zzz

As the days passed, Jean waited while Peter tried to get some information out of the Department of Damage Control, a feat that was proving to be impossible to accomplish for your friend.

Jean was getting frustrated, and you could tell. Her thoughts were more erratic the more time she waited; her hands always twisted together in a tell of nervousness that made your heart squeeze.

She was being patient, for you. You knew it; she could twist it any way she wanted, but you could read her mind, after all. You knew she wanted to prove to you she was more than Spider-man’s villain of the week.

And so she waited, and waited, and took out all her frustration in a delicious way.

“Fuck, Jean,” you moaned against her ear.

“You’re being so good,” Jean whispered in your mind. The feeling of her non-corporeal voice inside of you felt like a gust of freezing air against the walls of your mind.

And speaking of walls… her fingers were hitting the right spots inside of you and bringing you to stupid tears.

You moaned her name as you came, and the chill that ran over her spine let you know she too had come. You rested your head on the pillow, your damp hair sticking to your forehead. With her free hand, Jean pushed it away from your face.

“Pretty,” she whispered, inspecting you. Your cheeks were flushed, and your chest was raising and falling rapidly as you tried to gather your breathing.

She gave your collarbone one more kiss before she pulled away. You shivered as her fingers left your body, making you feel hollow.

“Thank you,” you said. You raised a hand and put it on Jean’s equally damp cheek.

“Well, I gotta keep my girl satisfied,” she smirked against your lips, trying to kiss you as you chuckled.

You grabbed the back of her hair and pushed her away. “That’s not what I meant.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“You’re being patient,” you explained. She looked away and sighed. “I know it’s hard, so… thank you. For trying.”

“For you,” she murmured against your neck. You put your hand between her shoulder blades and pushed her gently. She rested her head on your chest, one of her hands raising to rest on your boob. You tried to ignore the feeling her touch gave you. “I don’t want you to… I don’t know, be disappointed because I did things the wrong way.”

Her thumb ran over your nipple tenderly, and you hissed. Too overstimulated yet.

“I know,” you told her, putting your hand on top of hers. With the flick of a finger, your arm was pushed against the pillow and she started to caress your hardened bundle of nerves again. “Shit, Jean—”

“How long?” She asked, pushing up on her hand to look at you. With one hand grabbing your chest and the other holding her up right beside your head on the pillow, you felt equally trapped and protected.

“Two days,” you said. “If Peter—”

She pushed her head down and kissed you hard. “Don’t say a man’s name while I’m fucking you.”

You bit her bottom lip when she tried to pull away, making her stay for another wet kiss.

“If he can’t find any information, we do it your way.”

She smirked. “How about we do it our way? You’re surprisingly levelheaded.”

“Surprisingly?” You raised an eyebrow.

She parted her lips and sucked on your nipple, making you gasp. “Yes,” she whispered in your mind, her mouth otherwise quite occupied.

“Fuck—”

Hey, there were far less healthy coping mechanisms than having sex when frustrated. You could get used to it; to her, kissing your lips and licking your skin and forcing pretty noises out of your mouth every day.

As she entered your cunt with two of her fingers, you realized you couldn’t get used to it; you had already gotten used to it.

And you really, really didn’t want to live without it.

You were starting to blur the lines between Jean’s mind and your own.

Her thoughts would take up a big chunk of your mind, occupying it in a non-invasive manner that brought warmth to your chest. She was there even when you were both buildings away, talking to you playfully as you worked. You had forbidden her from visiting you at work, as there were always a few cops around the store looking for a quick snack between patrols. If they saw a hooded woman walking around a Deli after sights of another hooded woman causing hammocks around town… yeah, it was better if she stayed home, since she seemed quite dedicated to her aesthetic of mysterious entity about to possess you.

Not that you wouldn’t mind her possessing you.

“I heard that.”

You rolled your eyes, restacking the cups of noodles onto the shelves. The store went through them like crazy.

With a hum, you put a few aside to take home, making a mental note of paying for it before you closed the register for the night. You wanted Jean to try them out; she had, to your utter shock, a very high spice tolerance, and liked ramen a lot. Especially at night, after getting her share of fun with you within the sheets.

“I didn’t think anything,” you replied, folding the box the ramen cups came in. You shoved the box down the trash out front, right beside the door.

“Yes you did,” Jean said. Her tone was teasing, and every time she teased her voice got raspy and low. You loved it. “Want me to control you and make you fuck yourself?”

“Your libido is scarily high,” you replied, after holding onto the trash can to gather your bearings.

“What can I say? It’s not my fault; my girl is really hot. You should take a look.”

“What—”

Your mind got invaded by images of yourself, naked and gasping for air as you came. They were all from Jean’s perspective, and it was easy to tell as messy strands of red hair could be seen in the corner of the image.

“Jean.” You hissed.

“What?” She asked, so innocently you want to seethe. Closing your eyes, you pictured Jean’s face, full of freckles and a cocky smile that made you grind your teeth together. With the image in mind, you raised your invisible hand and slapped her.

“Ow.”

“Don’t do that again,” you threatened, but the knowing pleased feeling that answered your question let you know she was definitely going to do it again. Probably at the worst time possible.

“When do you get off of work?” She asked. You heard the sound of a page turning and you raised an eyebrow.

“Are you reading a book?”

Jean laughed. “No, I’m reading your diary.”

“Jean—”

“I’m joking. I know that’s invading your privacy or whatever. I found this magazine lying around.”

“Oh,” you said. “What is it about?”

“Did you know Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston broke up?”

You let out a loud laugh at her words, right in the middle of the street. “Yes, in the two thousands, I think. Where did you find that thing?”

“Under the sofa.”

“Okay, Peter has been lying to me about cleaning the living room.”

“Told you he’s shady,” Jean said in a singsong voice.

“So is the landlord,” you replied. “Has he not fucking moved the sofa in decades?”

You felt Jean move; a shrug, or the closest thing to it without being an actual corporeal figure. “It’s heavy. I only managed to lift it up because I used my super cool powers.”

“Good to know you can use them on something other than me.”

Jean let out a small chuckle. “You love it.”

And damn it, you did. You wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of admitting it, though.

“Fine, don’t admit,” Jean said. “I’ll fuck that confession out of you tonight.”

You couldn’t believe you had started dating a horn dog that could read your thoughts and that had the dirtiest mouth in all of New York.

“Ramen tonight,” you said instead.

“Yay,” she replied.

The spicy sauce clinged to Jean’s lips as the door opened.

In came Peter, with a backpack hanging from one of his shoulders and a look of defeat. You sighed before he could close the door.

“Bill won’t tell me anything,” he admitted.

Your shoulders dropped. Jean continued eating, chewing aggressively as she looked between you and Peter.

You gave her a raised eyebrow and she put the chopsticks back into the cup. She cleared her throat and used a napkin to wipe her mouth. “Thank you for trying anyway, Peter.”

“I’ll keep trying,” he promised. You knew he meant it; when Peter set his mind to a noble cause, he didn’t stop until he had found a solution.

