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It takes six days for Pietro to recover, lying still as death in Helen Cho’s Cradle as his flesh knits itself back together. Wanda does not leave his side except to use the bathroom: eating only what the other Avengers bring her, not showering, sleeping fitfully curled in a chair.
But when he wakes, he wakes as if he had never been injured. Wanda barely has time to register his return to consciousness — the sudden reappearance of his mind in hers — before he throws himself across the room and into her arms in a flash of blue and silver. They cling to each other, bodies and minds pressed tightly together, her arms wrapped around his neck, his hands grasping at her hair and her clothes.
Finally Wanda pulls back to let the doctors examine him. She rubs her thumb against his palm as the doctors fuss and flit about. When they give him a clean bill of health, Pietro raises their linked hands to his mouth and presses a gentle kiss of reassurance to the back of her knuckles.
Pietro is given his own room — next to hers, but separate , which goes only to show how little their new teammates understand them. It is no matter; surely they will understand in time, but Wanda has no desire to explain anything to them tonight. Instead, as soon as they are left alone, Wanda pulls her brother down the hall and into the room that she has been told is hers.
As tired as she is, Wanda cannot help but remember that she hasn’t showered in almost a week. The thought of covering Stark’s nice, newly-bought clean sheets with her sweat and grime could almost be appealing, if she were not the one who would be sleeping in it. She peeks into the bathroom. It is as spacious as she has come to expect, gleaming white with shiny tiles, and she wanders inside with Pietro close on her heels.
Wanda begins to undress, pulling off her jacket and her jewelry, before noticing that Pietro is hovering by the counter, hesitant. For a moment she is confused, and then she realizes: he does not want her to see his scars.
As if there could ever be any part of him that she did not want to see.
She turns to him, resting her hands on the front of his shirt. “Does it hurt?” she asks.
He shakes his head.
“Good,” she tells him firmly. “That is all that matters.” Her hands fall a little further, slipping under the hem of his shirt so she can pull it off over his head.
The memory of his mind screaming as he had died is far more painful to her than any visual reminder ever could be, but even so, she is taken aback more than she had expected to see the scar tissue adorning her brother’s torso. His body, as familiar to her as her own, has changed, and that disquiets her. She runs her fingers over his chest and down his sides, biting her lip. So many scars. So many bullets…
Wanda shudders, and he responds immediately to her distress, pulling her close and stroking her back. “Never again,” he promises her, voice muffled against her hair. “I am so sorry, Wanda. I will never leave you again.”
He has nothing to apologize for. She had been the one to tell him to leave, so confident in her ability to take care of herself that she had forgotten to take care of him. It would only upset him to hear her say it, though, so instead she steps back and goes back to undressing. She slips off her own skirt and blouse, then turns around so Pietro can unclasp her bra.
The shower itself is crowded once they are both in it, but the water is hot and the pressure luxurious. Wanda tilts her head back, eyes closed against the spray, and breathes.
Pietro works shampoo through her hair, then moves on to the rest of her body. His soap-covered hands cleanse her skin, cleanse her spirit, taking away not just the the sweat and the dirt, but the guilt of the blood on her hands and the pain she’d felt in almost losing him.
When he is done, Wanda returns the favor. She cleans him carefully, every inch of his skin, each and every touch affirming that he is alive and that they are together. The soap circles down the drain along with the dirt and the pain, until all that remains is skin and water and the love they have for each other. She rests her head against his shoulder, turning to press her face into his neck until she can feel the reassuring beat of his pulse against her lips. His hands run up and down her arms, up and down her back, pulling her close until there is no space left between them.
They dry off with the fluffiest towels that Wanda has ever encountered. She sits on the counter as Pietro combs through her hair with his fingers again — there must be a comb somewhere around here, but no piece of plastic could ever be so gentle — and wraps it in one of the towels. Wanda watches him as he works. Even if she could not feel his mind, she would be warmed by how intent his eyes are, focused only on her.
Wanda loops her arms around his shoulders and he scoops her up, carrying her back to the bedroom in the time it takes her to blink her eyes. Pietro places her down on the bed carefully, like she is something precious, and then crawls under the covers beside her. She tucks her head under his chin as he holds her in his arms and kisses the top of her hair.
They curl around each other, arms and legs tangled together, entirely nude, like they must have been in the womb. Everything is as it should be.
Wanda sleeps.