yourself, trying to force a surge of energy into your mind.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket. Sliding it out, you glance at the message preview on the screen. It's Matt.

You shut your eyes tightly before opening them again to read the text.

I'm not working tonight. Let's hang out. I'll be waiting in the common room.

There's no apology for that night. Not even an acknowledgment. Fear courses through your system at the thought of returning home to find him sitting in the exact same spot. His calloused hand gripping yours. The suffocating mixture of smoke and alcohol on his breath. The looming possibility of what could have happened if your house leader hadn't arrived in time.

The sharp sound of the breakroom door opening pulls you out of your thoughts. Suddenly, your own frantic breaths become loudly clear to you.

Your coworker, Nicole, is leaning against the doorframe with a smile. "Hi," she greets you. "You're a finance major, right?"

You force your breathing to even out momentarily, contorting your expression into a polite, practiced smile. "Yeah, I am. Why do you ask?" Your voice sounds scratchy, but you maintain the pleasant cadence you were taught.

"A couple of my friends who're finance majors dined here a few nights ago and recognized you," Nicole says with a chuckle. "They asked if I would ask you to come to a party tonight. They said they've been wanting to talk to you, but couldn't find the confidence. I'll be going as well, if you want to head over together after this?"

She looks at you with hopeful eyes. You have yet to go to a single university party. Not that you ever really wanted to. The idea of standing in a crowded room with music blaring and drinks sloshing around sounds unappealing.

I'll be waiting in the common room.

The memory of the text forces your thumb to press hard into your bandage, sending sharp signals of pain through your body.

"I…" you start hesitantly, "I don't have a change of clothes." Going to this party sounds vastly better than facing Matt, but the logistics are an immediate problem.

Nicole's expression shifts into an excited smile. "Don't worry, I have an extra change of clothes right here in my locker. I promise it'll be fun. There are so many people who have been wanting the chance to talk to you."

Her body turns around to face the kitchen walkway, sending a fleeting smile back your way. "We'll talk more after the shift. I'm so excited!" she exclaims before walking away.

—

The dining room fills with a heavy rush of regulars, making the shift drag while simultaneously passing in a blur. Every step makes your joints feel stiff, like creaking bones. Even a light touch against your skin sends sharp pinpricks across your body. But you continue to chat with ease, keeping your speech charismatic and your expressions engaged. It's one of the times where you're thankful this is programmed into you.

A few customers ask about your voice, noticing the raspy edge. Hiding the scratchiness is becoming a struggle as your throat continues to swell. You brush it off with a practiced excuse, telling them you've just been talking too much lately. It wasn't exactly a lie.

The shift finally ends, leaving you in the breakroom with Nicole. She hands you a gray long-sleeve shirt and a white skirt. It's freezing outside, but with what feels like literal lava burning beneath your skin, the light clothing sounds like a relief.

You unbutton your work shirt and slide it off. The fabric of Nicole’s shirt feels like sandpaper, scraping hard against your skin as you pull it over your head. The neckline cuts low, stopping just above your breasts. It's far less coverage than you ever wear, but you've also never been to a university party. Maybe this was the norm with how quickly it could get hot in a crowd of people.

You unzip your trousers, step out of them, and pull on the skirt. The sudden blast of cool air against your bare legs brings a brief second of relief. But it doesn't last long. The relief vanishes, and the room turns far too cold. Your body doesn't normally regulate its temperature well, but for the past day, it's been a pendulum. Swinging violently from a sauna to the arctic.

Nicole throws out names of people you don't know, but who are apparently in many of your same classes. You nod and hum in understanding whenever she complains about the boys in her lectures.

You stuff your work clothes into your locker. You'll be back tomorrow anyway.

Turning around at the same time, you both stand fully dressed. Nicole sends you a wide grin. "I can see why the guys were begging me to ask you to come," she says, followed by a sharp whistle.

You roll your eyes exaggeratedly. The motion backfires, sending a dull, throbbing ache straight through your temples.

"I'm sure that's why they asked you, too," you respond teasingly, forcing the pain down.

You open the door to the breakroom and look around. The kitchen staff have already cleaned thoroughly and are grabbing their personal things to leave.

"I think we should head out so we don't hold anyone back. Ready?" you ask, turning back around.

"You bet!" Nicole calls out, grabbing her keys. She jingles them in a sporadic beat.

Despite your body screaming at you to lie down, you can't help but laugh a little at her energy.

—

Bright fairy lights string across the front yards along the sidewalk. It's a block dominated by fraternities and sororities, most having decided the weekend before finals is the perfect time to throw a party. Loud, bass-heavy music bleeds from house to house, blending together as students drift between lawns to meet up with friends.

Walking beside Nicole, you discuss university life and expected final grades. The freezing night air bites sharply against the exposed skin of your upper chest and bare legs.

Some people call out greetings to Nicole as you approach the fraternity house where the finance and accounting majors are congregating. In front of you, drunk students sway unsteadily, barely catching their balance before they tip sideways.

The street is familiar. Your daily bus route passes right by this block early in the journey. Your own house sits only a short distance away.

Excited shouting and screaming echo from the next lawn over. Sparing a brief glance, you watch a few people lying starfish on the grass, giggling to themselves as they fail to push themselves back up, only to collapse and laugh all over again.

Nicole laughs, pointing toward a crowd hyping up a student shotgunning a beer. Apparently, it's someone from one of her classes, the onlookers push them to drink even faster.

The sound of your name being shouted from the crowd steals your attention.

"Hey!" a voice calls out.

Someone from the crowd sways slightly as he walks quickly toward you and Nicole. Without warning, he wraps a heavy arm around your shoulders. The sudden weight feels like he's dragging you straight down. You force your legs to lock, bracing your joints so you both don't collapse onto the sidewalk.

"I'm so glad you made it. I've been wanting to talk to you for forever," he slurs, his face too close.

"Oh, knock it off, Tyler." Nicole shoves his arm off your neck.

A sharp breath of relief escapes your throat. Tyler raises his hands in surrender, though one arm hangs clearly higher than the other.

"Us in finance are just friendly folk, Nicole. Right?" he says, sending a heavy wink your way.

"Right…" you respond, pulling your lips into an awkward, flat smile.

Nicole pipes up from beside you, leveling him with a look of disgust. "This is why you don't have a girlfriend."

Tyler rolls his eyes, but his pupils track so slowly it looks like he's seeing stars. Stealing a quick glance at Nicole, he wraps his heavy arm right back around your shoulders and forces you forward. Your legs shake violently beneath your weight.

"Hey!" Nicole calls out, following close behind. "Tyler, let her go." Her tone sounds playful on the surface, but a sharp edge cuts beneath the words.

He ignores her completely, pressing your body forward until you cross the threshold into the house.

The interior is pure chaos. Strobe lights flash erratically, sending blinding white needles straight through the heavy pressure behind your eyes. To your left, a beer pong game dominates the common room. The players slam their hands hard against the folding table whenever they miss, sending loud bangs that slice through the bass-heavy music. Crowds of students pack the space holding red cups, swaying and spilling alcohol onto the floor.