“I think it’s time we take a more… proactive approach on this,” you declared as soon as Peter reentered the room in his sleep clothes.

“Oh?” Peter said. Jean leaned back against the chair and looked at you. She was unnerving when she was quiet; you were so used to her in your mind and in your ear the silence was almost deafening. But you were thankful for the chance at explaining yourself without being interrupted.

“I say we go in there and try to discover what they’re hiding,” you said, looking at your friend.

Peter sighed and sat down in front of you, reaching for your half-empty cup of ramen to start devouring it.

He swallowed the food in his mouth before he spoke. “How?”

Jean gave him a look. “You’re not against this?”

Peter shrugged. “I… I’ve been suspecting Damage Control for a while. Sure I’ve been helping them, but… yeah, I wouldn’t bet on them to be totally clean.” He scratched the back of his head. “Their existence is convenient to me. They take care of the bad guys and ship them off to the appropriate locations to keep them away from the public. But…”

You looked at him, but his eyes were sorely on Jean. She parted her lips and asked: “But what?”

“Maybe they’re also keeping innocent people against their will.”

And there it was. The admission that he had been wrong. That his judgment had been clouded by his willingness to see the good in everyone, no matter the circumstances.

You reached forward and squeezed his arm. He put his hand on top of yours.

“If we do this right,” you said softly; the words held too much weight to them. “If we uncover their sketchy shit… so many people will be freed. Able to live without having to constantly look over their shoulder.”

Jean looked to the side, understanding the implications of your statement; a life free of any governmental interference, able to go outside without being paranoid. With her sister. With you.

“We should start with something small,” Peter said. “I don’t think what they’re doing is right, but they’re powerful. Too many buildings scattered around the country. We will need some good leads or else it’ll be like searching for a needle in a haystack.”

Jean sighed. “And if they have Sara… they can just move her around locations. The search would never end.”

“Yes,” Peter nodded.

You observed them. They were quite similar, despite their clear insistence that they weren’t. Knew it or not, they both wore their heart out on their sleeve, and they fought for what was right; the only problem was Jean lived in a more… grey area of viewing the world —no pun intended. She was pessimistic, thinking the worst and hoping for the best, while Peter was so optimistic he always hoped for the best and prepared for the worst case scenario. And yet… the same fiercely protectiveness, the same determination to aid those they considered in need of help, and to right every wrong they ever did.

You were so thankful you had decided to give Jean a chance. You might have been the first person to do so, the only one to offer her the opportunity to redeem herself.

“We should hack into their system first,” Jean said as Peter finished the rest of your food.

You pouted, and Jean handed you her cup of noodles before draping an arm over your shoulders.

“No hacking,” Peter said, pointing at Jean with his chopsticks. “They have insane security. Like, the pentagon.”

“Not on their own computers,” Jean said. Her hand raised as you turned to look at her, and she pressed her thumb against the back of your neck, massaging your tense muscles.

“Metzger,” Peter murmured. “If anyone has info on where your sister is, it’s him.”

You closed your eyes, the massage Jean was giving you melting away all your tension.

“We need a distraction,” you said, eyes still unopened. “Something to drive him away from his office enough time so I can sneak in and search on his computer.”

“You?” Peter and Jean asked, their voices a synchronized cacophony of worry and rejection.

“Yes, me,” you said, looking at Jean. “You will be the distraction, and Peter will pretend to try to stop you.”

“You’re not getting close to that place alone,” Jean said. The hand on your neck moved to grab you. “I mean it. I won’t let you.”

“You can’t let me do shit,” you threw back. “I’m my own person, I make my own decisions. And you know it’s the best plan.”

“Not if it risks you,” Jean said.

“Even if it means never seeing your sister again?” You asked. You knew it was a low blow, but you needed her to understand; there was no time to get overprotective when someone’s life was on the line.

She squeezed the back of your neck tighter before she let go of you. Without saying a word, she stood up and walked to your room.

“At least she’s not storming off into the night dramatically anymore,” Peter commented.

You rolled your eyes. “Give her a few minutes and she might. She’s a total diva.”

Peter shook his head, amused. “I am worried too, you know?” He whispered. “About you. I always worry about you. And this… this can go wrong really fast. Metzger is cunning and always two steps ahead.”

“So we take three steps tomorrow,” you said.

“You’re not being reckless just because you like her, are you?” Peter asked.

“No,” you answered truthfully. “I mean, I do like her. A lot. And I want her to find her sister. But…” You shook your head. “But that man… if damage control is going after people like her, who’s to say I won’t be next? You know… you know I’m not like you.”

Peter’s lips twisted. He knew; he had been there when you first presented your powers, too young to understand that moving on things with your mind was far more dangerous than it was cool. He had helped you lie every time you were almost caught, making a fool of himself to get you off the metaphorical hot water.

“You’re just like me,” Peter said, squeezing your hand. “And so is Jean, and her sister.”

“Not to them.”

Peter sighed. “I know. And… you’re right. If we don’t take care of them, they will start to get bolder. Shift the narrative so they’re still the good guys. It could get bad.”

“We won’t let it get bad,” you said.

“We won’t,” he promised. You hoped he was right.

She was in bed when you entered the room, lying on her side with her back facing the door. You sighed and turned on the light.

“Jean.”

She didn’t answer. You walked to your bed and sat down, putting a hand in her arm. She was hugging your pillow tightly, her face buried into it.

“I know you’re not asleep,” you said, shaking her.

“I don’t wanna talk.”

“Why?” You asked, stretching your neck so you could kiss her shoulder.

“I’m rude when I’m frustrated, and right now I’m incredibly frustrated.” She hugged the pillow tighter. “I don’t wanna scream at you. I don’t want to be mean to you.”

You grabbed her shoulder and pushed until she was laying on her back. With a succession of quick movements, you pulled the pillow away from her arms and sat on her lap, each leg on either side of her hips.

“If you’re mean I’ll just tell you to fuck off,” you said.

“Promise?” She asked. Her voice was thin and quiet.

You leaned forward and hovered over her body. “I swear. I love telling you to fuck off.”

She chuckled, her hands going up your legs and into your waist, which she grasped to push your entire body flush against hers.

“You’re not going to Metzger’s office,” she said.

“The plan is non-negotiable, sorry. Leader rules,” you replied.

“Don’t make me beg, please.”

You held back the need to comment on how she was already begging. Instead, you laid on her chest.

“You can’t stop me from living my life, Jean. We met because I am Spider-man’s sidekick. My life has been dangerous way before you started talking to me in my head.”

“I know,” she said. “And I know it comes with the job, as Peter says. And I know I can’t stop from being a hero and saving everyone, but…” She took a deep breath and you hoisted yourself under her chin. “But I can’t watch you put yourself at risk for me. Not with Metzger. Anyone but him. He has taken too much from me already.”

“Jean… you’re not going to lose me.”

“You don’t know that. The same way I don’t know what I would do if he took you. I… I’m trying to be better. Do better. For you, and for the illusion of a better future full of freedom. But if I don’t have you… I don’t want to turn into the monster they already think I am.”

