angel

Natasha was already awake when she heard the soft padding of your feet, crossing the landing and passing their bedroom door. She put down her book quietly, careful not to rouse Wanda before her Sunday alarm, then tiptoed out of the room to find you. 

You had already descended the stairs by the time she closed the door behind her. So she followed slowly, not wanting to startle you at this early hour.

Natasha gave a cursory look around the ground floor, but was unsurprised to only see Mayakovsky, lying by the patio door with his eyes closed and tail lightly flicking. She had fed him already, then slipped back into bed to read. Sundays were her slow days, and while she tried to enjoy them, she wasn’t upset to have been drawn out by another early bird. 

Descending again, she reached the basement floor, where she spotted movement in the utility room. There you were: crouching in front of the washing machine and pushing a bundle of sheets into the drum with your one hand. You rocked a little on your tiptoes with the movement, like a little rabbit getting ready to leap. 

Natasha carefully drew closer, watching you stand up, close the door, then look in the cupboard. You found a detergent and poured it in the drawer, then replaced it back in the cupboard. Then your fingers hovered, selecting another bottle. You opened the lid and lifted it up to your nose, breathing in the scent. She could see just enough of your profile to spot your lips lifting into a contented smile. 

Natasha recognised the fabric conditioner as the one Wanda liked to use on her clothes. The realisation made her heart ache a little, as she watched you pout it in the drawer, return it to its place, then start the cycle. 

Then you turned, and Natasha didn’t have to plan the smile she gave you. It just broke out when she saw how you lit up at the sight of her. Your genuine delight to see her tugged at Natasha’s lips and made her return your smile with such warmth that even her own cheeks felt aglow.

Natasha recruited you to help with breakfast, and couldn’t help but continue smiling at the way you listened to her instructions with such avid attention. Something about you seemed extra endearing to her today — though perhaps she was still on the post-sex high. Yes, Natasha thought, as she noticed your tongue sticking out slightly as you focussed on mixing the batter and felt her feelings fizzle, that must be it. She ought to be careful today: careful not to cross any lines — or let Wanda run away with her desires. After three days of barely touching, they had both been a little feral yesterday. It was lucky you hadn’t noticed, lucky you hadn’t put the pieces together. 

Or maybe not lucky — maybe it was just your nature. 

Pilates and laundry day. What a sweet, naive little girl you truly were. 

Natasha caught herself with a frown. 

Exactly that, she thought, kicking herself internally. That’s exactly the sort of thought you shouldn’t be having.

Feral was certainly the word. And if Natasha felt like that, then Wanda must surely be feeling even less contained. 

It didn’t take long for her theory to be proven true. Wanda walked in while you were mixing, and immediately gravitated to you and wrapped her arm around your back. Natasha could see her wife’s almost dreamlike smile. She was definitely still on a high. No wonder, really, given the orgasms Natasha had pulled out from her yesterday. They hadn’t had sex quite that charged in a while. It had been electric. And it seemed to sizzle still.

Wanda moved away to set the table before Natasha felt obliged to intervene. So she walked over to you and handed over a ladle, entrusting you with the job of making the first blini. You seemed nervous, and she reassured you. That triggered a conversation, with you sharing a memory, then asking about her own. 

It surprised Natasha that she didn’t immediately shut down when you asked about her childhood. Usually it was a topic which she avoided at all costs, employing a range of tactics to evade. Wanda was the only person, beyond the people who experienced it with her, who knew. The pain was very private, difficult to explain and share. But somehow, she found that she wanted to answer you, wanted to bestow the same trust and fragility in you, which you so sweetly offered to them.

So she told you a little; how she and Yelena had moved first to the States, then back to their homeland. How young they had been. 

Then her throat closed up, and she was glad that you didn’t ask any more, and glad that Wanda stepped in to support you with the blini. It gave Natasha a moment to turn away, a moment to compose herself and bury the memories once more. 

She cared about you enough to offer a glimpse. That meant something. Even if she had to close up the shutters and lock them tightly after that brief release. 

Natasha took some deep breaths, staring down at the dining table and straightening the utensils to be perfectly parallel. 

Then you swept past, and her brain caught up just enough to process the words she had heard in the background before you moved to leave.

She watched you go, trying to interpret the look she had seen on your face as you passed her and accidentally caught her eye. Once you had disappeared down the stairs, Natasha turned to her wife.

“What happened?”

The guilty look on Wanda’s face was enough to cement her suspicions, but she waited for the explanation all the same. 

“I’m not sure… I was touching her waist. Nothing inappropriate — she just got flustered, I think.”

“Wanda…” 

“I know, I know. I’ll calm it down, my love. I promise.” 

“You’d better,” Natasha growled, stepping in and trying not to smile, “or I’ll have to think of a more… effective lesson.”

Wanda’s face flooded with colour and she let out a little moan as Natasha grabbed her by the hips, manoeuvred her around and then pinned her against the kitchen island. 

“You’re playing with fire,” Natasha whispered directly into Wanda’s ear.

“I know,” Wanda replied, throwing her head back and allowing her hair to dangle and shine in the morning light. Natasha stared at the pale, enticing skin of Wanda’s neck, and swallowed down the desire to mark it with her teeth.

Instead, she did the only thing which always proved effective in managing her wife’s impulsive behaviour. She stepped away, and smirked when she heard Wanda’s disappointed moan. 

“Behave,” Natasha intoned, before turning around and taking over at the stove. 

It took a few moments before Wanda’s breathing calmed down behind her; those long shaky breaths were audible to Natasha’s keen ears, even amongst the sounds of the kitchen.. Natasha’s heart was still beating fast too, but she’d trained for years to conceal how she felt inside. It came in handy sometimes. Not that it was in any way worth what the honing of those skills had cost. 

She lost herself in making blini after blini for a while, seeking the perfect circle and the most golden colour. A stack gathered on a plate beside the pan, and Natasha lost track of how long it took before you returned. When she heard your shuffling footsteps, it was like Wanda had read her mind; she directed you to sit, just as Natasha had been thinking to instruct. Then Wanda swapped the filled plate for another, giving her wife a quick kiss of greeting. Natasha smirked at the pan, knowing this was Wanda’s attempt to make her forget their little disagreement before. They knew each other so well — too well to get anything past each other. 

Breakfast went by with many caring interventions from Wanda, none of which quite crossed the line to deserve a look from her wife. There was plausible deniability for all of it: you truly couldn’t manage to cut your food up with one hand, and it was tricky to reach things on your right side. The help was warranted, certainly. But the comment Natasha heard when she went to get the second plate from the oven… that was pushing it. Even if you couldn’t sense the undertones, Natasha certainly understood what Wanda was insinuating. Messy, indeed.

When Natasha returned to the table, she gave Wanda a single, meaningful look, letting her know that the comment had been heard. Both you and Wanda seemed to avoid each other’s gazes from that point, making Natasha wonder whether you had perhaps noticed something, after all. So she tried to distract from it, talking about the day to come, and enthusiastically adding toppings to her next helping. Slowly, you brightened, and by the time everyone had finished eating, you seemed your usual buoyant self: eagerly helping to clear the table, and smiling happily between them. 

Natasha started loading the dishwasher while Wanda took you up the stairs to get changed. She hoped nothing more would happen. Hopefully the threat in the kitchen, and the look at the table, had been enough to quell Wanda’s thrill-seeking. 

You seemed lucid enough when you came back downstairs and joined Natasha on the sofa. Wanda poked her head in a few minutes later and bid the two of you goodbye with a mere wave and a smile — far more appropriate. Overall, things seemed to be improving. You seemed more settled, and Wanda was slowly becoming more responsive to reminders about her decorum. 

It was all going so well. Natasha played a video game, while you curled up in the opposite corner of the sofa, scrolling on your phone and then tapping away at the screen, seemingly messaging someone. Possibly your new friend?

The washing machine beeped, and you sprang up. Natasha offered to help, but didn’t push when you declined. It was important that you had some freedom and independence. Especially when your injury — and sometimes Wanda’s approach — limited your options in that realm. 

In her periphery, Natasha could see you placing down a basket, then crouching down at the washing machine and opening the door. You kept moving as expected, pulling stuff out the machine — when suddenly all movement stopped. Natasha paused her game and turned her head a few degrees, so she could see you more clearly, without staring front on. 

You seemed frozen, staring at the basket. Then the freeze began to thaw into a tremble — and Natasha knew that something was wrong, even before you stood up and began to run. Her instincts were so jumbled — should she call after you? Follow? Wait?

She was beginning to notice that your feelings seemed to bring out her own in a terrifying, uncontrolled way. The slightest hint of your panic registered in her chest, like a mirror. And she seemed to lose herself and any sense of what to do when you were like this.

Wanda always knew what to do to help in the moment. But Wanda always lived in the moment, never thinking about consequences. Natasha couldn’t let go of strategising and weighing up odds. It was her automatic nature, and usually felt so easy. But with you? She just couldn’t predict it; she couldn’t see the future with any clarity at all.