People turn their heads to track you as you pass by, their expressions shifting into pure surprise.

Tyler proudly marches you straight up to a large group standing near the beer pong table. He pats your shoulder once before finally releasing his grip.

The group looks you up and down in shock. One of the guys lets out a sharp whistle. "Wow, Tyler. How'd you manage to get finance's princess here?" His gaze travels between your face and below your chin. You pull your arms close against your chest, trying to shield yourself from the look.

"I worked my magic," Tyler slurs, leaning his weight into you. Your footing slips, and you stumble slightly before forcing your legs to catch yourself. The suffocating heat of the packed room sends sharp arrows of pain straight to your brain.

"You mean I worked my magic?" Nicole cuts in from behind. Her hands find your shoulders, holding your frame steady against Tyler's weight.

Turning your head, you give her a grateful smile. It feels like your brain is actively turning to mush. The space is too crowded. Too many eyes are locked on you.

One of the girls in the group catches your eye, offering a soft smile. "Hi," she says politely. "I've seen you in a few of my classes, but I didn't know how to approach you."

"Hi," you respond kindly. Her and Nicole's soothing voices feel like a balm against the pounding bass. "It's nice to meet you." You give her a gentle smile, lacking the energy for anything more.

The girl leans her head in a bit closer, her mouth near your ear. "I can see why people are so interested in you," she whispers playfully. "But if anyone bothers you, let me know."

"Me too," Nicole adds. You hadn't noticed her leaning in to listen, but she squeezes your shoulders lightly. "I'm going to go say hi to some of my friends real quick. If it gets too hot in here, let me know. I'll go outside and cool off with you. You feel a little warm already," she notes, studying your face carefully.

Nicole has already been so kind. You refuse to hold her back from having fun.

"I'm okay," you respond, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. "Go say hi to your friends," you say brightly, playfully pushing her toward a group looking at her expectantly. She throws a grin your way before disappearing into the crowd.

Immediately, Tyler presses his arm hard against yours. "So, what can I get you to drink, princess?" he asks loudly over the music.

"Just water is good, please." It isn't that you've never touched alcohol before, but the liquid always sits like a heavy rock in your stomach. It makes your brain fuzzy and your limbs refuse to cooperate. It's terrifying. It isn't the same gentle fuzziness that Wanda gave you.

Stop, you command yourself, cutting the thought off before it can dig deeper into your chest.

"Loosen up a little. Just one drink. Pretty please?" Tyler begs. He leans his face so close you're almost positive you could get drunk just from the heavy scent of vodka lingering on his breath.

"Tyler," the girl in the group warns, her voice laced with annoyance.

But the guys around him continue to press, their voices overlapping and bouncing off the walls.

"Come on, you can have the same thing as me."

"I'll make you whatever you'd like."

"Here," one of them says, shoving a red cup straight into your face. "Have some of mine."

The smell of cheap alcohol fills your nose, mixing with the suffocating heat of the room.

It's too much. You pull out your phone, casting a quick glance at the blank screen.

"Sorry, I have to get this," you say apologetically. "I'll be right back."

You wiggle your way out from under Tyler's weight. The group groans in unison as you back away.

Turning on your heel, you navigate your way through the packed room. The hot bodies of drunk students press heavily against yours, sending your heart into a rhythm that's far from steady. You force your way through the crowd faster, desperate for oxygen.

You're almost at the front door when someone's cold hand grips your wrist harshly.

You try to yank your arm away with a violent jerk, but their fingers refuse to yield. Your chest tightens. You need to get out of here. Right now.

"Is it really you?" a heavily accented voice sounds from behind you.

The lava burning beneath your skin freezes into solid ice.

No. There's no way.

Turning your head slightly, you peek over your shoulder. You're met with faces you could never forget. The two faces you've longed to see, that you've missed dearly, and that you've always felt incredibly guilty toward. A brunette and a blonde.

Kate and Yelena.

You can't do this right now. You never want to explain the reality of why you left them behind.

Yelena’s grip stays locked on your wrist while Kate stands right behind her. Their eyes widen in shock as they take in the side of your face.

Using their surprise, you rip your arm out of Yelena's grasp.

You stride quickly out the front door, the freezing night air doing nothing to clear the pressure in your head. Your eyes are frantic, scanning the front yard before you hit the concrete sidewalk and throw your weight around the corner. You need to be anywhere but here.

Rapid footsteps echo on the pavement behind you.

"Wait!" Kate calls out, repeating the word over and over into the night.

You don't stop. The remaining strength begins to wane in your legs, your knees threatening to buckle.

A hand clamps onto your shoulder, forcing your body to spin around. Yelena had always been faster than you in high school. It's exactly the same even now.

She levels a glare at you, gripping your shoulder tighter until her fingers dig into your collarbone. "What gives you the right to run away?" she yells, her voice echoing loudly around the empty space.

You cast a glance at your surroundings, grateful that the loud music bleeding from the houses makes it unlikely anyone else is listening to the commotion.

Reaching up with a shaky hand, you try to pry her fingers off your shoulder, trying to uncurl them one by one. "Let go," you grit out, your raw throat burning from the strain.

"So you can what? Run away again?" Yelena mocks sarcastically, refusing to budge. "You already did that two years ago."

Silence hangs heavy in the cold air, only the sound of your ragged breaths registering between you.

You force your eyes up, catching Kate's gaze immediately. She looks like she wants to reach out and pull you away from Yelena's grip, but she can't find it in herself to move. Her posture is frozen, as if she's terrified that any sudden movement will make you vanish again. Tears barely hold on above her lower lashes.

"I always wondered what happened," Yelena starts, her voice dropping into a low, raw register. "That maybe Kate and I had not been good enough friends. That we were not as close as I thought we were."

Her fingers claw tightly at your skin. Through the anger in her voice, you hadn't noticed the shakiness behind it. A gleam of moisture breaks through her glare as her eyes drop down to where her hand is gripping your shoulder for dear life.

"But at least when I pictured you, even without us, I thought you were happy. You were off somewhere smiling and laughing," she says shakily, before her voice spikes again. "But here you are, looking like this. How dare you?"

She forcefully shakes you by the shoulder. The sudden motion makes your vision blur and a wave of suffocating heat rushes back to your skin.

Kate steps forward, pulling Yelena's hand off your frame. "Stop it!" she cries out desperately. Tears track down her cheeks, glinting under the pale light of the streetlights. "Just stop," she whispers.

Turning to you, Kate meets your eyes with a watery smile. "Yelena and I need to sober up. Let's talk about this at a later time, okay?" she asks, the desperation clear in her voice.

You shake your head despite the sudden wave of dizziness. It feels like your consciousness is barely holding on by a thread. You won't be seeing them again after tonight.

"Why?" Kate pleads, her smile vanishing. "Why can't we talk after this?"

"Because…" you start weakly, your voice breaking entirely on the last syllable.

You sway unevenly on the pavement. Your breaths come out dangerously shallow and fast. Kate disappears and reappears in your blurry vision. The next thing you know, Kate has your arm slung over her shoulder, holding your weight up.

"Did you drink something? What's going on?" she asks frantically.