You raised a hand and pressed it against her cheek. “It’s the only way.”

“So we’ll find another way.”

“Jean.”

Your hand started to feel damp. You raised your head and saw Jean, with her lips pursed and chin trembling and eyes full of tears.

“Baby,” you whispered, pressing your forehead against hers. “Please don’t cry.”

“I can’t lose you,” she said in a choked tone, pressing her warm palms against your cheeks. “I can’t risk you. Please don’t ask me to do it.”

“Just this once,” you promised. “Let me help, Jean. I can’t watch from the sidelines as you both risk your lives. Metzger wants you too, we would be fools if we didn’t think he does; you can’t ask me not to let you risk me when you’re forcing me to risk you.”

Her thumb went down and caressed your neck. She looked at the spot intensely, as if expecting to see a tranquilizer dart appear to pierce your skin.

“I hate you,” she said. “You and your stupid noble heart.”

You kissed her cheek. “Thanks.”

“If they get you—”

“They won’t,” you promised.

“If they get you, everything else be damned. I’m getting you out. I don’t care how many people die for getting in my way.”

Her eyes were sparkling with tears and burning fire. You could tell it wasn’t a promise; she was telling you exactly what she would do if the situation came down to it.

“Good.” You kissed her hard. “I won’t judge you.”

She sat up, and you went with her, moving against her lap until you got comfortable.

She grabbed one of your hands and turned it around to kiss your palm. Her eyes were on you the entire time, her stare so intense it made you feel like you were on fire.

“My grandmother was from Ireland,” she said.

You twisted your finger around one of her curls. “That explains the hair.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t let go of your hand. “She came here with nothing on her name. Her parents died when she was young, of hunger. They withered away but they kept her feed. And you know the funny thing?”

“What?” You asked.

“They never sold their wedding ring,” she said. You frowned, not understanding where she was getting at. “They died of starvation but holding onto the only physical representation of their love, for each other and their daughter.”

“There’s nothing more beautiful than dying for someone you love,” you whispered.

“Indeed,” she said. “All my grandma had was a ring. It was small on her, so she wore it around a thread of leather from some old jacket. She held onto it until she met my grandpa, and asked him one thing.”

“What was it?”

“That if he ever proposed, he would have to do it with her mother’s ring. And so he did. And when they got married and had my mom, she passed it off to her. She never wore it on her finger— like I said, too small. And my mom didn’t either. Said it was ugly.”

“She sounds lovely.”

Jean laughed. “When Sara and I were kicked out, we sneaked back in that same night to get the ring. Sara didn’t care much for it, but I loved it. Every time I looked at it, it was like I wasn’t alone; my granny said it protected whoever wore it. So she stole it for me. We got caught on the way out, and that’s how we ended up on the system. My mother didn’t do anything to stop the police as we got separated and taken away.”

You closed your eyes and counted to ten. The need to slap that woman in the face made your heart pump with anger.

“Look,” she said. Jean pulled one of her many rings from her hand and showed it to you. You grabbed delicately, turning it around to admire the craftsmanship. It was old-timey, but not in a tacky way; it was elegant and delicate, with no stone around it. Just a band of gold shaped on one end like a flower.

“Beautiful,” you whispered.

“Not as beautiful as you.”

“Charmer.”

She grabbed the ring and turned it so the light could hit the metal. “A lily. My grandmother’s mother’s name.”

You stood still as she grabbed your hand once more and slipped the ring into your ring finger. You looked at her once it was all in, blinking.

“I can’t take this, Jean,” you whispered, incredibly touched by the action.

“You will. It’s your reminder that I love you, and that one day I will be worthy enough to marry you.”

“Gosh, it hasn’t even been a month.” You rolled your eyes playfully.

“And so? You know what they say; when you know, you know.”

You shook your head, laughing incredulously at her. Never would have you ever imagined a villain turned misunderstood orphan hero would be so wrapped around your finger. You had also never imagined you would be as equally obsessed with said villain.

“You’re surprisingly romantic,” you commented.

“What can I say? You bring the best out of me.”

She smiled, and you squeezed her cheeks and kissed her lips.

“Don’t talk about marriage yet, though. We’re too young,” you said.

“I said it was a promise, not a proposal,” Jean pinched your hip and you jumped. “For the time being, I’m more than happy with being your girlfriend. Nothing more, I promise.” She smiled. “Besides, I don’t think I can marry anyone at the moment. Pretty sure I’m a wanted fugitive.”

“God, why does that sound so hot?”

Jean hug your waist tightly. “Everything I say is hot.”

You kissed her, pouring all your love into the gesture. She returned the kiss just as fiercely, grabbing you and turning you around until your back hit the mattress.

“Pretty,” she whispered, looking down at you. “I would save a million lives every day just to get you like this every night.”

Your heart grew exponentially in size at her words. She wasn’t promising violence; quite the opposite. She was promising to help others, to be better. That meant far more than a threat ever could.

“Good to know I’m your moral compass,” you replied, wrapping your arms around her neck.

She kissed your cheek soundly. “You’re my everything.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’re being too cheeky. Want to get some?”

She pulled up your shirt and kissed you right over your belly button. “I always wanna get some with you.”

“Horndog,” you said, sitting up slightly to pull your shirt and bra off. She looked down at you and smiled. “No more hickeys, please. My boobs look like they’ve gotten a mammogram with the Winter Soldier’s metal arm.”

She groaned, biting the side of your neck. “Must you always mention another person when I want to fuck you?”

“Well, your reaction is really funny every time.”

She sat up and pulled off her shirt, no bra in sight to stop you from admiring her body. She was strong, that much you already knew, but she didn’t rely on her powers as much as you had originally expected; a lot of her strength came from her body, her abs and lean arms proof of that.

All that beautiful body, all for you. You would consider yourself greedy if you weren’t so happy with the outcome.

She pulled off your pants while you used your magic to pull hers off. Within a mess of laughter and small curses, you found yourself naked with her on top of you.

She grabbed your hand and kissed your newly acquired ring. “A perfect fit,” she murmured. Her other hand moved to push two fingers inside of you. “Also a perfect fit.”

“You’re a bitch.”

“Your bitch,” she threw back in your mind as you moaned her name.

Just a quick in and out. It was what you had promised Jean before going your separate ways that morning. She had been wearing the outfit you first saw her in; a yellow hoodie with a long coat over it, green pants and combat boots.

Just in and out, no stalling. All you had to do was check Metzger’s computer and get out through the window.

But you had been played. He had known you would come, or had made an estimated guess that if you weren’t with Spider-man, then you were somewhere else. And Peter had been so insistent on knowing more about Jean and whatever else Bill kept hidden that he would have been a fool for not considering a break-in as a very plausible possibility in the close proximity.

And you don’t become the head director of a governmental institution by being a fool.

The dart came from nowhere, and it hit you as you finished typing Sara’s name on the computer. You raised a hand and pulled it off, cursing when you realized it was the same one they used on Jean’s sister in the vision you saw.

“Ah, miss, I can’t say how disappointed I am in you. After working alongside us for so long, you betray us.”