It scared her. 

At a loss of what to do, she resorted to basics. 

When in doubt, assess. Take stock. 

She stood up, and walked over to the washing machine. Something there had spooked you, had made you run away. What on earth could it be? A spider? A stain?

Natasha carefully lifted layers of fabric until she felt something strange between her fingers. Something heavy, furry, and soaking wet. She unearthed it and stared at the dark grey, dripping object. It had long floppy ears, glassy black eyes and a black stitched nose and smile. A little rabbit. No doubt this was the cause of your upset: an unexpected stowaway, not meant for the washing machine. 

Natasha stood up, still staring at the soft toy. For a few seconds, she felt a flickering in her brain as the memory fought to resurface. 

Ohio. 

Yelena. 

A pink pony.

Natasha’s legs began to wobble, and she slid to the floor before she could fall. 

She remembered now, how Yelena had run to grab the toy before they left in such a hurry. Eleven year-old Natasha — older, harder — had grabbed a photo. But little Yela had grasped onto that pink stuffed creature, just as tightly as Natasha clung to her sister, trying to protect her from the world. 

What became of that pony? Was she ripped away from Yelena, just as the two of them were ripped apart that day?

Something wet trickled down Natasha’s cheek. 

Wanda would tell her that it wasn’t weak to feel. 

Feelings hurt, though.

Natasha allowed herself a minute to cry. She timed it, counting out the seconds in her head and keeping note of the four tears which trickled down in that time. Enough.

She stood up, holding the rabbit in one hand as she found a dry towel to swaddle it in. Then she moved back to the sofa, picked her phone up off the coffee table, and began to investigate. 

How to dry a stuffed toy after washing.

Of all the things in her search history, this had to be the biggest, oddest outlier. 

She read through various pages and discussion threads, absorbing information like a sponge. Then she followed the most reliable instructions: pressing out the water with paper towels, trying not to twist or squeeze too much. She worked on one bit at a time, starting with the ears, which were lined with a pretty blue floral fabric. Then she worked on the head, which seemed terribly fragile, wobbling on the body as if the washing machine had broken its neck. The head took a while to do safely. Then the arms, and the legs, and the squishy tummy and fluffy tail. It took a lot of paper towels, which gathered in a mound of moisture on the table. Then she used the soft hand towel, repeating the same process. After that came the hairdryer, blowing from a few inches away, on the lowest setting.

She wondered, all the while, how you must be feeling upstairs all alone. Were you crying? Sleeping? Curled up in a hopeless ball?

There was no point going up to see you, not until she had resolved it. What comfort could she give if your rabbit was ruined? Just say sorry? Surely that wouldn’t be enough. Would it be appropriate, in that situation, to offer to buy another? Or would that be offensive somehow, suggesting it was replaceable?

No; better that I am here, Natasha thought. This I can do. 

Natasha’s capacity for precision and patience paid off at this point; it was a long process. She wouldn’t be doing it for just anyone, or anything. But it was clear how much the rabbit meant to you. And as she dried it, she realised quietly that this must mean that you meant quite a lot to her already too.

“Hello!”

Natasha turned to find Wanda, her smile slowly shifting to confusion and then concern as she took in the scene. Natasha, alone, drying a stuffed toy. 

“She put her sheets on to wash this morning,” Natasha explained, “and when she took them out… well, she was very upset. She ran upstairs, and I found this in the basket.” 

“Oh dear,” Wanda sighed, her face crumpling. “Poor thing.”

Natasha merely nodded, then turned back to the hairdryer, continuing with her mission.

“Have you been up to see her?” Wanda asked, making Natasha turn back.

“No. I’ve been trying to dry the rabbit.”

Wanda looked a little exasperated, which surprised her. 

“What?”

“How long has she been up there, Nat?”

“I’m not sure… maybe an hour or so?” Natasha checked her watch. “Ah. Okay, almost two hours.”

“Oh my god… I love you, my darling — but you are so very Russian sometimes.”

“What is that supposed to…?”

“Never mind. I’ll go up, you carry on resurrecting the rabbit.”

“Right.” Natasha frowned. “Was I supposed to go up?”

Wanda laughed lightly, then approached and gave Natasha a kiss.

“Next time, yes,” she said, eyes sparkling with mirth. “Sympathy, then solutions, my love.”

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think, it will help motivate me to write more 🥹

Tip Jar: https://ko-fi.com/whisperofaflame

In the morning you decide to start off the day with a show of independence, carrying your laundry basket down the stairs with your one available arm. A brief break is needed on the ground floor, but after flexing your left wrist a little you continue down to the basement, where you turn into the pantry and place your sheets in the washing machine. You choose a detergent and pour it, plus a tiny bit of fabric conditioner which smells like Wanda, into the drawer. Then you turn the dial to a hot cycle and start it with a press of a button. It feels like a win to do all this with one arm, and you smile at the washing machine before turning around and spotting Natasha watching you. She is dressed in comfortable clothing: a loose t-shirt and black joggers. It’s not her usual early morning training gear, so you wonder if she might be having a rest day. 

Natasha greets you with a good morning, and you repeat her words back with a shy smile. She looks at the washing machine but doesn’t comment, which you’re grateful for. It’s nice to just exist sometimes, without asking permission and getting help for everything.

“You’re looking very awake,” Natasha observes, and you shrug in reply.

“I had a good sleep,” you say casually. “And besides, I want to make the most of today.”

She nods at that, in an approving sort of way. 

“Wanda has a hot yoga class at ten. I was planning to make us all breakfast so we can eat at eight, and then have a chill morning until she’s back. We could go out for a walk too, if you like?”

“That sounds good,” you agree, trying to contain your joy to just a smile, rather than a full body bounce of excitement.

“Cool.” Natasha grins at you. “Do you want to help me with breakfast?”

Naturally, you nod your agreement. So you follow her up the stairs to the kitchen, where you happily follow every instruction she gives with a single clumsy hand, topped up by lots of enthusiasm. 

When Wanda enters the kitchen, she finds you mixing pancake batter, your left hand producing such lopsided strokes that it makes the unsupported bowl wobble. She steps in behind you, places her left hand on your waist, and wraps her right arm around you to hold the bowl still. 

“There,” she whispers, and something in your chest flutters. 

“Thank you, Wanda,” you murmur, blushing as you tilt your head to see her. “Did you sleep okay?”

“I did, thank you, sweetheart.” 

Her smile, combined with a light squeeze of your side, makes you feel warmer still. You turn back to the batter and start to mix again, trying to be more graceful this time. It’s a lot easier with Wanda holding the bowl steady. She’s making up for your incapacitated arm, like together you make two halves of one whole. You feel her body pressed against you, and you wonder what it must be like to have someone who chooses to be in your life forever. Someone who’s always there to help you, always there to see what you need and support you in the best way. You take a deep breath in, inhaling the subtle scent of Wanda which is starting to feel so familiar and comfortable now. She smells clean and soft, and slightly floral. You could breathe in this smell, this feeling, all day. 

But then the batter is smooth, and the pan is warm, and breakfast can’t be stalled any longer. Wanda steps away to start setting the table, and Natasha slides the bowl towards the stovetop, before handing you a ladle. 

“Are you sure?” you ask, the tone of your voice betraying your concern — you’re not sure if you can do a good enough job with only your left hand. 

Natasha smiles.

“I’m sure,” she asserts, opening a cupboard and pulling out a bottle of maple syrup. “Besides, the first one’s always a bit strange, so no pressure.”

“My mum used to say that about my older brother,” you blurt out, grinning with the memory as you begin to ladle one scoop of batter into the pan. “The first pancake. She was just joking, but it always made me feel better to remember it when he was mean to me.”

“Don’t tell my sister that,” Natasha replies, her eyes twinkling. “Yelena would love that one. Though she’d call me the first blini, of course. That’s what we call them, where I’m from.”

“When did you come to America?”

Natasha’s hand pauses for a fraction of a second, hovering over the jar of honey before her fingers finally grasp it and take it down from the cupboard. 

“Sorry,” you backtrack quickly, “you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”

“It’s okay,” Natasha says quietly. She’s looking down at the honey with a sad kind of focus. Then she turns and gives you a gentle smile. “Yelena and I came over here when we were very young. We had a good few years here, before we had to go back to Russia.”

She holds your gaze, which makes you think that it might be okay to ask another question.

“How old were you when you had to go back?”

“Eleven,” Natasha replies, and her expression darkens a little. “Yelena was just six.”

“That must have been really hard.” You frown sympathetically, imagining the turmoil of moving at such a young age. It’s hard enough to do in your twenties, you think.

Natasha nods, but doesn’t respond. Her half-smile suggests that there’s a lot more to her story, which she’s not ready to share with you. Respecting the silent line in the sand, you turn back to the pan, and use the handle to lift and turn the surface to spread the batter into a sort-of circle. 

Wanda steps in beside you again, placing her hand on the small of your back. 

“That looks good,” she murmurs, her thumb rubbing a gentle circle over your spine. “I’ll get you a spatula.”