Yelena presses her palm flat against your forehead. The sudden chill of her skin feels welcome against the boiling of your blood.

"She is burning up," Yelena says, trying to search your eyes.

"I didn't drink anything," you manage to whisper.

You droop heavily into Kate, your legs completely failing. Everything around you looks pixelated. It's almost scary, but whatever is dragging your consciousness down calls to you, promising sweet relief. You want to listen to it.

A sharp, muffled sound cuts through the air from behind you, but you don't move.

Kate and Yelena's faces are suddenly lit up by a bright, sweeping beam of light Their eyes remain frantic, but a wave of relief washes over their expressions as well.

"Hey, I got your text to pick you up. Don't drink so much next time," an annoyed, raspy voice calls out. It's instantly familiar.

The sound of a heavy car door opening echoes down the street, followed by quick, decisive steps on the asphalt.

"What's going on? Did they drink too much?" the person asks, stepping in to help Kate support your body. Your head rolls helplessly to the side, leaning flat against their shoulder.

"She said she didn't drink anything," Kate says breathlessly. "I think she might have a fever. She feels really hot."

You look up slowly, trying to force your jaw to work so you can tell them all you can just walk home. It isn't far.

You're instantly silenced by vibrant green eyes looking down at you, alarmed.

"Natasha?" you mumble out, your voice barely a breath.

Yelena's hand freezes against your forehead.

"Yes, detka, it's me. I'm here," Natasha murmurs softly, her tone shifting instantly.

Yelena's hand drops away from your skin. She stands frozen, looking between the two of you in disbelief.

Natasha moves so she's standing directly in front of you. She pulls one of your arms over her shoulder. "I've got her," she says evenly to Kate.

Glancing at Kate, you see her eyebrows pulled together in hesitation, but she allows your arm to slide off her shoulder. Natasha places your other arm across her neck. Her hands find their way to the back of your thighs, and suddenly gravity isn't pulling you down as harshly. Your chest presses flat against Natasha's as she lifts you up, adjusting her grip beneath you.

Your body tenses immediately. Unwrapping one of your arms, you push your palm against her shoulder with a weak nudge.

"I can get home by myself," you argue, but the words lack any real strength.

Natasha adjusts her grip so only one arm supports your weight. Her other hand wraps around your fingers, lifting your arm and slinging it securely back around her neck. Sliding up to the back of your head, her fingers press lightly, guiding your face down until your cheek squishes flat against her shoulder.

"I'm sure you can," she says in a quiet, appeasing tone, her body beginning to rock side to side like she's lulling you to sleep. Your eyelids grow heavy, beginning to droop against your will. "You don't have to, though."

She uses her palm to cover your exposed ear. "Wanda, I need you to drive instead," Natasha calls out.

The muffled sound is a relief. The surrounding party noises were starting to send sharp, throbbing stabs straight to your brain.

You feel the motion of Natasha walking, holding you steadily so your body barely shifts. The sound of a car door clicking open echoes nearby before Natasha leans down, her breath brushing close to your ear. She slides onto the seat and tucks your legs close to the outside of her thighs, wrapping both arms around your frame to hold you close.

Your lips rest almost directly against the side of her neck.

"It's too hot," you whine quietly, your skin heating at the contact.

Natasha's hand begins to pat your back in a slow, steady rhythm. "I know, detka. It'll be better soon. Just sleep for now."

"Natasha, is that our sweet girl?" Wanda's voice projects from the front, sounding as if she's turned completely around in the driver’s seat.

"Yes," Natasha responds in a low register. "So drive carefully. We have precious cargo."

The steady rhythm of the patting continues against your back. Your eyes close.

The sharp sound of two more doors opening and closing pierces through the space, though the noises of the outside world are starting to fade into a distant hum.

"Natasha," Yelena’s voice cuts in from the seat beside you, her tone a tense mixture of anger and confusion. "We have a lot to talk about."

"Lena. Let's talk at their place. Let her sleep," Kate says from behind you.

A disgruntled, heavy sigh sounds through the vehicle.

"Let's go home," Natasha directs toward the front.

You press your face even closer into the curve of Natasha's neck. The heat is suffocating, but being held against her brings a completely different type of warmth. One that lets you know you're safe.

Using the last bit of your strength, your arms squeeze a bit tighter around her shoulders. Your mind drifts, slipping away from the waking world.

Right before the dark takes over, you swear you see a pair of gorgeous green lights—two slightly different shades—swirling together in the shadows around you.

They came back. —

A/N: Lots of drama. Butttt, we were able to get R out of that house, at least for tonight. Just like how Natasha can't help but baby, I also can't help but baby you guys too. I keep adding to the ending to make it softer because I don't want you guys to finish the chapter feeling sad 😅 In exchange for the drama filled chapter, in the next chapter I promise: Wanda and R will talk, we'll learn more about why Natasha and Wanda are interested in her, maybe make it a little subby.

Thank you guys as always for reading and the comments/asks. It always makes writing the story more fun ♡

— Taglist ♡: @kawaiipeacemusic @toe19 @tomy5girls @nrlvr @imaginemeandwho @sweetmissnothing @scarlettbitchx @three3ofswords @truthindreams

[westwriteswhatever]

Choosing You

Chapter 8: But Why?

WandaNat x Fem!Reader

Chapter Summary: A conversation leaves you making a decision you wouldn't have made otherwise. Through the fever and the emotional exhaustion, you say something you shouldn't have.

Word Count: 6.7k

Warnings: MDNI, argument(s), references to past psychological abuse, a little slip up at the end, some fluff, mommy kink, lots of pet names

A/N: yay we're back from the smut break! also, thank you for 700 on AO3! running out of things to say in these notes so i'll thank a commenter instead. thank you @toe19 for following the story!

Series Masterlist —

Wanda's smile drops immediately, her head turning toward the front door just a few paces away from the dining room. Beside you, Natasha lets out a heavy sigh, like she already knows who's standing on the other side of it.

Natasha's hand finds yours under the table, squeezing your fingers briefly before holding them there. It feels like the whole atmosphere in the room suddenly shifts—all that warm, happy air slowly draining away until everything just feels lukewarm. You meet Natasha's eyes. She's giving you a small smile, but her eyes are swimming with too many thoughts for you to pick out.

"I'll get the door."

Natasha's hand slips out of yours. Your fingers instinctively chase hers. Maybe subconsciously, you know who's at the door too. And maybe, more than anything, you wish Natasha would just stay and protect you from it. But she's already sitting up and walking away.

Wanda's hand cups your cheek, gently turning your focus back toward her. Her eyes are full of a deep understanding.

Understanding of what? you can't help but wonder. Your thoughts are finally beginning to shake off the thick syrup that was keeping them down. It's usually frustrating not being able to think clearly, but today, with Wanda and Natasha taking care of things for you, thinking for you, it finally felt like you could breathe calmly instead of gasping for air.

"I can turn them away," Wanda offers, her voice holding a gentle tone that eases the panic in your chest for a second. "It's Kate and Yelena."

Your hands find their way to the tops of your thighs, rubbing them against the fuzzy fabric incessantly. What do I do? The thoughts consume you, your gaze drifting down to the container in front of Wanda. Clearly Wanda and Natasha know them. What if this situation is making things difficult for everyone?

