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Wanda is in the kitchen when Natasha wanders in. She isn’t startled by Natasha’s sudden presence; she simply glances up from her cup of tea and smiles the slightest bit in greeting, just the smallest lift of one corner of her mouth.
Natasha nods in acknowledgement, reaching into a cupboard and pouring herself a glass of water. She leans against the fridge as she sips it, observing Wanda in silence. She doesn’t even try to be subtle about it; Wanda has been in her head, a little staring in return is only fair.
Besides, Wanda doesn’t seem to mind, or even really notice. She’s staring out the window, one of her hips resting against the kitchen counter, her hands wrapped around a still-steaming cup of mint tea, the scent of which fills the kitchen. Natasha finds herself examining the rings on Wanda’s fingers, of which there are many; different stones, metals, designs etched into the bands. She wonders, vaguely, what they mean. She’s sure they mean something; Wanda’s fashion sense may be…dramatic, but Natasha has never seen her with her rings off, and wearing them all the time can’t possibly be comfortable.
“It’s late,” Natasha says eventually, when her glass is drained. Wanda looks away from the window, meeting Natasha’s gaze in the darkness. She looks paler in the faint light, smaller, younger. “You should sleep.”
“And what keeps you up at this hour, Agent Romanoff?” Wanda asks, arching an eyebrow. Natasha flinches. She hates that Wanda can make her react like this, can draw all of her emotions to the surface without a hint of red magic at her fingertips.
“You’ve been in my head,” Natasha snaps. “You already know.” Wanda doesn’t respond. She looks down into her mug, swirling what remains of the tea in the bottom.
“I don’t sleep well, now,” she says quietly. The whole conversation has been in muted, hushed tones, but now she speaks practically in a whisper. She shakes her head. “I shared a room with Pietro my whole life, other than in the Hydra cells. Even then, I could hear him through the walls.” Natasha lets her anger and defensiveness slip away. She allows her arms, crossed over her chest, to fall to her sides, listening attentively. Wanda doesn’t talk about Pietro much; Natasha assumes it’s all too much, too soon, and too painful. This, hearing Wanda remember her brother, is rare, and Natasha is determined to listen to as much as Wanda wants to share.
“He talked in his sleep, you know,” Wanda says. She’s still staring into her tea, talking more to herself than Natasha now. “It should have annoyed me, but…I listened to him every night, my whole life. And now, there is nothing. Silence.” She drains the last of her tea, stepping past Natasha to set her mug in the sink. Natasha wants to say something, wants to drive that empty look from Wanda’s eyes, but the moment feels—not sacred, but—precious. Wanda is trusting her with her memories of Pietro, and Natasha will not take it lightly.
“After we got our powers,” Wanda continues, turning to lean against the sink. She’s standing beside Natasha now, their arms almost touching. “After I learned to control my powers, I was always…” She gestures vaguely. “In his head is not the right words.” She shakes her head in frustration, muttering something in Sokovian. It’s not Russian, and it’s not a language Natasha ever learned, but it’s similar, the cadence achingly familiar, the words so close that Natasha swears she almost recognizes some of them. “We were always of one soul,” Wanda says after a moment. “With my powers, we were also of one mind.”
“I can’t say I understand,” Natasha says gently after a moment, when it becomes clear that Wanda is done speaking. “But it sounds beautiful. That connection.” Wanda nods, gaze piercing as she looks at Natasha.
“I know you fear my powers, Natasha,” she says. “But they can do wonderful things.”
“I never doubted that,” Natasha says, and is just a bit surprised to realize that it’s true. There’s too much good in Wanda for Natasha to believe anything else, too much warmth and love and a strong desire to help people.
Wanda may be able to see into her head, but Natasha was trained to understand people, and she can’t turn that off. She can see it in Wanda, that goodness. It’s inspiring, and terrifying, and it makes Natasha wish she was a better person than she is.
“I do not feel whole, now,” Wanda says eventually, breaking eye contact with Natasha after the moment stretches long enough to feel charged, intense. “I was half of something my entire life. I do not know how to be alone.”
“You’re not alone,” Natasha says, the words falling out of her without any control on her part. “No one can replace Pietro, but you’re not alone. You know that.” Wanda exhales, smiling sadly.
“I know,” she agrees softly. Natasha nods.
“Good,” she says. Wanda straightens up off the sink, turning and smiling at Natasha. There are dark circles under her eyes, Natasha notices for the first time. They’re too severe to be the result of a single night of sleeplessness, and Natasha wonders idly how much concealer she uses to keep the concerned gazes of the rest of the team at bay.
“I should go to bed,” Wanda says. “Thank you for…listening to me.” Natasha manages a half-smile in return.
“Any time,” she says, wholeheartedly meaning it. Wanda turns to leave. “Hey, Wanda?” Natasha calls after her on impulse. Wanda stops, glancing over her shoulder. “I keep strange hours, too,” she says. “If you need anything, someone to talk to or just…anything. I’m here.” Wanda smiles genuinely for perhaps the first time that night.
“Thank you,” Wanda repeats. She reaches out, setting her hand on Natasha’s arm lightly for a moment before walking away into the darkness of the hall. Natasha sags back against the fridge, exhaling long and slow, her arm tingling where Wanda touched it.
She doesn’t—this isn’t something Natasha knows how to do. This thing where Wanda makes her chest tighten and her mouth dry, where she wants to tell Wanda every single terrible thing she’s ever done and beg her for forgiveness, where she wants Wanda to look at her and tell her that she’s worth something. Natasha has never relied on anyone else for that sort of validation. She’s spent over a decade telling herself that she doesn’t need it, doesn’t want it, that it’s better for her and everyone else if she keeps everything inside, if she gives the people she cares about what they need and asks for nothing in return.
And now Wanda. Wanda, who has been inside her head and seen her past and haunted her with it, and now looks at Natasha with apologies in her eyes, like she’s the evil one, like she’s the monster, like she did anything except remind Natasha of what she truly is. Wanda, who looks at Natasha not just like she matters in some abstract sense, but like Natasha matters to her. Natasha doesn’t know what to—to do with that.
God, she’s fucked.