When her hand leaves you, your eyes follow her. Watching as she reaches for the drawer, slides it open, and removes a black silicone spatula. You carry on watching her as she returns, gazing unashamedly as if she can’t see you staring. 

Wanda tilts her head as she takes you in, smiling at you like you’re something precious. 

“Oh myšička…” she whispers, placing the spatula on the counter then reaching out with both hands. One strokes your hair behind your ear, and the other cups your cheek. She doesn’t say anything else… she just lets her words hang. You wonder what she’s thinking, and what she thinks of you, and your utter devotion to her. There’s no way of knowing, but you’re sure it’s not bad, at least. She wouldn’t be touching you this gently, or smiling at you this sweetly, if she didn’t find it at least a little endearing. 

“Time to flip, I think,” she whispers, directing her eyes to the pan. You turn to see that the pancake has begun to crisp around the edges. It does need to be flipped. But flipping it will require using the spatula, and that will require moving, and losing Wanda’s hands and attention. 

You’d let the whole world burn, and you with it, just to feel her warmth a little longer.

Wanda moves first, letting go of you to take the spatula with her right hand. But as she reaches it towards the pan, her left hand wraps around your waist again, catching the fabric of your t-shirt in such a way that her fingertips end up underneath, curling into your skin.

You can barely breathe as she slides the spatula under the pancake and flips it over. The sizzling heat of the pan seems to rise and catch on your cheeks. You feel hot, and slightly damp, like the steam is congealing on your skin.

Her fingernails graze your waist, scratching lightly in a way which makes you shiver and melt into her body alongside yours. Your head leans without permission, until it rests against her shoulder. All the while you watch the pancake cooking, the spatula hovering above the pan like she’s ready to remove it at any moment. 

Your mind begins to wander, imagining her abandoning the spatula and pulling you into a proper hug. You can almost feel the ghost of her lips on your forehead, and hear the whisper of her sweetest words… Myšička. My darling. Little one. Baby.

It takes a while for your brain to catch up to your body, and realise what these thoughts are doing to you. When it registers, you feel a flood of shame and embarrassment. Why are you letting yourself develop these feelings for a married woman? And, worst of all… why are you fixating on the times when she treats you like you’re something tiny, something young? That’s weird, right? Being turned on by mere comfort and care? 

You wriggle a little in her hold, suddenly wanting to escape.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Wanda asks, her face full of concern.

“Uh-huh,” you squeak, finding yourself unable to meet her eye. “I just… I need to pee.”

She releases her hand from your waist, moving it up to smooth down the back of your hair. 

“That’s alright, malinké dievčatko. You go, and I’ll carry on with the pancakes.”

You nod vigorously and dart away, avoiding Natasha’s curious gaze as you pass her at the dining table. 

In the bathroom you try your best to clean away the evidence of your irreverent feelings. A part of you knows that you can’t really help it, and it’s natural to have feelings for these beautiful women who are kind to you… but at the same time, it feels so wrong and shameful for your body to be responding in this way. All you can hope is that they haven’t noticed the depth of your feelings. 

—————

When you return to the kitchen, Natasha has taken over at the pan, and Wanda is pouring juice into glasses on the table. You hover at the table, wondering what to do. 

“Sit, darling,” Wanda instructs. “We’re just about ready, anyway.”

You nod and follow her direction, sitting down so you are facing the kitchen and can watch them bustling about. Natasha already has a stack of pancakes on a plate, and Wanda moves to swap that plate with another, before carrying the completed pancakes to the table. 

“You two can start,” Natasha calls out. “I’ll use up the batter and join you in a bit.”

So you do, with a little help from Wanda to chop up some banana and add it to the puddle of maple syrup you created with a sloppy squeeze of the bottle. She makes up her own too, with yogurt and blueberries, before intervening with a gentle laugh when she sees you struggle to carve the pancake with just one hand and a fork.

“Here,” she says, reaching over and cutting your pancake into bite-sized pieces. “This should help, miláčik.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, feeling embarrassed at her help, even though it’s perfectly reasonable to need it right now. The simple act of cutting up your food makes you feel smaller, and not necessarily in a bad way. Maybe that’s where the embarrassment is actually coming from. The realisation that you like it when she helps you like this, and not just because of the mere convenience. 

Wanda helps a lot, through the meal. Natasha helps too, but her assistance feels a little less… charged? She passes over the things you need with a smile, and opens lids and pours out more juice when you empty your glass. But Wanda cuts up your pancakes, and tucks your hair behind your ear, and keeps asking if you have everything you need. Once, when Natasha goes to get the second plate of pancakes out from the oven, Wanda grabs your napkin the second you clumsily miss your mouth with a yogurt-laden spoon. Your heart seems to stop for a moment as she lifts up the napkin with a raised eyebrow and a wry smile.

“You’ve got yourself a little messy, myšička,” she comments, and you think you might melt into the chair. “Let me get it for you.”

She wipes it away slowly, her hand lingering there as she stares into your transfixed eyes. When she removes the napkin, it takes you a few seconds to realise that your mouth is hanging slightly open. You close it quickly, looking away as you feel the blood rush to your cheeks — in tandem with a dangerous heat gathering in your lower stomach. 

“There,” Wanda says silkily, placing the napkin back on the table with one slow, elegant movement, “all clean now.”

It’s not true, though. If anything, you now feel more unclean than ever. 

You concentrate on eating from then on, avoiding meeting Wanda’s eyes, and trying to focus on Natasha’s easygoing conversation instead. She’s suggesting ideas for the afternoon, which you nod along to, smiling through the burning sensation in your body. Wanda seems completely unaffected by the moment, leading you to believe that this intensity you feel must be purely in your head. It’s just you, reading into her care. You must find a way to control it better. 

After breakfast, the three of you tidy up before Wanda takes you upstairs to help you get changed. You count in your head to distract yourself as she assists you, scared to allow any feelings back to the fore. It’s quick, and she heads off to her room after to get changed for her hot yoga class. 

When she leaves home, you can’t help but feel a little relieved. At least while she’s gone you should be able to sort yourself out, and ensure this afternoon unfolds without any more inappropriate feelings. Perhaps if you and Natasha go out for a walk, that will help. Some fresh air might cool you off. Maybe.

Unfortunately, Natasha suggests you wait until the washing is done before going out. That way, she explains, the two of you can hang it up outside and give it enough time to dry before bringing it back in at the end of the day. So you both head downstairs after Wanda’s departure, and on your suggestion, Natasha turns on her playstation and starts to play a puzzle game again. You watch her for a bit before taking your phone out of your pocket and scrolling mindlessly through Instagram for a while. Kate has found your profile and sent you a request, so you accept it, follow her back, then scan through her profile briefly. The bizarre mix of things she has posted — a random assortment of high-quality sports photos and blurry memes — makes you smile. It’s very Kate. 

It doesn’t take long before she sends you a meme directly — it’s a photo of an online conversation, in which someone asks the other how old they are, to which the other responds “old enough to be your mother” — which then prompts the original person to change the chat background to a sickly mix of pink and love hearts. 

Kate’s caption: Found a copy of your chat with Wanda!!!

You try not to groan.

Pretty sure she’s not actually old enough to be my mum, you reply.

It’s the wrong thing to say… Kate immediately reacts to your message with a side-eye emoji.

Old enough to be a mommy though, Kate replies. 

I told you — she’s not my sugar mommy Kate, you reply, adding an eye-rolling emoji for good measure. It’s just silly banter, you think. But still, it hits a nerve somehow.

You do know that’s not the only type of mommy, right?

You stare at her message, confused. It takes a minute, maybe, before you type out a reply.

Wdym?

You see that Kate has read your message, but she doesn’t reply. You wonder if she’s leaving you to figure it out yourself. You’re just about to give up when she sends you a link.

Read this tonight, she tells you. And if you want, we can talk about it tomorrow. If not, we can never talk about it again, okay?

You hesitate, looking at the link with a sense of trepidation. There’s no obvious sign of where it might lead or what it might reveal to you. All you know is that Kate has seen something, and seems to think this might help you. Should you look at it now? Or save it for tonight, like she suggested?

You’re teetering on the brink of clicking the link when the washing machine beeps to signal the end of the cycle, saving you from your decision. You tuck your phone back in your pocket, rather relieved at the distraction, and you stand up to sort the laundry.

“Do you need a hand?” Natasha asks, shifting on the sofa and readying herself to move. You shake your head.

“No thanks — I’ll manage.”

She nods at that, and turns back to the screen to continue playing. So you make your way over to the pantry, where you place the basket on the floor ready to collect your washing. It only takes one tug to bring the mass of sheets tumbling out. Amongst the heap, you spot a flash of unexpected grey. 

Your heart skips a beat, then resumes with a resounding thud. The blood pumps fast around your body then, surging adrenaline through your veins and making your fingers tremble as you reach out. You know that something is wrong, even before you lift the layer of fabric and find her. 

Sodden and dishevelled, her fur dark from the drowning.

Bluebell.