"I—" you start, but the sharp sound of the front door swinging open makes your mouth snap shut.

Wanda's hand slides smoothly off your cheek. Steps sound heavily in the foyer behind you. The sudden scrape of Wanda's chair as she stands up makes you jolt, your shoulders going tight. She steps around the table, positioning her body right behind your chair like a shield. Her fingertips press firmly against your back—the same way she did in the office when you were struggling to stay afloat.

It's Natasha who speaks up first, her voice cutting through the space from the doorway. "Do this another time. She isn't feeling well."

Her tone is firm. You can hear the underlying annoyance vibrating in her voice, but with your head spinning, it's hard to tell if that annoyance is directed at you or at them. You keep your gaze locked hard on Wanda's takeout container, your fingers tightening into the fuzzy pants until your knuckles ache.

"She can speak for herself, Natasha. Unless she wants to act like we do not exist, the same way she has for the past few years," Yelena snaps back. The Russian accent in her voice is heavier now, bleeding through her words the way it would grow back in high school whenever she would complain about her grades.

"Lena, stop. You said we wouldn't handle it like this," Kate murmurs from somewhere beside her. It was always like her to be the pragmatic one, trying to hold the line.

Wanda's fingertips gently stroke your back the second she feels your muscles tense up.

Natasha's voice raises, her tone becoming noticeably harsher. "I don't know if you realize where you are, but this is my house. I'm not asking you to do this another time. I'm telling you."

You hear Natasha shift her weight, like she's about to turn around, but she stops short when Yelena speaks up again.

"Yeah?" Yelena scoffs out in disbelief. "And when were you going to mention that you knew her?"

You slowly turn your head, Wanda's fingers moving subtly against your back as you peek past her torso. You meet Kate's wide, blue eyes immediately. Her gaze darts back and forth between you and Natasha, like she's desperately debating whether she should just let this go or push through. The resolve in Kate's expression grows when she looks at your face, but it fades the second she glances back at Natasha.

"I talked about her all the time when you and I reunited," Yelena continues, taking a step forward. "I described her, told you so many stories about her, I even told you what her favorite food was. You are going to stand there and act like you did not have any clue? Bullshit, Natasha. You notice when the picture frame on your desk is moved by a millimeter."

"I haven't known her for that long. I'm sorry your long-lost friend wasn't the first thing to come to mind," Natasha bites back, her voice lethal.

"Oh, sure," Yelena huffs, her chest rising with anger. "You have not known her that long? Then why is she in your house? And wearing your pants? Why did you call her detka last night? The only person I have ever heard you call that is Wanda."

Yelena's voice rises with every single question, the hurt breaking through the anger. You quickly turn your head away when Yelena's cold stare finally snaps down to you.

"Or do you want to answer that?" she calls out to you.

"Yelena," Wanda warns, her hand pressing a little harder against your back.

"Stay out of it," Yelena warns back, her voice dropping coldly.

Natasha's tone is dangerously calm, but it's that calmness that makes shivers run up your arm.

"I've been letting you get away with a lot, but talk to Wanda like that again and see what happens."

Yelena scoffs, her voice instantly turning condescending. "Wanda, stay out—"

"Nat—" Kate gasps out.

A sudden flurry of movement sounds behind you, the friction of fabric and heavy steps forcing you to twist around in your chair. The collar of Yelena's shirt is curled tightly inside Natasha's fist. They're standing nose-to-nose, their faces so close together that you can see Natasha's breath moving the stray strands of hair across Yelena's forehead.

Kate already has her hand wrapped around Natasha's forearm, her fingers straining as she tries to get Natasha to let go. Neither of them is blinking. Both of them staring daggers at each other, and looking at the tight line of Natasha's jaw, it feels like it's only a matter of seconds before things truly get physical.

Wanda steps forward and then hesitates, her fingertips releasing your back for a moment before returning to press against your spine.

You're the one stopping her from helping. This situation is all your fault.

Natasha grips Yelena’s collar even tighter, her knuckles turning white as she pulls Yelena slightly off the floor.

"I warned you," Natasha says, her voice dangerously quiet.

Yelena's hand whips around in a blur, grabbing the lapel of Natasha’s blazer and yanking downward, forcing Natasha to lean even closer into her space. "Do something about it then."

The sharp, defiant smirk on Yelena's face is painfully familiar. It's the same look she used to give you during all your petty high school arguments. The expression she'd reserve for the moment she said something she knew would wind you up.

Natasha's free hand raises. Kate’s eyes widen in panic. Yelena just continues to stare up at Natasha with that goading smirk, treating her threat like a joke.

Wanda takes a decisive step forward, her hand finally falling away from your back.

You wrench your head away, turning back toward the table. Everything feels like too much. The appearance of Kate and Yelena. Being in Wanda and Natasha's home. The immediate shift in the air when the doorbell rang. Your fingernails dig deep into the sensitive, newly healed skin of your palm, your heart beating painfully fast.

"Natasha, don't—" Wanda says suddenly.

Wanda’s voice is the final crack that forces you to break your own silence.

"Stop!" you shout desperately.

The sound breaks raw from your chest, echoing loudly through the luxurious space. Your hand instantly flies to your throat, your fingernails clawing at the skin of your neck from the burning pain radiating through it. You hadn't raised your voice like this since you were a little kid on the playground, screaming and running around with your friends.

It wasn't painful like this back then. Your shoulders droop.

"Can I talk to Kate and Yelena alone?" you whisper, the warm breath passing through your throat sending sharp stings that linger.

You hear Wanda step back, her hand suddenly squeezing your shoulder. "Darling, you're not feeling well. Maybe you can talk to them another time?" She's using the sweet, sugary tone that normally would make you want to concede. To listen to her so that she'll praise you.

But you know this conversation will just continue to get pushed forward. Chasing you until you can't run anymore.

Well, now you can't run. Not with the exhaustion in your limbs holding you to this chair. Not with the two people you hoped you wouldn't have to see again so you wouldn't have to explain anything. You'd already hit a dead end without realizing it.

Shuffling sounds behind you, followed by a pair of quiet steps. A second hand drops onto your other shoulder.

"Wanda's right. I can send them out," Natasha's raspy voice sounds from right beside your ear.

You let out a long sigh. Whether it's from relief that Natasha and Yelena aren't at each other's throats anymore, or from the suffocating fact that you know this conversation is about to happen, it's difficult to say. You shake your head slowly.

"No. I want to talk to them," you say resolutely.

You don't. It feels more like you're trying to convince yourself rather than anyone else in the room, but you don't let your voice waver.

Natasha squeezes your shoulder tightly, holding it there for a long moment before she finally releases her grip. Her fingers slide reluctantly over the fabric of your sweatshirt. You hear her shift to face Wanda.

"Let's go upstairs so they can talk."

"Natasha, you really think this is—"

Natasha cuts her off before she can finish the thought. "It's her life, Wanda. Her decisions."

Wanda lets out a defeated sigh. Her hand falls away from your shoulder, too, leaving you feeling alone even with the two of them still standing right beside you.