You didn’t had the words to reply to him. Maybe you should have cussed him out. But as you stumbled, Billy moved to grab you and you tried to regain some energy to pull away. He held you as you slowly lost control of your own body, muscles numb and bones unwilling to move. He lowered you to the floor, looking at your mask as if he could see through it.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be of use to us,” Bill said. “You will get back on our good graces. In time.”

“She’s…” You licked your dried lips and looked at him. “She’s going to kill you all.”

It wasn’t a thread. You were warning him. You wanted him to stop this stupid plan —whatever it was— and let you go. You didn’t want to think of what could happen if he didn’t. If the man who took Jean’s sister now took her girlfriend as well…

Not even Peter would be able to stop her. Hell, you weren’t even sure she would be able to stop herself. Not until she had you back in her arms, safe and away from the people that had taken so much from her already.

Wanda is sitting in the armchair at the edge of the living room, one leg crossed over the other, completely still. Like she's been there a while. Like she was waiting to see how long it would take you to notice.

Her eyes are fixed on your face. Specifically on what's under the cloth.

You lower it slowly.

Her expression doesn't change. That's the thing about Wanda, she never gives you the reaction you expect. Just that stillness, and those eyes, and the way the room always seems to rearrange itself around her without her moving an inch.

She stands.

And crosses the room like she has every right to.

"How did you—" you start. "How did you get in here?"

She doesn't answer. Doesn't even blink. She stops in front of you and her hand comes up and your breath catches before her fingers close around your jaw, firm, unapologetic, turning your face toward the light the same way you'd turn a photograph to get a better look at it.

Her eyes move over the bruising. Slow. Careful in a way the rest of her never is.

"Who."

"Wanda—"

Her grip tightens just slightly. Not cruel. Just, final. Like she's done waiting.

"Who."

You tell her. Your father gave you that bruise.

You don't mean to. The name comes out quietly, almost like an exhale, and you watch her absorb it. Watch her jaw tighten. Watch something move behind her eyes that she locks down almost immediately.

She doesn't let go of your face.

"He won't do it again," she says. Simple. Like she's commenting on the weather.

"You don't have to—"

"He won't do it again."

The way she says it the second time makes you stop talking.

Her thumb moves along the edge of the bruise again and you hate the way your eyes want to close. Hate the way your body leans into it almost imperceptibly, the way it recognises something in her touch that your brain keeps trying to argue with.

"Why do you even care," you say. It comes out quieter than you intended. "You've made it pretty clear how you feel about me."

Something flickers across her face.

"Have I."

"Wanda—"

"Have I made it clear." Her voice is low. She's closer than she was a second ago and you didn't see her move. "Because from where I'm standing it seems like you have no idea."

"Then tell me." The words are out before you can stop them. "Stop looking at me like that and just tell me."

Her eyes drop to your mouth.

Come back up.

Her grip on your jaw shifts, fingers pressing in at the hinge, tilting your face up, and for one suspended second neither of you moves. The kitchen is completely silent. You can feel her breath.

Her eyes are very dark.

"You want me to tell you," she says softly.

You don't answer. You can't.

One moment she's holding your face like she wants to break it, like she wants to memorize it, like she can't decide which impulse wins out. 

The next, her mouth is on yours, hard, punishing, everything she's been biting back for months, for years, finally breaking free in a single desperate motion.

Her lips are bruising against yours, her fingers digging into your jaw as she kisses you like she hates you. 

Like she's trying to punish you for existing, for being you. 

Her tongue pushes into your mouth without invitation, aggressive and demanding.

Your hands find her waist, gripping, pulling her closer until there's no space left between you. She makes a sound against your mouth, something choked, broken, like she's been holding this in so long it physically hurts to release it.

Her other hand slams against the counter beside your hip, caging you in. 

Still kissing you. Still furious. Still not enough.

The kiss turns messier, hungrier, Wanda's control slipping with each passing second. 

Her thumb traces over the bruising on your cheek while her lips trail down your jaw, teeth catching at your earlobe before she bites out, "I hate you," against your throat, hoarse, breathless, the biggest lie she's ever told.

Your head falls back against the cabinet door, giving her better access to your neck while her body presses you into the counter. 

She kisses like she wants to consume you whole, all that pent-up frustration and longing pouring into every movement of her mouth.

"Stupid," she mutters against your skin, kissing the bruises forming on your jaw. "Stupid, reckless, stubborn woman." 

Her hands slide under your shirt, palms flat against your stomach like she needs to touch you everywhere at once to make up for lost time.

"Wanda," you gasp out between her kisses, one hand gripping her hip while the other tangles in her hair. 

Your legs part instinctively as she steps closer, effectively caging you between her body and the counter.

"Don't," she warns, her voice low and dangerous as she kisses you again, harder this time. 

Like she's trying to shut you up before you can say something that will ruin the moment. 

Her hands move higher, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your shirt. "Don't talk."

Her mouth crashes back onto yours, swallowing any response you might have had. 

She lifts you abruptly, setting you on the counter with a thud that makes her smile against your lips. 

She steps between your legs, spreading them wider with her knees as she keeps kissing you like she's starving.

"Wanda," you try again, breaking the kiss to catch your breath. Your hands push against her shoulders, not to push her away but to steady yourself against the sudden movement and lack of air. 

Your heart races in your chest as you look up at her, eyes wide and lips swollen.

She leans in close, her breath ghosting over your lips. "I said don't talk." Her hands grip your thighs, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. She nips at your bottom lip, hard enough to sting but not quite break the skin. "Unless it's you moaning my name or yes, ma'am." Her voice is low, commanding.

A shiver runs down your spine at the authority in her voice, the unspoken threat that layers it. 

Your hands slide from her shoulders to her neck, pulling her back into a kiss that's somehow even messier than the last. 

Her thigh pushes between yours, pressing exactly where you need it most, and you groan into her mouth. "Yes, ma'am."

Her hips roll forward against you, that thigh pressing harder as she lets out a broken sound against your lips. 

"There she is," Wanda breathes, her voice dropping to something dark and pleased. 

Her hand slides up your stomach under your shirt, nails dragging along sensitive skin. 

"Such a good girl for me when you're not being infuriating."

Her palm cups your breast through your bra, thumb pressing over your nipple with firm circles. 

The other hand tightens on your thigh, holding you open for her. 

"All these bruises," she murmurs against your mouth. "All this blood. For nothing. You should be resting." Her words are soft but her actions are anything but. "But you want to be stubborn."

"So I'll be stubborn too." Her mouth crashes back onto yours, her kisses demanding and bruising. Her fingers slide under the cup of your bra, pinching your sensitive peak hard enough to make you cry out against her lips. "You'll sleep after I'm done fucking you against this countertop."

The crude words make your head spin, your core clenching with need. 

Your hands fist in her hair, holding her against you as she kisses you like she's trying to erase every memory of you not being hers.

 Her thigh presses insistently between your legs, the fabric of your pants creating the most delicious friction. 

"Wanda, please—"

"Quiet," she snaps, her teeth catching your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. 