The feelings catch up so quick, congealing in your throat and gathering in your lashes. The trembling escalates to a full body convulsion which starts in your chest, constricting your lungs. You can’t seem to breathe. 

Natasha’s presence behind you feels dangerous when you’re teetering on the emotional brink. So you spin around on the spot and dart towards the stairs, almost tripping over your own feet as you struggle to coordinate your wobbly legs.

Natasha calls your name but you don’t even process it until you’re halfway to your room. From there, it’s harder to see the stairs as you ascend. Your vision is blurred by an onslaught of tears, which stream out with every gasping breath.

When you reach your room, you close the door behind you and practically dive onto the bed, barely feeling the spike of pain in your shoulder at the sudden movement. You lay down on your right side, tucking your knees up to your chest and feeling the full scale of your panic finally register. 

She’s ruined, and it’s all your stupid fault. You shouldn’t have brought her here. Hell, you shouldn’t even have her, or care about her at all. You’re too old for this, too old to cling to a stuffed toy and give it a name and a sentimental value. 

But it hurts all the same. It hurts so bad that you can’t even think of anything else at all. There’s just a potent, poisonous mix of grief and shame. 

This rabbit isn’t a toy from your childhood, but it’s no less special. In some ways, she is more special, because you chose her. One day in a shop, already fully grown, you found her on a shelf and felt this primal pull. She just fit perfectly in your cupped hands, conveying a weight beyond her meagre mass. You couldn’t bring yourself to put her back on the shelf — the mere thought made you feel terribly sad. So you brought her to the counter and garbled an imaginary explanation to the woman at the counter — your little cousin’s birthday; she loved rabbits; she’d be so delighted — all the while feeling the subtle sweat of your deceit. 

There were so many things you had left behind in your move, but Bluebell was one of the first things you packed. Hidden amongst your clothing, but wrapped so intentionally in a cashmere jumper. Precious cargo. 

If only you had washed the jumper on high heat instead.

Minutes go by, and Natasha doesn’t come. Why doesn’t she come? Is she embarrassed? Disgusted? 

You sort of want her to come, even though you’re covered in snot and tears. You should be able to handle this alone, but you can’t. Bluebell drowning is too big of a problem, and you’re too small to solve it right now. You just need someone to take over, to take charge and tell you that everything is going to be okay. 

Perhaps she is disgusted by your melodramatic display of emotion. Or maybe she has found the rabbit, and is weirded out that you have this toy, and that it means this much to you. 

Why do I have it? you wonder bitterly. Why am I so stupid and childish? What is wrong with me?

You cry until there doesn’t seem to be any moisture left in your body. Everything just feels very heavy and slightly cold, though you don’t even have the energy to draw the covers over your shivering skin. 

—————

Time goes by with a low level-ache, like the loneliness is pressing down and forming its own bruise. You’re so consumed by the dull and desolate feeling that you don’t even hear the door open. You just smell her, a moment before you feel her warmth enveloping you and the touch of her arms as she places a hand on your back and strokes your hair from behind. Her gentle voice tickles in your ear as she leans over and whispers that she’s here, and that it’s okay. Then she presses her lips on your still-damp cheek, gifting you a soft kiss atop the tear-stains.

Wanda.

Her kindness wakes something up inside, and you summon just enough energy to sit up. Then you try to tell her about Bluebell, but all that comes out of your mouth is a strangled sob. 

“It’s okay sweetheart,” Wanda reassures as she pulls you in for a hug, “you don’t need to explain. Naty has already told me.”

Somehow, more tears leak out from your eyes at this, dripping onto her shoulder and dampening the fabric of her sweater. 

“Naty is sorting it out now, darling. Bluebell will be okay.”

“Promise?” you whimper, lifting your head to look at her and assess how confident she appears. Wanda’s nose scrunches a little as she cups your damp cheek in her hand. You lean into the touch, her smooth skin feeling gently cooling against your red hot, frantic face. 

“I promise, baby. Bluebell will be all better very soon, and Naty will bring her back to you.” 

Your eyes keep on producing tears, but your breathing begins to slow as a small measure of hope trickles through your bloodstream. 

Maybe Bluebell will be okay. Maybe Naty will fix her up. Naty is clever, after all. She will know what to do. 

You duck your head and curl up into Wanda’s arms once again, resting your forehead on her shoulder. She holds you with a slight squeeze, showing she’s happy to have you there. 

“That’s it, myšička,” she whispers gently, rubbing small circles on your spine. “Keep taking slow breaths for me. Good girl.”

So you let her hold you and ease you into comfort. It takes a while because there’s still so much uncertainty. Perhaps you won’t be truly calm until you see Bluebell and learn just how catastrophic your mistake really was. 

You hear the door open, and your breath catches. You don’t try to wriggle out of Wanda’s arms or hide your tears. You just wait, frozen in place.

Slowly, carefully, the bed sinks beside you.

A hand reaches over your body and balances something small and grey on your knee. 

Bluebell.

She looks okay. A little bedraggled, perhaps, but intact. 

Wanda opens her arms to allow you more freedom, and slowly you move your left hand from beneath your chin and reach out to touch your rabbit. She’s dry, and a little warm to the touch. Her fur doesn’t feel quite the same, but it’s still soft. Just a bit unkempt, like she’s weathered a storm.

“She’s… okay?” you whisper, more to yourself than anything.

“I think so,” Natasha says quietly. “Though I never saw her before, so you can tell better than me.”

You look up into Natasha’s eyes. She looks a little worried as she stares down at you, like she’s unsure how to treat you right now. That uncertainty makes you feel a little off kilter, like you’re doing something wrong. Maybe something shows in your body language, because Wanda places her arm around you again. It goes a little way to grounding you. 

“I got some of the water out and then I used a hairdryer.” Natasha runs her fingers through her hair as she speaks, looking between you and Wanda in turn. “Maybe a comb would help even out the fur now that it’s dry?”

“That’s a good idea,” Wanda replies smoothly, giving your side a gentle squeeze. “We’ll find a comb for you, myšička. That should help Bluebell look her best again.”

You nod slightly, feeling the slight lumps where Bluebell’s fur has become a little matted. A comb might bring it back a bit, you think. Maybe she still won’t be the same, but at least she didn’t need stitches. You remember a beanie dinosaur from your childhood which needed neck surgery after a girl at your nursery grabbed its head and refused to let go. Your mum had done a good job of stitching it up, but it still had an ugly scar which cemented your resentment. At least that wasn’t the case here. With some careful grooming, Bluebell might at least visually look the same as before, even if she wasn’t the same to touch.

“Thank you.” It comes out small but genuine, and you look up to Natasha to emphasise your gratitude. She smiles in return, but it’s a little brief. 

“I’ll leave you two in peace for a bit,” she murmurs, and she starts to walk towards the door. You watch her go, your lip wobbling with some undetermined feeling. Before you can analyse it, Wanda gently shushes you and cups the back of your head to encourage it to lean on her shoulder once more. You hear the door closing, but Wanda’s soothing words distract you.

“You must be exhausted, little one. How about you lie down for a little while, and try to sleep off some of these big feelings, hm?”

It makes sense, what she’s suggesting. You do feel completely wiped out from the shock and the crying. So you murmur your assent and let her shift her weight to ease the both of you down onto the bed. She untangles her arm as you slide down, making sure your head rests on the pillow. Then she reaches for a blanket and tucks it over your limp body, making sure the top of it sits just below Bluebell, who is still clutched tightly in your left hand. 

“Can you stay?” you ask suddenly, surprising even yourself with the request. It’s silly, and you feel your cheeks warming, but you don’t take it back. For some reason, you want to know that she’ll be here when you fall asleep, and when you wake. The idea of waking up alone and having to descend the stairs to find them seems horrifying right now. 

“Of course,” Wanda says, smiling so genuinely that you feel many layers of relief. “When you fall asleep, I’ll nip into the library to grab a book, and then I’ll read on the armchair just there until you wake.” 

You glance across at the chair beside the chest of drawers, consider, then nod. That seems okay. 

You half expect her to move to the chair already, but she stays on the bed with you, albeit sitting beside your supine form. She reaches out and gently strokes your hair, and you’re struck with the memory of that night when Natasha hummed a song under her breath to lull you back to sleep. She had seemed so calm and content then, in stark contrast to her cautious and almost reluctant presence in the room just before. You’re trying to find the words to verbalise this to Wanda, when she starts to shake her head with an almost pitying smile.

“I can see you worrying again, miláčik. But now is not the time for those grown-up worries. Now is the time for you to rest and relax. Can you do that for me?”

You blink up at her, feeling something shift inside you. Like a weighted blanket being draped over your brain — everything seems to still. She looks even more beautiful and wise from this angle, smiling down at you with such dedicated attention and care. You trust her to know what is best for you. So you breathe out your worries about Natasha’s doubt and reserve, and you nod.

“Good girl,” Wanda praises, and she leans down to kiss your forehead, her lips lingering a moment longer than usual. Something blooms in your chest; a dazzling but peaceful feeling, like silent fireworks. 