"We'll be upstairs," Natasha directs toward Yelena and Kate. She turns back to you, her voice softening noticeably. "Call us if you need anything."

Wanda's fingertips brush gently over your cheek one last time before you hear them finally walk away, their quiet steps fading as they head up the stairs.

Movement sounds behind you. Kate and Yelena appear in your vision as Yelena pulls Wanda’s empty chair around, dragging it across the floor to set it down directly across from you. They both sit down. You drag your eyes up, glancing between them. Your heart aches at the sight of them.

Kate’s hair is pulled back into her signature ponytail, the shorter front strands framing the sides of her face. Her eyes are rimmed red. You know it’s your fault. Guilt churns in your stomach, but then you notice the small white bandage stuck to the right side of her chin. It almost makes you want to smile. Kate's still the same clumsy girl you knew in high school.

You shift your gaze over to Yelena. Her blonde hair is shorter than it was when you last saw her, the longest strands ending at her chin. Delicate, purple bags color the skin just below her eyes—she must not have slept well because of your ordeal. You close your eyes briefly, then force them open, biting the inside of your cheek. She's wearing the same vest she used to brag about constantly, the one she saved up for and modified just to her liking.

Beneath the crushing guilt, you realize the ache in your chest isn't just about how sorry you feel.

You missed them.

You missed their chaotic energy, and laughing with them over absolutely nothing until you couldn't breathe. You missed meeting their eyes across the crowded gym floor, through hundreds of other students, and instantly feeling relief wash over you. Your best friends.

The only two people who made your life at home bearable. The ones you looked forward to seeing at the crack of dawn, the three of you dragging yourselves to first period with your eyes barely open. The two who would confide in you about anything and everything, knowing their secrets were always safe with you.

And you had told them everything, too. Except for the one thing that was actively tearing you apart.

"Are you feeling better?" Kate asks softly.

It's such a simple question. But her voice makes your heart clench from how it mirrors the times she would baby you back in school whenever you were sick, your parents unwilling to come pick you up.

"I'm feeling a little better," you murmur, meeting her gaze as she scans your face with nothing but gentleness.

"That's good," Kate responds, letting out a soft breath of relief. Her gaze drops to her lap for a moment, her eyebrows furrowing in contemplation before she looks back up to meet your eyes. "Can I ask where you've been all this time?"

You take a quick glance at Yelena. Her jaw is clenched tightly, her lips pursed into a hard line as she stares at you. You can tell she's fighting the urge to speak—her mouth opens slightly, then closes, before she lets out a heavy, frustrated breath through her nose. You're grateful it’s Kate asking the questions right now. Yelena was always too direct, always targeting the root of an issue instead of trimming the branches.

"I…" you start, desperately calculating what's safe to say. "I attended community college after we graduated. I got my associate's there, and now I'm in my first term at university."

Kate nods slowly, her eyes flitting around in thought before she continues. "How come you didn't tell us you weren't coming with us after graduation?" Even with her trying to keep her tone light, you can hear the betrayal lingering beneath the words.

"Things happened too quickly to tell you guys," you respond automatically. It wasn't exactly a lie.

"Bullshit," Yelena speaks up. The daggers she's sending your way force you to slowly turn your focus to her. "Too quickly to even send us a text? You even changed your phone number," she scoffs, shaking her head.

"Lena, she's not going to want to talk if you keep acting like this," Kate murmurs quietly, but the words still carry across the small distance between the chairs.

"And you think we are going to get any real answers with the questions you are asking?" Yelena raises a sharp brow at her. Kate looks away, her lips pulling into a thin line. Yelena was always alarmingly fast at reading a room.

She levels her cold gaze right back to you. "Tell us why you suddenly threw us out of your life," Yelena demands, her voice flat and level.

"I… I didn't throw you guys out of my life."

"Wrong," Yelena says with a heavy sigh, as if she had expected that answer. "Then tell us why you suddenly changed your plans. We always said we would go to the same university together."

"I already said things happened too quickly to tell you guys," you respond, your voice beginning to waver.

"You did. But that does not explain anything. What exactly happened too quickly?"

"My… my decision was quick. Too quick to tell you."

"You realize how weak that sounds? You still could have informed us after the fact," Yelena says, her voice beginning to raise again. "Then tell us why your eyes were so red on graduation day. I saw the cuts on your hands."

The sudden shift in her questioning makes your head spin. Your hands shake violently beneath the table, your pulse thrumming painfully against your skin. What else did she notice back then?

You look over at Kate. She's staring at Yelena, her bottom lip sucked in, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Back then, Kate would always instinctively side with you whenever you were arguing with Yelena. She knew your habit of passing things off with a bright smile or a fake laugh, even when your expression never truly matched how you felt. Right now, her eyes are squinted the exact way they did when she was about to jump in and defend you from a fight—but she breathes out slowly instead, keeping her mouth shut.

She wants to know the truth, too.

"I was emotional because we were graduating. The cuts…" you trail off, your tired brain failing to invent a passable excuse.

"I have never seen you shed a single tear in the entire time I have known you. Have you?" Yelena asks Kate, her voice laced with cutting curiosity.

Kate shakes her head slowly, her eyes drifting down to her lap.

"Okay, fine," Yelena huffs, leaning forward. "I will make it easier for you. Does it have anything to do with the fact that you suddenly ran for student government in our junior year, even though you absolutely hate public speaking?"

Your gaze drops instantly, the memories swirling viscously in your head. Your parents had demanded you run for student body president because it would look good on your university applications. They had barely conceded when you begged to run for a smaller position, but you had ended up winning vice president anyway. Other students would stop you in the hallway to ask you questions. You would stay after school to handle council work, then sprint to track practice right after. It wouldn't be until you finally unlocked your front door near sunset that you would get to drop that exhausting, mechanical smile from your face.

"Or does it have anything to do with the fact that you started falling asleep during first period, even though you were always a good student?"

After getting home back then, you would always eat the quick dinner your mother curated for you, shower, and then study. It was a continuous, brutal cycle. You would study until just before midnight, but even when you turned off the lamp, your mind wouldn't shut down. All the things you needed to complete the next day would race through your head. The suffocating weight of everyone's expectations made you feel like you should get out of bed and do even more.

"What about your leg constantly bouncing?" Yelena pushes, her voice level but relentless. "Kate would remind you to stop, but you would start right back up again a minute later."

Junior year was when the sudden jumps in your heart rate had started. They would come out of nowhere, usually in the middle of class when the room was at its quietest and the teacher was droning on about something in the textbook. It was that suffocating feeling where your lungs couldn't seem to expand fully, your breaths coming out quicker and quicker. Dread would blanket heavily over you, your teeth digging deep into your inner cheek until it bled, though you could barely feel the pain.

But you were in class. You needed to pay attention. You had to be a model student. To be perfectly put together. To be anything but the complete mess you felt like inside. So, you would force your expression to stay neutral. You stared at the teacher even when your focus wavered, forcing your brain to zone back in even when it completely exhausted you later.

"How about when you started to lose weight rapidly?" Yelena asks, her voice becoming thick with emotion. "Or when you stopped being able to hang out with Kate and I after school? Or maybe... why every single time we asked you about your family, you would immediately change the subject?"