She releases you only to slide her tongue over the sting, sucking the blood into her mouth like it's the sweetest thing she's ever tasted. 

"If you keep talking, I'll gag you with my underwear."

Your breath catches at the threat, your hips shifting involuntarily against her thigh. 

Wanda's eyes flash with satisfaction, watching your reaction closely. 

She suddenly lifts you off the counter, spinning you around and pressing you face first onto the counter with one strong arm across your back.

"Mine," she groan against your ear, yanking your shirt off in one rough motion. Her teeth sink into your shoulder, biting down hard enough to brand you. 

You cry out, not in pain but in the desperate need to belong to someone, anyone, but especially her. 

Her hands grip your hips, pushing your pants down in a single impatient tug. "Should have marked you sooner."

She kicks your legs apart roughly, stepping between them. Her hand comes down gripping your ass, leaving a bright red nail markings. 

"Mine," she repeats, marking you with every touch, every bite, every bruising kiss. 

She unbuckles her belt with sharp, aggressive movements, pulling it free from the loops.

"Fuck," you moan into the counter as she grabs your ass again. Without warning, something thick and hard presses against your entrance, and you realize she's used her magic to give herself a cock. 

"You like that?" she groans, giving herself a few experimental thrusts against you without actually entering you yet. 

The tip catches on your wetness, sliding through your folds but not pushing inside. 

"Like knowing I can magic a cock anytime I want to fuck you senseless?"

"God, you're dripping," she hisses, pressing the head of her magical cock against your entrance but still not pushing in. "You're turned on by me being aggressive, aren't you? By me marking you like fucking property?"

"Yes, ma'am," you whimper, pushing your ass back against her cock desperation clear in your voice. "I love it when you manhandle me. When you mark me like I'm yours."

"You’re perfect," she groans, grabbing your ass again before finally pushing the head of her cock inside you. 

She doesn't give you any warning or preparation, just shoves the head in roughly before pulling back out just as abruptly. "You're gonna take my whole cock like a good girl?"

"Yes, ma'am," you moan again, pushing back against her cock as she teases your entrance.

Wanda groans, watching her own magical cock glisten with your wetness. 

The head pushes inside you an inch before she slowly drags it back down your slit, watching it disappear and reappear as if mesmerized by the obscene show. 

"You're so fucking tight," she curses, doing it again, just the tip breaching you, pressing in with agonizing slowness.

"Fuck, look at you," Wanda groans, her hips stuttering as you push back trying to take more of her cock.

 She pulls it out completely, watching your hole clench around nothing. "You're greedy for it."

"Did Jake's cock feel this good?" Wanda demands, shoving the tip of her magical dick back inside you.

 Her mouth drops open in a silent O as she watches your hole stretch around her. 

Jealousy flashes in her eyes, her grip on your ass tightening painfully.

"No," you gasp, shaking your head vigorously as your hole clenches around the tip of her cock. "His never felt this good."  

Your words seem to snap something in her, her eyes darkening with possessive satisfaction.

"Good girl," she groans, pushing another inch inside you, watching your hole stretch around her.

Wanda's eyes lock onto where her cock disappears inside you. 

She pulls out slightly before pushing back in, watching your hole swallow her thick head. 

Her hips start moving slowly, fucking you with shallow thrusts.

"God, you're taking it so perfectly," she groans, spreading your ass cheeks apart to watch the obscene sight of her cock entering you. 

She can feel you starting to relax around her, allowing her to slide in a bit deeper with each thrust.

You moan loudly, your eyes rolling back as she hits something inside you that makes your toes curl. 

Your knuckles turn white as you grip the counter edge, your cheek smashed against the cold surface. 

Wanda's hand slides under you to grab your throat, pulling you up against her chest roughly.

"Take it," she groans in your ear, her hips snapping forward with more force. Her cock hits deep inside you, making you whimper and moan. 

Your mouth hangs open, eyes rolled back as she uses your body.

"Look at you," she breathes, her fingers tightening around your throat as she pounds into you. 

Her other hand moves down to grip your hip, holding you in place as she fucks you brutally against the counter. "So perfect.”

You try to push back against her, meeting her thrusts with desperate hunger. 

She bends you over against the counter again, stilling your hips with a bruising grip. 

"Fuck me properly," she demands, her voice raw. Her hands grip your hips, pulling you back to meet her thrusts. 

She watches, mesmerized, as your body sucks her deeper with every push.

"Yes, just like that," she groans, letting you set the pace now as you push back onto her cock. 

Your walls swallow her over and over, making her eyes glaze over with pleasure. 

She loves how you fuck back onto her like you need it.

You slam back against her hard, her cock disappearing completely inside you. 

She moans out, throwing her head back as your walls flutter around her. 

"Fuck— do that again," she pants, her hands coming down to grip your hips bruisingly tight.

"It feels so good," you moan, pushing back against her again, taking her deeper. "You're so big, Wanda." 

You can feel your words making her cock throb inside you. Your walls clench around her loving the way she fills you. 

"Fuck, Y/n," she groans, her pace becoming erratic.

Wanda's thrusts become deeper, rougher, as she loses herself in the feeling of your tight heat. 

She leans over your back, her hand coming up to fist in your hair, pulling your head back as she fucks you harder. 

"Take every inch," she grunts, slamming into you.

"You're so deep," you whimper, pushing back to meet her thrusts. 

Your words seem to drive her wild because she suddenly grabs your hips and starts fucking you like she wants to break the counter.

"So close," you whimper, your body starting to tremble as she hits that spot inside you over and over again. 

Wanda grunts with each thrust, her movements becoming more frenzied as she feels your walls fluttering around her. "Cum on my dick," she groans.

"I'm gonna cum," you moan out, pushing back desperately onto her cock. 

Your orgasm builds rapidly, her thick length hitting that perfect spot with every thrust. 

Wanda's fingers dig into your hips, pounding into you harder, chasing your release.

With a final, brutal thrust, Wanda buries herself deep inside you as you come apart, your walls clenching violently around her cock. 

She uses your orgasm to her advantage, feeling your tight hole spasming around her as she continues to fuck through your release. 

"Fuck," she grunts, her cock pulsing deep inside you as she comes. 

You can feel her hot release filling you up, making you moan through your own orgasm. 

But then she's pulling out suddenly, and you feel her thick cum painting your back instead.

She pumps herself a few times, adding more to the mess on your backside. 

"Look at that," she breathes, admiring her handiwork.

"God..." You pant with a soft moan, your body limp over the counter.

"You're a mess," she whispers appreciatively, running her fingers through the cum on your back. 

She spreads it, marking you, enjoying the sight of her release on your skin. 

Her other hand reaches around to slap your ass lightly. 

You keep your posture straight, even if your back aches from the blow that dropped you earlier. You don't know how long you've been in this place. Hours? Days? SHIELD protocol demands silence. No matter what she does, you don't break. But the truth is: she hasn't even touched you. Not yet.

Because she doesn't need to.

The door hisses open.

She walks in without fanfare, without armor. No red leather. No crown. Just Wanda Maximoff in a black shirt, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hands bare.