She’s staying, but sitting up like that makes her seem so far away. You let go of Bluebell and lift your hand without thinking, trying to wordlessly signal what you want: her to be closer. Your fingers grasp at the fabric of her jumper, and take gentle hold. Not pulling, just pleading with your eyes. 

If anything, Wanda seems delighted by this. You can see the deepening of her smile as she takes in your clinging and breathes in a long, appreciative breath. 

“Oh darling. You just really want to be looked after right now, hm?”

You do, desperately. Every moment that she spends with you like this, cherishing and caring for you, feels so vital and fulfilling in a way you can’t explain. It’s like something you’ve been missing all this time, without even knowing. An invisible void which her kindness and comfort is able to fill.

Wanda shuffles her body down to lie beside you, her head resting on the next pillow, her face turned towards yours.

“You’re safe, pusinka, okay?” she whispers, lifting her left hand to tuck your hair behind your ear. “I’m here, and I’m not going to leave you.”

You believe her, from your ears to your brain to your bones. The trust is so deep that you feel your eyelids closing, and your grip loosening on Wanda’s jumper. She shifts beside you but you don’t look, you just feel the soft fur of Bluebell being placed against your open fingers. They tangle into the matted hairs and twitch slightly to stroke them as your consciousness begins to drift. 

You must start dreaming then, because you hear her voice as if on the horizon.

Mommy loves you, myšička.

—————

Wanda is still there, as promised, when you wake. As soon as your eyes open you sit up to look for her, and feel the threat of panic dissipating when you spot her on the armchair, looking up from her book to smile at you. You manage a small, sheepish smile in return, before lying back down to allow yourself to wake up fully. Everything feels a little fuzzy, still. You’ve moved on and moved away from how you felt before the nap, but that feeling is still within reach, still within memory. You could swiftly slide back there, if you’re not careful. And you’re not sure if you’re scared or intrigued by that thought. 

Wanda remains quiet, allowing you to sit up again in your own time. When you do, she continues reading for a few seconds — perhaps finishing the sentence — before looking up again with an encouraging smile.

“How long was I asleep for?” you ask, fidgeting with Bluebell under the blanket which is still draped over your legs. 

“Just under an hour,” Wanda answers softly. “You seemed peaceful.”

You nod, frowning a little as you consider. Yes, you did sleep well. You don’t remember any dreams — apart from imagining Wanda saying that thing, likely invented as a result of your conversation with Kate — but you do feel much better now. Though you can also sense a wave of shame brewing in the background. 

“You stayed,” you state quietly, thinking aloud more than anything. Wanda nods. 

“Of course, moje dievčatko.”

You’re caught between thanking her and apologising — both seem necessary, though you can’t figure out which is more pressing. Maybe the conundrum shows in your face, because Wanda stands up, places her book on the armchair, then moves across to perch on the edge of the bed beside you. She places her hand on your back, stroking softly, patiently waiting for you to talk again.

“Thank you for staying,” you whisper after a while. Wanda smiles, and uses her other hand to gently squeeze your knee, which is propped up beneath the blanket.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart. Do you feel better now?”

You manage a small nod, trying to swallow down the guilt which bubbles in your throat. 

“Those were pretty big feelings you were having. No wonder you were tired.”

Her assessment makes your emotions wobble once more. She’s right; your emotions were vast and utterly disproportionate to the mundanity of the situation. The only logical one really was Natasha, removing herself from the situation as soon as she could, probably hoping you would finally regulate yourself like you ought to, grown adult that you are.

“I’m sorry,” you eventually stammer out, looking up at Wanda through watery eyes.

“You have nothing to apologise for, little love. Nothing at all.”

“But Natasha…”

“…is Natasha.” Wanda fixes you with a serious look, taking both your cheeks in her hands as if to ensure that her words go in. “Darling, Naty had a very difficult upbringing. When she was a child, she was taught not to express emotions or empathy. She has both in multitudes, but she doesn’t always know how to show them.” She pauses, like she’s allowing time for you to process this. Then she continues, her words softer now, more careful. “Natasha cares about you a lot, myšička. She just doesn’t feel safe to show it in the same way that I do.”

Her words make sense, but you still feel like there are things being left unsaid. A hidden subtext which you can’t quite see; an additional meaning which Wanda perhaps assumes you can understand. How do you even ask for clarity, when you’re not sure what it is which you’re missing?

“When I came home, I found Natasha gently drying Bluebell with the hairdryer,” Wanda tells you, watching your reaction. “She knew straight away how much Bluebell meant to you, and she wanted to fix her for you.”

“You didn’t tell her?” you ask, surprised. When Natasha returned with Bluebell, you just assumed that Wanda must have conveyed your strange attachment to this toy shortly after she arrived in the suitcase. 

“No, sweetheart — I didn’t tell her. Bluebell belongs to you, and I know how precious she is. I wouldn’t share that with anyone without your permission.”

“It’s weird though,” you whisper, shifting your feet closer to your centre and tucking your limbs into a tighter ball. Bluebell is held under your knees, hidden beneath body and blanket. “I’m too old…”

“Adults are allowed comfort too,” Wanda interrupts gently. “Besides, I don’t think its weird. I think the softness you show is beautiful and brave.”

Soft, you think, feeling Bluebell’s fur between your fingers. The word settles in your head, seeming extra meaningful in this moment.

“That’s how I’ve been feeling sometimes,” you tell her slowly, discovering the words only as they come out of your mouth. “Soft.”

Wanda nods slightly, smiling in a quietly reassuring way. 

“That’s okay,” she replies, her voice extra gentle. “You can be soft around us, myšička.”

Wanda seems to understand, even though it doesn’t even make much sense to you yet. She’s so readily accepting in fact, that you wonder whether she has seen this — whatever this is — in you even before you did. That’s a little scary. But Wanda isn’t scary, and she seems so calm right now that surely there can’t be anything too wrong about this feeling, and her understanding of it. 

You look into her eyes and she looks back into yours. 

It’s like you’re in a bubble. Inside, with her, it’s warm and safe. But you can just about see through it, to the real world beyond, which makes more sense in it’s banality and brutality. Somewhere out there is the link Kate sent you, scratching at the edge of your bubble, creating an itch on the inside.

In the back of your mind, you know that this bubble will burst. But for now, you simply suppress that notion and burrow deeper, tucking your head onto Wanda’s shoulder and hearing the rhythmic thumping of her heartbeat in her neck, pulsing against your flushed cheek. 

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think, it will help motivate me to write more 🥹

Tip Jar: I have started a ko-fi account because a few people asked about it. Please don't feel obliged to give anything, and if you do feel so inclined, please don't put yourself out. If I can get even one free hot drink in a cafe to help fuel my writing I will be so taken aback and grateful. https://ko-fi.com/whisperofaflame

In the morning you decide to start off the day with a show of independence, carrying your laundry basket down the stairs with your one available arm. A brief break is needed on the ground floor, but after flexing your left wrist a little you continue down to the basement, where you turn into the pantry and place your sheets in the washing machine. You choose a detergent and pour it, plus a tiny bit of fabric conditioner which smells like Wanda, into the drawer. Then you turn the dial to a hot cycle and start it with a press of a button. It feels like a win to do all this with one arm, and you smile at the washing machine before turning around, and spotting Natasha watching you. She is dressed in comfortable clothing: a loose t-shirt and black joggers. It’s not her usual early morning training gear, so you wonder if she might be having a rest day. 

Natasha greets you with a good morning, and you repeat her words back with a shy smile. She looks at the washing machine but doesn’t comment, which you’re grateful for. It’s nice to just exist sometimes, without asking permission and getting help for everything.

“You’re looking very awake,” Natasha observes, and you shrug in reply.

“I had a good sleep,” you say casually. “And besides, I want to make the most of today.”

She nods at that, in an approving sort of way. 

“Wanda has a hot yoga class at ten. I was planning to make us all breakfast so we can eat at eight, and then have a chill morning until she’s back. We could go out for a walk too, if you like?”

“That sounds good,” you agree, trying to contain your joy to just a smile, rather than a full body bounce of excitement.

“Cool.” Natasha grins at you. “Do you want to help me with breakfast?”

Naturally, you nod your agreement. So you follow her up the stairs to the kitchen, where you happily follow every instruction she gives with a single clumsy hand, topped up by lots of enthusiasm. 

When Wanda enters the kitchen, she finds you mixing pancake batter, your left hand producing such lopsided strokes that it makes the unsupported bowl wobble. She steps in behind you, places her left hand on your waist, and wraps her right arm around you to hold the bowl still. 

“There,” she whispers, and something in your chest flutters. 

“Thank you, Wanda,” you murmur, blushing as you tilt your head to see her. “Did you sleep okay?”

“I did, thank you, sweetheart.” 

