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Wanda’s been running, years and years of it, and Natasha remembers those days, looking over her shoulder, not realising that leaving something behind means not carrying it with you.
Some part of Natasha will always be running, but she made her peace with that a long time ago.
“Okay,” she says slowly, picking herself back off the mats. “Again.”
Natasha has never been a mentor; no one ever wanted her to be, preferring she keep her distance, a one-woman army. Steve knows about this, but Steve has never been a woman with more than she can hold in her hands.
“Again?” Wanda echoes, anxious. “Natasha, I could really hurt you.”
“You could,” Natasha agrees, “you won’t.”
They’re not ready for sparring yet; Wanda still reacts to any violent contact with a twitch of red-sparking fingers. Natasha has been thrown across the room repeatedly this afternoon, but she’s not giving up. Wanda can learn to control this; can learn what it is to settle. She knows she can.
Wanda swallows, fear in her eyes, but she gets back to her feet and holds her wrists out; Natasha curls her fingers around them, plants her stance, and then flips Wanda over her back.
She hears Wanda’s breath catch; her hands crackle with spilling power, but Wanda lands on the mat and Natasha is still standing.
“What now?” Wanda asks, eyes wide and bright.
“Now?” Natasha aches, and they both deserve to collapse into a couch with coffee. “Now, we do it again.”