And that's somehow worse.

You watch her circle the room like a lioness in slow motion. She doesn't look at you at first. Just drags a finger across the dusty table in the corner, brushes nonexistent dirt from her cuff.

Her voice cuts the silence. "I thought they'd send someone... bigger."

You smile with bloody teeth. "Disappointed?"

Wanda finally turns her gaze on you.

It's a punch to the gut. Her eyes are unreadable, green, gold, red, all at once, and she tilts her head just slightly as if reading you. The way a surgeon sizes up the patient before making the first cut.

"No," she says. "You're exactly who I wanted."

You lean back in your restraints, feigning comfort. "Funny. I didn't know I was so popular with terrorists."

Her jaw twitches. Just a flicker. Then she walks toward you, slow and controlled. Her boots echo on the concrete floor like a metronome winding down.

"You think I'm a terrorist," she repeats softly.

"You kidnapped an entire town."

"I freed them. Eventually."

"You killed people."

"And you've never pulled a trigger in your life?"

You glare. Her smile deepens, not warm. Not even cruel. Just fascinated.

"They told me you were smart. They didn't say you were pretty."

She stops in front of you. The heat radiating from her body coils around your skin. Her power hums just beneath the surface.

"I read your file," she murmurs. "Y/n L/n. SHIELD infiltration specialist. No psychic sensitivity. Resistant to telepathic suggestion. Advanced interrogation resistance training."

You smirk. "Enjoy the reading material?"

"I always enjoy learning how to break things."

Her fingers brush your jaw.

You flinch, but don't look away.

"Tell me what SHIELD wants from me," she says.

"Why not dig it out of my mind? Isn't that your thing?"

Her thumb wipes a smear of blood from your lip. Then she brings it to her mouth. Licks it clean.

"Where's the fun in that?"

Your thighs clench.

She notices.

Her mouth twitches.

"You're not afraid of me," she says, curious now.

"I know exactly what you are."

She leans in. Her breath hits your neck, warm and slow.

"Then why are you shaking?"

You're not.

Or... maybe you are.

You hate her. You want her dead. You want her closer.

"You're wasting time," you bite out. "You won't break me."

Wanda hums thoughtfully. Her hand slides to your throat, not squeezing. Just holding. Feeling the pulse. The vulnerability. The trust she knows you don't give.

"Maybe not with questions," she says. "Maybe not with pain."

You hold her gaze.

"Then what?"

She leans closer, her lips a breath from yours.

"Maybe I'll just make you beg."

Your heart slams against your ribs.

The lights flicker again.

This isn't about information anymore.

And you don't want it to stop.

She moves like shadow and flame, a slow burn with sharp edges. Her fingers drift from your throat, trailing down to your collarbone, and for a second, you swear, she hesitates. Just long enough for you to feel it.

"What's the matter, Maximoff?" you rasp. "Losing your nerve?"

Her power flares.

Red tendrils lick up your arms, not quite touching your skin but burning close. The restraints tighten with a creaking groan. She steps between your thighs, gaze locked to yours, and her expression has cooled into something dangerous.

"You want pain?"

You bare your teeth. "I want you to pick a side. Monster or martyr."

She laughs once, low and sharp. "Always so black and white with SHIELD."

Her hand glides over your sternum, then lower, slow and intentional.

"Let me show you the gray."

The magic binds your chest, curling like silk ribbon and iron wire all at once. It's not tight enough to suffocate, but it's enough to remind you that you're utterly at her mercy.

You inhale through your nose, exhale slowly. You won't give her the sound she wants. Not yet.

Her lips brush the shell of your ear.

"Tell me, agent..." Her voice is a whisper of heat. "When I finally crawl inside your mind, will you fight me the same way your body does?"

"You'll have to get in first."

Wanda chuckles, and it's dark this time. Not amused. A sound filled with hunger and warning.

"Oh, sweetheart," she murmurs. "I already am."

You twist in your restraints, testing them, not out of panic, but calculation.

Wanda watches every twitch of your muscles like she's memorizing you. Her hand finally settles at your hip, fingers digging in just hard enough to bruise.

You hate how your body responds.

But you don't hide it.

You meet her eyes and say nothing.

She tilts her head. "Still so quiet. That training must be exhausting."

You lean forward the inch your bindings allow. "Try harder."

Something dark flashes in her expression, not anger.

Arousal. Her magic ignites.

And the room begins to burn.

"Let's talk about your last mission," Wanda says, voice rich with mock curiosity as she pulls a chair from the corner and drags it across the floor. She flips it around and straddles it backwards, arms resting over the top, her posture casual in a way that drips with power.

You narrow your eyes. "You already know everything."

"Humor me."

Her fingers flex and suddenly a red wisp tightens the strap across your chest. Not choking, but closer. More intimate. Like a hand curling possessively beneath your ribs.

"You were embedded in Berlin," she begins. "Tracking an asset I happen to value. You made contact with one of my allies. Fed them false intel. Sabotaged a weapons exchange."

You offer a bloodstained grin. "You left your back door wide open. Rookie mistake."

Wanda leans forward. "And now here you are, caught in my cage, mouthing off like you're not minutes away from falling apart."

She reaches out and rests a finger against your knee. Just a single point of touch, but it's enough.

A pulse of magic climbs your thigh, slow, deliberate.

Your breath catches, and you hate that she hears it.

"There it is," she murmurs.

You bare your teeth. "You're going to have to do better than foreplay."

"Oh, I intend to."

The chair scrapes as she rises, her expression unreadable again. Her magic pulls at the restraints around your thighs, spreading them slightly. Just enough.

"You're still in control," she says softly, as if it's a kindness. "I haven't taken anything you haven't already given."

You know she's lying.

And yet your pulse is already racing, breath shallowing with the tension.

"Tell me what SHIELD sent you to find," she says. "And I'll make it good."

You tilt your head. "And if I don't?"

Her smile is razor sharp. "Then I make it better."

She steps forward.

And her hands go to your thighs.

You open your mouth to fire another quip, but Wanda is already moving.

A sickening crack echoes through the chamber as her knuckles collide with your jaw. Not a slap. A punch. It splits the inside of your cheek and rocks your head to the side. Blood drips from your lip to your chin, thick and hot.

You taste iron. You taste her power humming around you like the static before a storm.

The room falls silent.

Her footsteps are slow, methodical. When she grabs a fistful of your hair and wrenches your head back, there's no tenderness, only cold precision.

"You think this is a game?"

You glare at her. Smile with blood streaked teeth. "Looks like you're losing."

Her hand tightens in your hair. The other lifts, glowing red.

A needle-thin thread of energy snakes toward your temple. You feel it trying to push, in, but it doesn't get far. The resistance burns. You scream, just once, involuntarily.

She stops. Withdraws. Smiles.

"Interesting," she says. "You're harder to crack than most."

She leans in, nose nearly touching yours.

"But everything breaks. Eventually."

She conjures a blade of scarlet light, thin and elegant like a scalpel. She presses it just beneath your collarbone, slicing shallowly. You flinch. Blood wells and trails downward.