Yelena lets out a heavy, ragged breath, finally falling silent.

Under the table, your hands are completely still now. Your skin feels ice-cold, the blood coursing beneath moving quickly. You stare blankly at the empty space on the table right in front of them, your thoughts racing a million miles a second.

They knew. They've known this entire time.

The dining room is dead silent. It feels like you've stopped breathing. Every single inhale you take feels stuck, held tight inside your lungs until it burns and you're forced to shudder out an exhale.

Nobody moves for a long time. It's like time itself is standing still, except you can't predict when it'll start moving again. You don't even know which choice is safer anymore—to stay like this, frozen in terror, or to find out what happens next.

"We're not interrogating you," Kate murmurs, her voice watery and thick.

A couple of tears drip onto the table right in front of her. Staring at them steadily fall makes your own vision begin to blur, the edges of the room turning soft and pixelated. It isn't until you finally blink, and a hot tear trails down your cheek, that you realize the blurry sight is coming from your own eyes.

"I missed you… I missed you so much." Kate's voice breaks. The quick, shallow breaths she takes between her sobs make it hard for her to even get the words out. You hear her exhale harshly in frustration, trying to drag her own breathing back under control, but her chest still shudders heavily as she forces herself to continue.

"Even if you weren't right next to me," she cries, her teary gaze locked onto yours. "Even if you became friends with someone else, somewhere where I couldn't see you… the idea that you were happy somewhere was enough for me."

She brushes the tears about to drip down her jaw shakily, but fresh tears replace them instantly.

"But then you appeared in front of us again like a dream," she breathes out shakily. "Thinner than when I last saw you, so tired looking, about to collapse on the sidewalk… how am I supposed to let you go now? How am I supposed to just not talk to you when I know you're here?"

Her voice begins to rise, cracking on the syllables. "What should I have done for you to stay in my life?"

You hear Yelena take in a sharp, shaky breath. The sudden moisture in her eyes finally becomes apparent to you, the tears glimmering under the bright daylight coming through the dining room windows. She tries to blink them away quickly, her face morphing into a grimace when a single tear slips free anyway.

But it’s the way their shoulders are hunched inward, like they're both trying to protect themselves, that finally makes something inside you break. It's the hurt in their eyes that makes you release a heavy, trembling breath that shatters your composure. And it's Kate, unable to hold back the heavy sobs clawing their way out of her chest, and Yelena trying to quickly wipe away her tear before either of you can notice, that finally rips your heart wide open.

Because it's on you.

It's on you that they're hurting. You thought that after you walked out of their lives that they'd move on easily. You'd be a passing memory of that girl they were once friends with in high school. It'd be like all the other stories.

You remember her? Yeah, I wonder what happened to her. Guess we'll never know.

It was supposed to be that simple. But it's that flawed thinking that lead you here. Because you remembered them all this time. You missed them all this time. You loved them all this time. So, why did you think they wouldn't feel the same?

It's hard to see anything in front of you anymore. The room is just shifting blobs of color that clear for a moment when you blink, only to turn blurry again a millisecond later.

You're a wreck. You're sitting inside your bosses' home, swaddled in their clothes, your throat burning, your body aching with exhaustion. Tears stream relentlessly down your cheeks, sliding down your jawline to your neck, wetting the collar of the sweatshirt Wanda lent to you. It's the kind of appearance you would usually hide away immediately, frantically swiping the moisture off your face before your parents could see that their words had actually left a mark.

But right now, you just cry.

Because you've felt so alone for the past two years, wishing you could turn to them to talk about how hard work is, but when you'd turn your head, there'd be no one there. You chose that.

And when you realized the feelings beginning to bloom inside you in Natasha's office, the look Natasha and Wanda shared, you just wished you had your best friends there to confide in. To tell them how confused you felt. That you felt lost because this never felt like an option. But instead you cried under Wanda's jacket.

"It's not your guys' fault," you start shakily, your voice cracking. "I… I didn't want to part ways with you guys either. But at the time… I needed to leave."

"But why?" Yelena whispers, her voice quieter than you've ever heard it.

Why?

Where do you even start? The answer isn't something you can just pass off with a quick yes or no.

Most of all, it’s something you haven't even fully confronted yourself yet. You haven't spoken to the person who started this in a long time, even if she didn't intend for the aftermath. And it's the reason why, when Wanda asked you why you smelled like smoke, you couldn't tell her a single thing.

Because you don't even have all the answers yourself.

"I can't tell you why. Not right now," you whisper back tiredly.

The heavy, sudden thud of Yelena slamming her fist onto the table makes you jolt in your chair, the plastic takeout containers between you shifting slightly from the force.

"Do you understand how bullshit that sounds?" Yelena yells angrily. "Not right now? I have been waiting since we saw you collapse last night for real answers, and this is it?"

She scoffs, leveling you with a freezing glare. "Natasha told me you are just an intern at her company, but that is not how she is treating you," Yelena pushes, her voice dropping. "Do not be fooled. Others have been in your position before, and now they are nowhere to be seen."

She grabs Kate's wrist, pulling her up and dragging her around the table past you.

"Lena, hold on," Kate says frantically, trying to find her footing.

The sound of their footsteps stop right at the front door, but Yelena doesn't open it. Instead, you hear her shout in the direction of the stairs.

"Natasha, I know you were listening," Yelena yells, but her tone is dangerously calm now. "You may be my sister but, ona tebe ne prinadlezhit."

You try to follow along with what she says but the last phrase is completely foreign to you. It's what she says in the middle that sticks with you.

Sister.

The same sister from Natasha's story? You try to replay what she told you last night, trying to find the details but a thick fog hovers over your thoughts, making them too difficult to find.

The front door swings open, but before it slams shut, you hear Kate's rushed, breathless voice.

"We'll talk soon."

And then it's quiet.

You expect dread to creep up on you at her words, but instead you feel painfully relieved. You'll get to see them again. It's such a selfish thought, but the shame of that realization never comes.

You look down at the surface of the table where your phone rests. You'd never talked about your situation regarding your parents, your sister, and how it all culminated into where you are now. Frankly, you never wanted to. It would be like touching a hot stove.

But seeing Kate and Yelena hurt over your decisions, thinking they didn't do enough, makes you wish you could just tell them everything.

There was one person you needed to talk to first before that.

You grab your phone off the table. It feels noticeably heavier in your hand than usual. Perhaps it’s just the fading adrenaline from the conversation, or your sickness finally making itself known again as the fever crawls back up your neck. Or maybe it’s the weight of what you're about to do.

You unlock the screen and open your text history with your older sister, finding an unread message sitting at the bottom.

I know you aren't coming home again for Christmas, but can we at least meet for dinner before then to catch up? I miss my little sister. Please let me know soon.

You blink down at the glowing screen, the tears that had clouded your vision finally having dried up, leaving your skin feeling tight and exhausted. You know you need to do this right now. Before your resolve breaks and you're too tired to think anymore.

Okay, let's meet. Maybe at that diner we would always go to? Let me know what day works best for you.