Her smile, combined with a light squeeze of your side, makes you feel warmer still. You turn back to the batter and start to mix again, trying to be more graceful this time. It’s a lot easier with Wanda holding the bowl steady. She’s making up for your incapacitated arm, like together you make two halves of one whole. You feel her body pressed against you, and you wonder what it must be like to have someone who chooses to be in your life forever. Someone who’s always there to help you, always there to see what you need and support you in the best way. You take a deep breath in, inhaling the subtle scent of Wanda which is starting to feel so familiar and comfortable now. She smells clean and soft, and slightly floral. You could breathe in this smell, this feeling, all day. 

But then the batter is smooth, and the pan is warm, and breakfast can’t be stalled any longer. Wanda steps away to start setting the table, and Natasha slides the bowl towards the stovetop, before handing you a ladle. 

“Are you sure?” you ask, the tone of your voice betraying your concern — you’re not sure if you can do a good enough job with only your left hand. 

Natasha smiles.

“I’m sure,” she asserts, opening a cupboard and pulling out a bottle of maple syrup. “Besides, the first one’s always a bit strange, so no pressure.”

“My mum used to say that about my older brother,” you blurt out, grinning with the memory as you begin to ladle one scoop of batter into the pan. “The first pancake. She was just joking, but it always made me feel better to remember it when he was mean to me.”

“Don’t tell my sister that,” Natasha replies, her eyes twinkling. “Yelena would love that one. Though she’d call me the first blini, of course. That’s what we call them, where I’m from.”

“When did you come to America?”

Natasha’s hand pauses for a fraction of a second, hovering over the jar of honey before her fingers finally grasp it and take it down from the cupboard. 

“Sorry,” you backtrack quickly, “you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”

“It’s okay,” Natasha says quietly. She’s looking down at the honey with a sad kind of focus. Then she turns and gives you a gentle smile. “Yelena and I came over here when we were very young. We had a good few years here, before we had to go back to Russia.”

She holds your gaze, which makes you think that it might be okay to ask another question.

“How old were you when you had to go back?”

“Eleven,” Natasha replies, and her expression darkens a little. “Yelena was just six.”

“That must have been really hard.” You frown sympathetically, imagining the turmoil of moving at such a young age. It’s hard enough to do in your twenties, you think.

Natasha nods, but doesn’t respond. Her half-smile suggests that there’s a lot more to her story, which she’s not ready to share with you. Respecting the silent line in the sand, you turn back to the pan, and use the handle to lift and turn the surface to spread the batter into a sort-of circle. 

Wanda steps in beside you again, placing her hand on the small of your back. 

“That looks good,” she murmurs, her thumb rubbing a gentle circle over your spine. “I’ll get you a spatula.”

When her hand leaves you, your eyes follow her. Watching as she reaches for the drawer, slides it open, and removes a black silicone spatula. You carry on watching her as she returns, gazing unashamedly as if she can’t see you staring. 

Wanda tilts her head as she takes you in, smiling at you like you’re something precious. 

“Oh myšička…” she whispers, placing the spatula on the counter then reaching out with both hands. One strokes your hair behind your ear, and the other cups your cheek. She doesn’t say anything else… she just lets her words hang. You wonder what she’s thinking, and what she thinks of you, and your utter devotion to her. There’s no way of knowing, but you’re sure it’s not bad, at least. She wouldn’t be touching you this gently, or smiling at you this sweetly, if she didn’t find it at least a little endearing. 

“Time to flip, I think,” she whispers, directing her eyes to the pan. You turn to see that the pancake has begun to crisp around the edges. It does need to be flipped. But flipping it will require using the spatula, and that will require moving, and losing Wanda’s hands and attention. 

You’d let the whole world burn, and you with it, just to feel her warmth a little longer.

Wanda moves first, letting go of you to take the spatula with her right hand. But as she reaches it towards the pan, her left hand wraps around your waist again, catching the fabric of your t-shirt in such a way that her fingertips end up underneath, curling into your skin.

You can barely breathe as she slides the spatula under the pancake and flips it over. The sizzling heat of the pan seems to rise and catch on your cheeks. You feel hot, and slightly damp, like the steam is congealing on your skin.

Her fingernails graze your waist, scratching lightly in a way which makes you shiver and melt into her body alongside yours. Your head leans without permission, until it rests against her shoulder. All the while you watch the pancake cooking, the spatula hovering above the pan like she’s ready to remove it at any moment. 

Your mind begins to wander, imagining her abandoning the spatula and pulling you into a proper hug. You can almost feel the ghost of her lips on your forehead, and hear the whisper of her sweetest words… Myšička. My darling. Little one. Baby.

It takes a while for your brain to catch up to your body, and realise what these thoughts are doing to you. When it registers, you feel a flood of shame and embarrassment. Why are you letting yourself develop these feelings for a married woman? And, worst of all… why are you fixating on the times when she treats you like you’re something tiny, something young? That’s weird, right? Being turned on by mere comfort and care? 

You wriggle a little in her hold, suddenly wanting to escape.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Wanda asks, her face full of concern.

“Uh-huh,” you squeak, finding yourself unable to meet her eye. “I just… I need to pee.”

She releases her hand from your waist, moving it up to smooth down the back of your hair. 

“That’s alright, malinké dievčatko. You go, and I’ll carry on with the pancakes.”

You nod vigorously and dart away, avoiding Natasha’s curious gaze as you pass her at the dining table. 

In the bathroom you try your best to clean away the evidence of your irreverent feelings. A part of you knows that you can’t really help it, and it’s natural to have feelings for these beautiful women who are kind to you… but at the same time, it feels so wrong and shameful for your body to be responding in this way. All you can hope is that they haven’t noticed the depth of your feelings. 

—————

When you return to the kitchen, Natasha has taken over at the pan, and Wanda is pouring juice into glasses on the table. You hover at the table, wondering what to do. 

“Sit, darling,” Wanda instructs. “We’re just about ready, anyway.”

You nod and follow her direction, sitting down so you are facing the kitchen and can watch them bustling about. Natasha already has a stack of pancakes on a plate, and Wanda moves to swap that plate with another, before carrying the completed pancakes to the table. 

“You two can start,” Natasha calls out. “I’ll use up the batter and join you in a bit.”

So you do, with a little help from Wanda to chop up some banana and add it to the puddle of maple syrup you created with a sloppy squeeze of the bottle. She makes up her own too, with yogurt and blueberries, before intervening with a gentle laugh when she sees you struggle to carve the pancake with just one hand and a fork.

“Here,” she says, reaching over and cutting your pancake into bite-sized pieces. “This should help, miláčik.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, feeling embarrassed at her help, even though it’s perfectly reasonable to need it right now. The simple act of cutting up your food makes you feel smaller, and not necessarily in a bad way. Maybe that’s where the embarrassment is actually coming from. The realisation that you like it when she helps you like this, and not just because of the mere convenience. 

Wanda helps a lot, through the meal. Natasha helps too, but her assistance feels a little less… charged? She passes over the things you need with a smile, and opens lids and pours out more juice when you empty your glass. But Wanda cuts up your pancakes, and tucks your hair behind your ear, and keeps asking if you have everything you need. Once, when Natasha goes to get the second plate of pancakes out from the oven, Wanda grabs your napkin the second you clumsily miss your mouth with a yogurt-laden spoon. Your heart seems to stop for a moment as she lifts up the napkin with a raised eyebrow and a wry smile.

“You’ve got yourself a little messy, myšička,” she comments, and you think you might melt into the chair. “Let me get it for you.”

She wipes it away slowly, her hand lingering there as she stares into your transfixed eyes. When she removes the napkin, it takes you a few seconds to realise that your mouth is hanging slightly open. You close it quickly, looking away as you feel the blood rush to your cheeks — in tandem with a dangerous heat gathering in your lower stomach. 

“There,” Wanda says silkily, placing the napkin back on the table with one slow, elegant movement, “all clean now.”

It’s not true, though. If anything, you now feel more unclean than ever. 

You concentrate on eating from then on, avoiding meeting Wanda’s eyes, and trying to focus on Natasha’s easygoing conversation instead. She’s suggesting ideas for the afternoon, which you nod along to, smiling through the burning sensation in your body. Wanda seems completely unaffected by the moment, leading you to believe that this intensity you feel must be purely in your head. It’s just you, reading into her care. You must find a way to control it better. 

After breakfast, the three of you tidy up before Wanda takes you upstairs to help you get changed. You count in your head to distract yourself as she assists you, scared to allow any feelings back to the fore. It’s quick, and she heads off to her room after to get changed for her hot yoga class. 

When she leaves home, you can’t help but feel a little relieved. At least while she’s gone you should be able to sort yourself out, and ensure this afternoon unfolds without any more inappropriate feelings. Perhaps if you and Natasha go out for a walk, that will help. Some fresh air might cool you off. Maybe.

Unfortunately, Natasha suggests you wait until the washing is done before going out. That way, she explains, the two of you can hang it up outside and give it enough time to dry before bringing it back in at the end of the day. So you both head downstairs after Wanda’s departure, and on your suggestion, Natasha turns on her playstation and starts to play a puzzle game again. You watch her for a bit before taking your phone out of your pocket and scrolling mindlessly through Instagram for a while. Kate has found your profile and sent you a request, so you accept it, follow her back, then scan through her profile briefly. The bizarre mix of things she has posted — a random assortment of high-quality sports photos and blurry memes — makes you smile. It’s very Kate. 