"Pain is honest," she murmurs. "It doesn't lie like your mouth does."

You pant through clenched teeth. "You're enjoying this."

"No," Wanda says. "I need this."

She drags the blade lower. Not enough to kill, never that, but enough to leave you bleeding, twitching. Open.

Then, she cups your cheek with the same bloodied hand.

"Now," she whispers. "Let's try again. What did SHIELD send you to find?"

You spit blood at her feet.

Wanda wipes it from her boot with a flick of magic, eyes never leaving yours.

"Fine," she says. "We'll start with something simpler."

Chains of red wrap tighter around your wrists, ankles, chest.

"Your pain tolerance."

She steps back, lifts her hand, and the screaming begins anew.

The red magic lashes through your nerves like fire and ice, biting into your skin, your bones, your thoughts. It's not just pain. It's sensation, overwhelming and precise. She calibrates it like a scientist, like a witch, like a lover who knows every threshold you refuse to name.

You shake in the chair, biting down on your tongue hard enough to reopen the wound in your cheek. The blood fills your mouth again. You choke on it. Swallow it. Gasp.

She watches.

"You don't scream like they do," Wanda muses aloud, as if she's observing a specimen under glass. "Most of them break here. Men. Agents. Super soldiers. They cry. They beg. But not you."

She steps forward. Her fingers trail down your arm with false gentleness, her voice like poison in silk.

"Is it pride that keeps you quiet? Or is it something darker?"

You force your eyes open, meet her stare. Your lips curl despite the blood. "You like it when I take it."

She exhales slowly, nostrils flaring. Her nails dig into your thigh.

"Masochist," she whispers.

You grin. "Takes one to know one."

And for the first time, she laughs. Quiet, genuine, cracked around the edges. Then her smile fades.

"You're going to bleed for me," she says. "But you're also going to give me what I want."

She flicks her fingers. The chains around your legs snap tighter. You groan, pain, pressure, heat. You don't beg. You won't.

"Why were you in Berlin? What was your real target?" she demands.

You spit again, slower this time. "I was watching you."

That catches her breath. Just a hitch. She covers it with violence, a blast of magic slamming into your ribs, then spreading into heat, crawling lower.

"Then watch me," Wanda hisses, stepping close.

She rips your shirt open with a flash of power. Her hand presses flat against your bare abdomen, the skin hot where she touches. Her lips are at your ear.

"You want pain? You want to prove how much you can take? Then you're going to take me."

And the interrogation becomes something else entirely.

She leans in, lips grazing the shell of your ear, her voice a silk-wrapped blade. "You break so beautifully."

The chains don't loosen, but shift, pressing you down, forcing your legs wider, your back flush to the cold steel. You don't resist. You can't. You wouldn't.

Her mouth brushes your jaw. "Let me hear the truth now. Not for SHIELD. Not for your cause. For me."

Her hand trails lower, between your thighs, knuckles grazing the sensitive heat she's been drawing out of you with every calculated word, every electric moment of pain.

"You're soaked," she murmurs, her tone colder now, like disappointment wrapped in silk. "And you're still pretending this is about loyalty."

You choke on breath. You want to curse her. You want to beg.

You do neither.

"Say it," she commands.

You shake your head.

Her fingers tighten around your throat just slightly, just enough to remind you.

"Say who you belong to."

You bare your teeth, defiant.

She smiles. Not kindly.

"Then I'll carve the answer into you."

And when her fingers slip inside your waistband and inside you, it's not tender. It's a claim.

Every movement is control. Every breath she lets you take is permission.

And she doesn't let you look away.

"Keep your eyes on me," she says, low. "You want to take me? Prove it. Show me how good you suffer."

You do.

And for the first time, you wonder if surrendering might feel like victory.

But you don't give her silence.

You laugh.

It's sharp, cracked, ugly, and it makes her pause.

"You think this proves something?" you rasp, voice raw. "You think your little throne of red light makes you a god? You're just a girl who couldn't control her grief, and now you're playing warlord because you're too afraid to be alone."

The change in her is instant.

Her hand snaps to your throat again, this time harder, pressing you back into the chair with brutal force. Not enough to cut air, yet. Just enough to remind you who owns the space between breaths.

"You don't get to talk to me like that."

You choke out another bloody grin. "Then make me stop."

She leans down until her forehead presses to yours, eyes glowing like twin furnaces.

"You think SHIELD will come for you? That anyone is coming? I've buried better agents than you beneath the bones of empires. I unmade gods for less."

She punctuates the word with a thrust of her fingers inside you, rough, deep. Your body jolts, but your smirk doesn't falter.

"Still just a scared little girl under all that power," you whisper.

She groans.

The magic flares so violently that the lights above burst, glass raining down behind her in slow motion.

"I am everything you fear in the dark," she breathes, slamming her hips forward, pressing into you with her whole body now, her voice a growl in your ear. "And the only reason you're still alive is because I like the way you sound when you break."

You gasp, shuddering, your voice shaking now. Not from fear.

"Then break me properly."

She does.

With a flick of her fingers, the physical restraints snap open, metal clattering to the ground like discarded rules. But you're not free.

Scarlet bands of power seize your limbs before you can even move. Your body is yanked upright, suspended for a heartbeat, before she slams you face-first into the cold concrete floor.

Pain blossoms across your cheekbone and shoulder. The breath leaves your lungs in a single stunned exhale.

You barely register the sound of her boots pacing behind you, slow and deliberate.

"On your knees for me now," Wanda murmurs. "You want to fight? Then crawl."

You try to push up, only for the magic to shove you back down. Her power pins you by the neck, spine arched, hips raised. Your dignity shatters one inch at a time, and she watches.

Her voice turns cruel. "You look better like this. Not so smug now, are you? A trained little agent without her leash."

Your pants vanish with a hiss of heat and red. The cold air hits you, and her hand follows, dragging across your bare skin like a brand.

"So wet," she sneers, voice thick with power-laced venom. 

You groan, humiliated, furious, turned on in ways you refuse to name.

She crouches behind you, one hand pressed hard between your shoulder blades, the other trailing fire between your legs.

"Now tell me," she groans, mouth hot at your ear. "What was the objective in Berlin? What did SHIELD want from me?"

You grit your teeth. "Go to hell."

Her fingers thrust deep without warning.

You scream.

She moans.

"That's more like it," she purrs. "You'll scream all my answers eventually. And if not, I'll just fuck them out of you."

She begins to move, slow and devastating, every thrust forcing your knees to scrape against the floor, her power keeping you exactly where she wants you.

"Say it," she demands. "Say who you belong to."

You hiss. You curse. You don't say it.

Her magic tightens again.

"Louder, agent," she snarls, her voice low and vibrating with cruel hunger. "I want the world to hear the moan you choke down. Let them know exactly what happens when they send one of their best to kneel before a goddess."

You bite down a sob, but what escapes is worse. A moan. Raw, guttural, defiant.

It cracks the silence open like glass.

Wanda stills.

Then she laughs, low, slow, cruel. The sound crawls down your spine like cold fire.