You hit send before you can think twice. You shut off your phone immediately, placing it back down. Your eyelids droop heavily, your body slumping as a tidal wave of fatigue washes over you. Static plays on repeat in your head, your mind completely spent. Your body reaching its limit.

You don't know how long you sit there, trying to force yourself to stay awake. This isn't your house.

"Darling." Wanda's quiet, soothing voice sounds from beside you. You don't even have the energy to be surprised or maybe it's the gentleness in her tone that keeps your heart rate steady.

You hear her take steps until she's right next to you. Her hand finds your cheek, cupping it before turning it toward her. Her eyebrows furrow immediately, concern washing over her features. Her thumb rubs over your cheekbone, smoothing the skin as if she can magically remove the dried tearstains herself.

"One moment," she says, her hand dropping from your face and walking toward the kitchen. You stare down at your lap blankly, finding your hands rubbed raw and indents from your fingernails in your palms.

Wanda clatters about in the kitchen for a few moments, the sound muted and distant, before she finally returns to your side.

"Close your eyes sweetheart," she instructs quietly. You let your eyelids flutter shut at the instruction. Warm, soft fabric touches your eyelids, Wanda rubbing away the evidence of you crying. You sit quietly, basking in her touch while your mind breaks through the static, trying to fight with you.

The fabric is finally removed and you open your eyes slowly. Wanda's standing there, smiling softly down at you while holding a towel.

You let out a shaky breath. "I…I should go home. I've taken up too much of your time and my study material are in my room."

You look away from her, letting your gaze drop back down to your hands to hide your expression. Wanda crouches down next to your chair, tilting her head up to try to catch your eye. Her hand finds yours, her thumb rubbing over the indents that are already becoming dark and angry against your skin. You hear her suck in a breath like she’s about to speak, but it's Natasha's voice you hear behind you instead.

"Baby girl, you're not feeling well. Can't you stay here until you feel better? I promise it's not a bother in the slightest."

You hear her take the last few steps down the stairs and then it becomes silent again. Suddenly she's standing at your other side. Yelena's voice echoes in your head.

Sister.

"I—I'm sorry for making things difficult between you and Yelena," you apologize shakily, the guilt eating at your chest until it hurts.

Natasha cranes her head, forcing herself right into your line of sight while Wanda continues to rub your palm, her steady breathing keeping your thoughts from spiraling further. Natasha shakes her head.

"Nothing is your fault, detka," she says resolutely. "Even if I knew you were Yelena's friend, I would have acted the exact same way."

"That's not—" you start, but you breathe out a harsh sigh instead. It's not true. You aren't faultless.

You sniffle lightly, the heat in your face starting to build again along with the rest of your aching body. You need to go home. You've only created messy situations for them to clean up since the moment you met them.

You lift your hand up shakily, pressing your palm into the surface of the table to force yourself upright. But your arm feels like it's made of jelly, folding beneath your weight immediately.

Natasha's hand finds its way atop yours, holding it there steadily. "Pretty baby, Wanda and I were feeling a bit lonely. Will you do us a favor and keep us company?" she asks, her bright, green eyes searching yours.

You're not stupid. You know what she's trying to do, but then you see the metal spoon on the table. That warm, comfortable bubble. Wanda feeding you spoonfuls of soup, Natasha's eyes brightening when you called her Natty.

You want that again. But your brain fights with you even in it's weakened state.

"Please, sweetheart?" Wanda asks, looking up at you from the floor with wide, pleading eyes.

You look down at where Wanda is gently rubbing your palm with her thumb, then look back up into her eyes. "Just… just for a little," you concede quietly.

Wanda's eyes brighten immediately, a wide smile taking over her entire face. "Perfect!" she exclaims, before quickly reigning in the volume of her voice. "Thank you, honey."

You nod at her with a completely serious expression, trying to maintain your dignity. Wanda lets out a light chuckle, the sound filling the small space between you, and you instinctively send a tiny pout her way.

"I'm just laughing because I'm thankful, sweet girl," Wanda says innocently.

Natasha's hand squeezes yours, turning your focus back to her side of the table. "Baby, how about we watch something on the couch? You can take a nap if you're tired."

She's using that bright, slightly higher-pitched tone. The one she used on you before you went to sleep earlier. You know you should probably feel insulted by how much she's babying you, but right now, that gentleness is the only thing keeping you upright. You nod at her, accepting her hand as she helps you up out of the chair. She walks you across the floor until you reach the large, plush couch you had seen when Wanda carried you downstairs.

Natasha helps you sit down right in the middle of it. The soft material gives way slowly as your weight sinks in. It envelopes you the moment you lean back. The cushions give just the right amount of support against your aching spine. Natasha looks down at you, her eyes observant, but there's an aching softness in them that makes you look away shyly.

When the silence stretches and she doesn't say anything, you speak up. "What?" you ask defensively.

Natasha chuckles brightly. "Nothing," she says, holding her hands up in surrender. "I just thought you looked cute all snuggled up."

You look back at her, trying to read her face to see if she's telling the truth, but it’s her change in outfit that catches your attention instead. She's changed into a red sweatshirt and fuzzy pants that are the inverse of yours. Red with white hearts. You peek up, meeting her eyes.

"We match," she whispers, just loud enough for you to hear.

Your cheeks instantly heat up, your heart warming through the fever. You look down at your lap to hide the small smile that forms involuntarily on your lips.

Wanda takes a seat to your right, her thigh pressed firmly against yours. She leans forward, grabbing the remote control from the coffee table before turning on the large television screen in front of you. She navigates to a familiar show, one you've watched hundreds of times before.

"We were on a break!"

Wanda lowers the volume slightly. You hear Natasha moving behind you, over in the kitchen. With Wanda pressed beside you, the thought of Natasha matching with you, warmth envelopes you.

But one thing stops it from comforting you completely.

Others have been in your position before, and now they are nowhere to be seen.

"Am I…" you start, your usual filter broken from the tiredness threatening to drag you down. "Am I going to be gone soon?"

It's a terrible, clumsy way to word the question, but right now, through the thick fog in your head, this is the best you can do.

Wanda shifts instantly, turning her whole body to look at you. You force your head to turn slowly, even though you're terrified to hear the answer. You need to know.

Her eyebrows furrow deeply. "I hope not," Wanda says slowly, the confusion evident in her voice. "What do you mean, darling?"

You blink slowly before shaking your head, turning back to face the glowing screen as your eyelids begin to droop. "It's nothing," you whisper, your throat—which had briefly been mended by the hot soup—beginning to radiate that sharp pain all over again.

"I hope you'll always be here," Wanda murmurs. She slips her hand into yours, squeezing gently.

You close your eyes, listening to the familiar dialogue of the show playing in the background. Something about the way she said it makes the tiny, hopeful part of you actually believe her.

You feel your consciousness beginning to slip away, but something inside you won't allow you to fully fall. You force your eyes open, squinting to your left.

"Natty?" you call out quietly, trying to locate her.

She appears at your side a second later, a steaming mug in her hand and a heavy blanket tucked under her arm. "I was just grabbing you some warm water and a blanket, princess. I'm right here," she says softly. She sets the mug on the coffee table before sitting down beside you.