It doesn’t take long before she sends you a meme directly — it’s a photo of an online conversation, in which someone asks the other how old they are, to which the other responds “old enough to be your mother” — which then prompts the original person to change the chat background to a sickly mix of pink and love hearts. 

Kate’s caption: Found a copy of your chat with Wanda!!!

You try not to groan.

Pretty sure she’s not actually old enough to be my mum, you reply.

It’s the wrong thing to say… Kate immediately reacts to your message with a side-eye emoji.

Old enough to be a mommy though, Kate replies. 

I told you — she’s not my sugar mommy Kate, you reply, adding an eye-rolling emoji for good measure. It’s just silly banter, you think. But still, it hits a nerve somehow.

You do know that’s not the only type of mommy, right?

You stare at her message, confused. It takes a minute, maybe, before you type out a reply.

Wdym?

You see that Kate has read your message, but she doesn’t reply. You wonder if she’s leaving you to figure it out yourself. You’re just about to give up when she sends you a link.

Read this tonight, she tells you. And if you want, we can talk about it tomorrow. If not, we can never talk about it again, okay?

You hesitate, looking at the link with a sense of trepidation. There’s no obvious sign of where it might lead or what it might reveal to you. All you know is that Kate has seen something, and seems to think this might help you. Should you look at it now? Or save it for tonight, like she suggested?

You’re teetering on the brink of clicking the link when the washing machine beeps to signal the end of the cycle, saving you from your decision. You tuck your phone back in your pocket, rather relieved at the distraction, and you stand up to sort the laundry.

“Do you need a hand?” Natasha asks, shifting on the sofa and readying herself to move. You shake your head.

“No thanks — I’ll manage.”

She nods at that, and turns back to the screen to continue playing. So you make your way over to the pantry, where you place the basket on the floor ready to collect your washing. It only takes one tug to bring the mass of sheets tumbling out. Amongst the heap, you spot a flash of unexpected grey. 

Your heart skips a beat, then resumes with a resounding thud. The blood pumps fast around your body then, surging adrenaline through your veins and making your fingers tremble as you reach out. You know that something is wrong, even before you lift the layer of fabric and find her. 

Sodden and dishevelled, her fur dark from the drowning.

Bluebell.

The feelings catch up so quick, congealing in your throat and gathering in your lashes. The trembling escalates to a full body convulsion which starts in your chest, constricting your lungs. You can’t seem to breathe. 

Natasha’s presence behind you feels dangerous when you’re teetering on the emotional brink. So you spin around on the spot and dart towards the stairs, almost tripping over your own feet as you struggle to coordinate your wobbly legs.

Natasha calls your name but you don’t even process it until you’re halfway to your room. From there, it’s harder to see the stairs as you ascend. Your vision is blurred by an onslaught of tears, which stream out with every gasping breath.

When you reach your room, you close the door behind you and practically dive onto the bed, barely feeling the spike of pain in your shoulder at the sudden movement. You lay down on your right side, tucking your knees up to your chest and feeling the full scale of your panic finally register. 

She’s ruined, and it’s all your stupid fault. You shouldn’t have brought her here. Hell, you shouldn’t even have her, or care about her at all. You’re too old for this, too old to cling to a stuffed toy and give it a name and a sentimental value. 

But it hurts all the same. It hurts so bad that you can’t even think of anything else at all. There’s just a potent, poisonous mix of grief and shame. 

This rabbit isn’t a toy from your childhood, but it’s no less special. In some ways, she is more special, because you chose her. One day in a shop, already fully grown, you found her on a shelf and felt this primal pull. She just fit perfectly in your cupped hands, conveying a weight beyond her meagre mass. You couldn’t bring yourself to put her back on the shelf — the mere thought made you feel terribly sad. So you brought her to the counter and garbled an imaginary explanation to the woman at the counter — your little cousin’s birthday; she loved rabbits; she’d be so delighted — all the while feeling the subtle sweat of your deceit. 

There were so many things you had left behind in your move, but Bluebell was one of the first things you packed. Hidden amongst your clothing, but wrapped so intentionally in a cashmere jumper. Precious cargo. 

If only you had washed the jumper on high heat instead.

Minutes go by, and Natasha doesn’t come. Why doesn’t she come? Is she embarrassed? Disgusted? 

You sort of want her to come, even though you’re covered in snot and tears. You should be able to handle this alone, but you can’t. Bluebell drowning is too big of a problem, and you’re too small to solve it right now. You just need someone to take over, to take charge and tell you that everything is going to be okay. 

Perhaps she is disgusted by your melodramatic display of emotion. Or maybe she has found the rabbit, and is weirded out that you have this toy, and that it means this much to you. 

Why do I have it? you wonder bitterly. Why am I so stupid and childish? What is wrong with me?

You cry until there doesn’t seem to be any moisture left in your body. Everything just feels very heavy and slightly cold, though you don’t even have the energy to draw the covers over your shivering skin. 

—————

Time goes by with a low level-ache, like the loneliness is pressing down and forming its own bruise. You’re so consumed by the dull and desolate feeling that you don’t even hear the door open. You just smell her, a moment before you feel her warmth enveloping you and the touch of her arms as she places a hand on your back and strokes your hair from behind. Her gentle voice tickles in your ear as she leans over and whispers that she’s here, and that it’s okay. Then she presses her lips on your still-damp cheek, gifting you a soft kiss atop the tear-stains.

Wanda.

Her kindness wakes something up inside, and you summon just enough energy to sit up. Then you try to tell her about Bluebell, but all that comes out of your mouth is a strangled sob. 

“It’s okay sweetheart,” Wanda reassures as she pulls you in for a hug, “you don’t need to explain. Naty has already told me.”

Somehow, more tears leak out from your eyes at this, dripping onto her shoulder and dampening the fabric of her sweater. 

“Naty is sorting it out now, darling. Bluebell will be okay.”

“Promise?” you whimper, lifting your head to look at her and assess how confident she appears. Wanda’s nose scrunches a little as she cups your damp cheek in her hand. You lean into the touch, her smooth skin feeling gently cooling against your red hot, frantic face. 

“I promise, baby. Bluebell will be all better very soon, and Naty will bring her back to you.” 

Your eyes keep on producing tears, but your breathing begins to slow as a small measure of hope trickles through your bloodstream. 

Maybe Bluebell will be okay. Maybe Naty will fix her up. Naty is clever, after all. She will know what to do. 

You duck your head and curl up into Wanda’s arms once again, resting your forehead on her shoulder. She holds you with a slight squeeze, showing she’s happy to have you there. 

“That’s it, myšička,” she whispers gently, rubbing small circles on your spine. “Keep taking slow breaths for me. Good girl.”

So you let her hold you and ease you into comfort. It takes a while because there’s still so much uncertainty. Perhaps you won’t be truly calm until you see Bluebell and learn just how catastrophic your mistake really was. 

You hear the door open, and your breath catches. You don’t try to wriggle out of Wanda’s arms or hide your tears. You just wait, frozen in place.

Slowly, carefully, the bed sinks beside you.

A hand reaches over your body and balances something small and grey on your knee. 

Bluebell.

She looks okay. A little bedraggled, perhaps, but intact. 

Wanda opens her arms to allow you more freedom, and slowly you move your left hand from beneath your chin and reach out to touch your rabbit. She’s dry, and a little warm to the touch. Her fur doesn’t feel quite the same, but it’s still soft. Just a bit unkempt, like she’s weathered a storm.

“She’s… okay?” you whisper, more to yourself than anything.

“I think so,” Natasha says quietly. “Though I never saw her before, so you can tell better than me.”

You look up into Natasha’s eyes. She looks a little worried as she stares down at you, like she’s unsure how to treat you right now. That uncertainty makes you feel a little off kilter, like you’re doing something wrong. Maybe something shows in your body language, because Wanda places her arm around you again. It goes a little way to grounding you. 

“I got some of the water out and then I used a hairdryer.” Natasha runs her fingers through her hair as she speaks, looking between you and Wanda in turn. “Maybe a comb would help even out the fur now that it’s dry?”

“That’s a good idea,” Wanda replies smoothly, giving your side a gentle squeeze. “We’ll find a comb for you, myšička. That should help Bluebell look her best again.”

You nod slightly, feeling the slight lumps where Bluebell’s fur has become a little matted. A comb might bring it back a bit, you think. Maybe she still won’t be the same, but at least she didn’t need stitches. You remember a beanie dinosaur from your childhood which needed neck surgery after a girl at your nursery grabbed its head and refused to let go. Your mum had done a good job of stitching it up, but it still had an ugly scar which cemented your resentment. At least that wasn’t the case here. With some careful grooming, Bluebell might at least visually look the same as before, even if she wasn’t the same to touch.