She drapes the blanket over you, the warmth seeping past the fabric of your clothes.

It's like your body knows it's okay now, your eyes shutting immediately. Your head droops, falling gently against Wanda's shoulder on your right. You try to lift it back up, not wanting to be a bother to her, but her hand releases yours, reaching up to softly guide your head back down against her shoulder. Her fingertips begin to comb through your hair like you're something incredibly precious. Her fingernails drag soothingly against your scalp, applying just enough pressure not to be ticklish.

"Remember," you mumble out, the words barely coherent. "Just for a little."

Natasha chuckles softly beside you, keeping her tone low. "I promise I'll take you home after your nap."

"Mmm…" It's all you can manage in agreement. Wanda begins to hum that same tune she did in the bathroom when she was setting up your bath.

With her fingernails dragging pleasantly against your scalp and her soothing hum, you can't help but remember you mother.

Back when you were much younger, laying in bed right at your bed time. Her kneeling next to you, combing through your hair with her fingers and humming you a lullaby to help you sleep.

The memory makes you smile. It was a time before she began forcing you to call her "mother" instead of the childish shorthand. Before she began ripping her fingers through your hair instead. But right now, all you can think about is before then.

"Ma…" you start, but your brain is shutting down too quickly for your lips to finish the word.

The last thing you hear is Wanda inhaling sharply, and the last thing you feel is Natasha stiffening completely beside you as you lose consciousness. — A/N: Oof tough conversation. Now I just have to figure out what Natasha's going to be called. I don't speak Russian, just English and Korean so please don't come for me if the Russian is incorrect! (I did my due diligence but I could still be wrong)

if you're a bit impatient about the smut like I was and others, I wrote a one-shot that takes place in the Choosing You universe called "Sweet Girl". Thank you guys for being patient, hope you enjoyed the chapter!

I always appreciate the comments and likes, especially at times when I'm unsure about my writing, so thank you so much! — Taglist♡: @kawaiipeacemusic @toe19 @tomy5girls @nrlvr @imaginemeandwho @sweetmissnothing @scarlettbitchx @three3ofswords @truthindreams @beggingonmykneesforher @justheretoreadgl @digitalsnoww @silverstarr13 @ira-16 @czechsooth @aspenlovescinema

^ if you want to be added to the taglist, let me know!

[westwriteswhatever]

idk but to me it makes sense to have wanda be mommy and natasha mama? i’m very used to natasha being daddy cause it’s very common but for whatever reason natasha really gives mama vibes to me in this story

but i’m convinced whatever you decide on will be perfect!<3

Yeah I’m starting to get that feeling as well. She really is giving mama vibes. I don’t even know where it came from 😅

I’m glad I made the ending to chapter 8 kinda ambiguous because I can act like she was saying that to Natasha instead if I decide to move in that direction 😂

[westwriteswhatever]

wait speaking of choosing you, I think chapter 6 is my fav chapter and it’s mostly because of the author’s note. “Just like how Natasha can’t help but baby, I can’t help but baby you guys too.” That was so funny to me but I also really liked it. My favorite author’s note ever. I also really liked how worried Wanda was especially bc R was trying to avoid her.

and then in chapter 7, I really liked how Natasha called her baby girl. But my favorite parts were when R described Wanda’s outfit as a typical mom outfit and when she let Wanda hold her. I also really liked near the end where Wanda just took over in feeding R the soup and blowing it and even saying “thank you for eating so well”. Ugh, I really liked that part!! Wanda is just so mama. What I loved overall abt the 2 recent chapters was although R was mad at Wanda (which I liked reading for the angst 😭), it was bc Wanda mattered to her and she wanted her to be different than everyone else

wow this came at such a good time 🥲 I was struggling to find the right wording for the main part of chapter 8 and this gave me a boost!

I love angst too, but I always feel bad with ending the chapter with it because I don’t want you guys to end the chapter feeling sad😅 That’s not to say it’ll never happen though! Plus I don’t think I’m particularly good at angst. I literally have to cry irl to describe one of the characters crying.

We love mama Wanda out here! The fluffy scenes are like a treat that I get to write after the sad parts. I haven’t decided how this chapter will end but we’ll see 🙂‍↕️ thank you for enjoying the story so far! 💖

[westwriteswhatever]

hii west!! i've finally caught up on my reading (again a bit late!!) and oh my gosh!!!!! holy shit ghegnaijaonjakdfnjas!!!! after reading chapters 5 and 6 i am speechless. you always write R's mental health challenges with such care and thoughtfulness and that's so so so great and appreciated, i see parts of myself in her and i'm sure many other people do too. matt should watch out i'm coming for him, bros about to get slapped hard. i've met so many guys like that who seem friendly but everything is laced and has a double meaning. natasha and yelena gang up and kill him plot idea?

WANDA BEING WORRIED WHEN R WAS LATE??? OH MY GOSH I AM BLUSHING!! WHENEVER SHE CALLS R SWEETHEART OR DARLING YHODHGOUHG IM DYING AND NATASHA LETTING HER NAP AND HUMMING TO HER HELLOOO the dream at the start of chapter six?!?!?!?!?!? that was sooooo beautifully written. its so sweet how R usually sleeps roughly alone but with natasha she actually rests and has dreams! ughhhh that fear of someone being disappointed in you is soo close to home, when i was in school i was such a bad over achiever (i'm a bit better now). at one point i was spending 10+ hours studying everyday like an insane person, not because i was necessarily afraid of failing but i was afraid of others seeing me fail. maybe all in all that was a good thing because i got the grades i needed but dude i was crazy depressed. you capture that fear of failing and of disappointment sooooo well i am foreverrr in awe of you ELI IS GAY!! YAY I GASPED SOOO LOUD WHEN I READ YELENA AND KATE'S NAME. HOLY SHIT. ITS TOOO GOOOD. CAN'T WAIT TO SEE HOW THEY WORK THROUGH EVERYTHING TOGETHER! NATSHA PICKING R UP, 'PRECIOUS CARGO', 'SWEET GIRL' OH GOD I'M WET I LOVE THIS TOO MUCH sorry for the really long long long yap (inboxes hate to see me coming), but i am just sooo in love with your story! seriously you are my favourite author and i hope you know how endlessly talented you are!!!! thank you always west for writing, you've got me so hooked, drooling for the next chapter!!

Hiii! I’m glad the writing for the mental health stuff is consistent, it’s the thing I stress about the most when I’m writing. I’m glad you’re able to relate to the reader, but sorry at the same time 😅

Thank you for being excited about all the interactions! 🥹 I feel like this fic is so heavy sometimes, so I really try to make the soft moments light and fun and something to look forward to!

Eli is in fact gay. YAYYY!!!

Don’t worry about the length of the ask, I actually love long, thoughtful comments like these. It’s what makes the effort feel worth it 🥰 I’m so happy you’re enjoying this story so far and thank you for calling me your favorite author 🥺 I have a lot to improve on but I’m thankful for how kind everyone has been!

Thank YOU for taking the time to catch up on the chapters! I hope you enjoy the next chapter 💖