“Thank you.” It comes out small but genuine, and you look up to Natasha to emphasise your gratitude. She smiles in return, but it’s a little brief. 

“I’ll leave you two in peace for a bit,” she murmurs, and she starts to walk towards the door. You watch her go, your lip wobbling with some undetermined feeling. Before you can analyse it, Wanda gently shushes you and cups the back of your head to encourage it to lean on her shoulder once more. You hear the door closing, but Wanda’s soothing words distract you.

“You must be exhausted, little one. How about you lie down for a little while, and try to sleep off some of these big feelings, hm?”

It makes sense, what she’s suggesting. You do feel completely wiped out from the shock and the crying. So you murmur your assent and let her shift her weight to ease the both of you down onto the bed. She untangles her arm as you slide down, making sure your head rests on the pillow. Then she reaches for a blanket and tucks it over your limp body, making sure the top of it sits just below Bluebell, who is still clutched tightly in your left hand. 

“Can you stay?” you ask suddenly, surprising even yourself with the request. It’s silly, and you feel your cheeks warming, but you don’t take it back. For some reason, you want to know that she’ll be here when you fall asleep, and when you wake. The idea of waking up alone and having to descend the stairs to find them seems horrifying right now. 

“Of course,” Wanda says, smiling so genuinely that you feel many layers of relief. “When you fall asleep, I’ll nip into the library to grab a book, and then I’ll read on the armchair just there until you wake.” 

You glance across at the chair beside the chest of drawers, consider, then nod. That seems okay. 

You half expect her to move to the chair already, but she stays on the bed with you, albeit sitting beside your supine form. She reaches out and gently strokes your hair, and you’re struck with the memory of that night when Natasha hummed a song under her breath to lull you back to sleep. She had seemed so calm and content then, in stark contrast to her cautious and almost reluctant presence in the room just before. You’re trying to find the words to verbalise this to Wanda, when she starts to shake her head with an almost pitying smile.

“I can see you worrying again, miláčik. But now is not the time for those grown-up worries. Now is the time for you to rest and relax. Can you do that for me?”

You blink up at her, feeling something shift inside you. Like a weighted blanket being draped over your brain — everything seems to still. She looks even more beautiful and wise from this angle, smiling down at you with such dedicated attention and care. You trust her to know what is best for you. So you breathe out your worries about Natasha’s doubt and reserve, and you nod.

“Good girl,” Wanda praises, and she leans down to kiss your forehead, her lips lingering a moment longer than usual. Something blooms in your chest; a dazzling but peaceful feeling, like silent fireworks. 

She’s staying, but sitting up like that makes her seem so far away. You let go of Bluebell and lift your hand without thinking, trying to wordlessly signal what you want: her to be closer. Your fingers grasp at the fabric of her jumper, and take gentle hold. Not pulling, just pleading with your eyes. 

If anything, Wanda seems delighted by this. You can see the deepening of her smile as she takes in your clinging and breathes in a long, appreciative breath. 

“Oh darling. You just really want to be looked after right now, hm?”

You do, desperately. Every moment that she spends with you like this, cherishing and caring for you, feels so vital and fulfilling in a way you can’t explain. It’s like something you’ve been missing all this time, without even knowing. An invisible void which her kindness and comfort is able to fill.

Wanda shuffles her body down to lie beside you, her head resting on the next pillow, her face turned towards yours.

“You’re safe, pusinka, okay?” she whispers, lifting her left hand to tuck your hair behind your ear. “I’m here, and I’m not going to leave you.”

You believe her, from your ears to your brain to your bones. The trust is so deep that you feel your eyelids closing, and your grip loosening on Wanda’s jumper. She shifts beside you but you don’t look, you just feel the soft fur of Bluebell being placed against your open fingers. They tangle into the matted hairs and twitch slightly to stroke them as your consciousness begins to drift. 

You must start dreaming then, because you hear her voice as if on the horizon.

Mommy loves you, myšička.

—————

Wanda is still there, as promised, when you wake. As soon as your eyes open you sit up to look for her, and feel the threat of panic dissipating when you spot her on the armchair, looking up from her book to smile at you. You manage a small, sheepish smile in return, before lying back down to allow yourself to wake up fully. Everything feels a little fuzzy, still. You’ve moved on and moved away from how you felt before the nap, but that feeling is still within reach, still within memory. You could swiftly slide back there, if you’re not careful. And you’re not sure if you’re scared or intrigued by that thought. 

Wanda remains quiet, allowing you to sit up again in your own time. When you do, she continues reading for a few seconds — perhaps finishing the sentence — before looking up again with an encouraging smile.

“How long was I asleep for?” you ask, fidgeting with Bluebell under the blanket which is still draped over your legs. 

“Just under an hour,” Wanda answers softly. “You seemed peaceful.”

You nod, frowning a little as you consider. Yes, you did sleep well. You don’t remember any dreams — apart from imagining Wanda saying that thing, likely invented as a result of your conversation with Kate — but you do feel much better now. Though you can also sense a wave of shame brewing in the background. 

“You stayed,” you state quietly, thinking aloud more than anything. Wanda nods. 

“Of course, moje dievčatko.”

You’re caught between thanking her and apologising — both seem necessary, though you can’t figure out which is more pressing. Maybe the conundrum shows in your face, because Wanda stands up, places her book on the armchair, then moves across to perch on the edge of the bed beside you. She places her hand on your back, stroking softly, patiently waiting for you to talk again.

“Thank you for staying,” you whisper after a while. Wanda smiles, and uses her other hand to gently squeeze your knee, which is propped up beneath the blanket.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart. Do you feel better now?”

You manage a small nod, trying to swallow down the guilt which bubbles in your throat. 

“Those were pretty big feelings you were having. No wonder you were tired.”

Her assessment makes your emotions wobble once more. She’s right; your emotions were vast and utterly disproportionate to the mundanity of the situation. The only logical one really was Natasha, removing herself from the situation as soon as she could, probably hoping you would finally regulate yourself like you ought to, grown adult that you are.

“I’m sorry,” you eventually stammer out, looking up at Wanda through watery eyes.

“You have nothing to apologise for, little love. Nothing at all.”

“But Natasha…”

“…is Natasha.” Wanda fixes you with a serious look, taking both your cheeks in her hands as if to ensure that her words go in. “Darling, Naty had a very difficult upbringing. When she was a child, she was taught not to express emotions or empathy. She has both in multitudes, but she doesn’t always know how to show them.” She pauses, like she’s allowing time for you to process this. Then she continues, her words softer now, more careful. “Natasha cares about you a lot, myšička. She just doesn’t feel safe to show it in the same way that I do.”

Her words make sense, but you still feel like there are things being left unsaid. A hidden subtext which you can’t quite see; an additional meaning which Wanda perhaps assumes you can understand. How do you even ask for clarity, when you’re not sure what it is which you’re missing?

“When I came home, I found Natasha gently drying Bluebell with the hairdryer,” Wanda tells you, watching your reaction. “She knew straight away how much Bluebell meant to you, and she wanted to fix her for you.”

“You didn’t tell her?” you ask, surprised. When Natasha returned with Bluebell, you just assumed that Wanda must have conveyed your strange attachment to this toy shortly after she arrived in the suitcase. 

“No, sweetheart — I didn’t tell her. Bluebell belongs to you, and I know how precious she is. I wouldn’t share that with anyone without your permission.”

“It’s weird though,” you whisper, shifting your feet closer to your centre and tucking your limbs into a tighter ball. Bluebell is held under your knees, hidden beneath body and blanket. “I’m too old…”

“Adults are allowed comfort too,” Wanda interrupts gently. “Besides, I don’t think its weird. I think the softness you show is beautiful and brave.”

Soft, you think, feeling Bluebell’s fur between your fingers. The word settles in your head, seeming extra meaningful in this moment.

“That’s how I’ve been feeling sometimes,” you tell her slowly, discovering the words only as they come out of your mouth. “Soft.”

Wanda nods slightly, smiling in a quietly reassuring way. 

“That’s okay,” she replies, her voice extra gentle. “You can be soft around us, myšička.”

Wanda seems to understand, even though it doesn’t even make much sense to you yet. She’s so readily accepting in fact, that you wonder whether she has seen this — whatever this is — in you even before you did. That’s a little scary. But Wanda isn’t scary, and she seems so calm right now that surely there can’t be anything too wrong about this feeling, and her understanding of it. 

You look into her eyes and she looks back into yours. 

It’s like you’re in a bubble. Inside, with her, it’s warm and safe. But you can just about see through it, to the real world beyond, which makes more sense in it’s banality and brutality. Somewhere out there is the link Kate sent you, scratching at the edge of your bubble, creating an itch on the inside.

In the back of your mind, you know that this bubble will burst. But for now, you simply suppress that notion and burrow deeper, tucking your head onto Wanda’s shoulder and hearing the rhythmic thumping of her heartbeat in her neck, pulsing against your flushed cheek. 

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think, it will help motivate me to write more 🥹

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