"You moan for me like that and still pretend you have control?" Her fingers twist in your hair, yanking your head back until your neck strains. "Pathetic. You think this is strength? It's submission in disguise."

Her grip tightens. Her magic burns hotter.

"SHIELD trained your body to endure," she hisses against your ear, voice thick with venom and desire, "but they forgot your mind. They forgot what happens when you beg without words."

Her fingers slam into you again, sharp, punishing.

"No one is coming for you. Not SHIELD. Not your handlers. You are mine now. You're ruined for anything but this."

She releases your hair just to shove your face down into the cold floor, your cheek scraping stone.

"I want you to remember this position. Every time you try to be brave, every time you pretend you're not aching for me to take you apart again."

Still, you don't give her the answer.

Then she stills.

You hear her breath, slow, deliberate, as her hands leave you, and the warmth of her body steps away. Your heart pounds, chest heaving. You almost speak, but then....

Cloth rustles behind you.

You dare to look.

Wanda strips with a terrifying calm, peeling her black shirt up over her head like she's shedding a skin. Her body is all sharp lines and soft curves and power humming beneath her skin like a second pulse. She steps out of her pants, slow, deliberate. Not for show. For dominance.

And when she kneels behind you again, bare and burning with magic, she doesn't touch you at first.

She presses her chest to your back, her skin scorching against your spine, her breath hot against your ear.

"Masochist," she purrs, voice like venom-laced silk. "That's what you are. You like being used. Hurt. Fucked raw until your name doesn't matter anymore."

You shudder.

She grinds her hips into you, slick and bare and hard with want, magic still wrapped around your wrists, your thighs, your throat.

"Say it," she whispers. "Say yes to me. Say who you want."

Your mouth moves before your mind can stop it.

"Yes," you moan. "Yes, Wanda."

She groans into your ear, voice guttural.

"Good," she growls. "So am I."

And then she takes you. Not with fingers this time.

You feel it when the magic surges, low and bright and crackling, reshaping her body into something not quite human, not quite divine, but built to ruin you. You cry out as the thick head of something new presses against you, slick and pulsing with red-hot energy. Her hands brace your hips. Her mouth hovers at your ear.

"Do you feel that? That's mine. All of it. Made for you."

You gasp as she pushes in, inch by devastating inch, her breath ragged now, low groans vibrating straight into your spine. Your nails claw at the floor, scraping across stone. Your mouth falls open. No sound. Just raw, wordless pleasure twisted with submission.

She bottoms out and doesn't move.

Her hand slides up your back, curls around your throat. Holds you there.

"Give me the truth," she hisses. "Tell me what SHIELD was after. Tell me who you serve."

You moan instead, neck straining, back arching, walls clenching helplessly around the thick magic she's buried deep inside you.

She thrusts once. Hard. Deliberate. Cruel.

"Say it, agent. Give me the mission, or I'll tear it out of your cunt."

You bite your lip until it splits, your fingers clawing grooves into the stone. Your body betrays you, every nerve alight.

She grabs your hair, yanks your head back, her lips at your ear.

"Tell me why you were really in Berlin," she growls. "Whose blood were you after?"

You whimper through gritted teeth. "You..."

Another thrust, sharper. Deeper.

"What was your extraction plan? What asset did you plant? Don't make me ask again."

You gasp, jaw dropping, unable to form the words fast enough.

She fucks into you again, her magic pulsing through every thrust.

"Tell me who gave the order, agent. Say their name. Say it while I ruin you."

You shake under her, a moan escaping before you can swallow it down.

"That's right," Wanda hisses. "You're not holding out. You're holding back. Because deep down, you want this. You want to give everything to me. And I'm going to take it. All of it."

She slams into you again, and you break.

"You," you sob. "You. You."

Her moan is primal, dark, triumphant.

"Good girl," she breathes. "Now scream it until they hear you in whatever grave SHIELD buried your backup in."

And when you do, loud, wrecked, pleading, she groans low in her throat, hips stuttering before she regains her rhythm with punishing force.

"That's it," she hisses. "You beg so pretty. But I want more. Give me the fucking intel or I pull out and leave you empty."

You cry out, body rocking beneath her, words spilling from your mouth like surrender. "Don't stop. Please—don't stop—"

Her laugh is dark, amused, merciless.

"Then give me a name. Say who sent you. Or I stop right now and make you finish with your own fingers while I watch."

You shake, gasping, desperate. She pulls back halfway. The threat is real.

Your voice cracks as you plead. "No—Wanda, please—"

She presses back in, hard enough to bruise.

"That's better. Keep begging. Keep giving. Or I take my cock and my mercy and leave you in this hole to remember what it felt like to be full of me."

You scream for her again. Not in pain. In total, broken, blissed-out need.

And Wanda? She moans against your ear like she's finally home.

Your face twists, eyelids fluttering, mouth slack, sweat and tears mixing as you writhe beneath her. Your voice is no longer defiant, it's raw, pleading, desperate.

"I'll tell you," you choke out. "Just—don't stop. Please, don't stop."

Her groan is vicious, satisfied, dragging against your spine. She doesn't stop. She moves harder.

"There she is," Wanda hisses. "The obedient little mouth I've been waiting for. Give it to me. Now."

Your moans break around the words. "It was coded intel—drop point under the checkpoint in Berlin. They wanted your extraction pattern—your weaknesses—"

"None," she snaps, biting your shoulder. "I have none."

"I know," you sob, gasping. "I know—please—"

She fucks you deeper, like reward, like punishment.

"Say it again. Who do you belong to?"

"You," you moan, eyes rolling back. "Only you."

She groals in your ear, dark and ravenous.

"That's right. And you'll never belong to anyone else again."

You whimper beneath her, barely able to breathe between moans. "They have files," you gasp. "Everything on you. Enhanced surveillance. Power pattern analysis. Emergency strike plans in case you went rogue—"

Wanda snarls, driving her hips forward with sudden fury. "They planned for this? For me?"

"Yes!" you sob. "But nothing—nothing that could stop you. Please—"

Her hand wraps around your waist and she shifts position, dragging your body up with hers. She presses your back to her chest, spreading your legs wider with her knees, fucking you at a new angle that sends lightning down your spine.

You throw your head back against her shoulder, moaning openly now.

"Right there—right there—please don't stop—"

"Then keep talking," she commands. Her voice is a growl against your ear. "Tell me what else they know. Tell me what they fear."

You babble through tears and broken gasps. "They know you're unstable—they think grief is your weakness—but it's not, it's not—"

"No," Wanda breathes, her pace brutal, delicious. "Grief made me free."

She shifts again, slamming into you harder from behind, forcing your palms flat to the floor as you sob beneath her.

"Say it again," she growls. "Say whose name you scream for."

"Wanda—" you cry. "Yours—only yours—"

And she rewards you with everything.

Her hips snap. Her power sears. Her mouth is a weapon pressed to your throat.

And you break for her again, giving her every secret you were trained to die with.

"They had contingency spells," you gasp, shaking beneath her. "Dark tech—backdoor psionics keyed to your DNA signature—please, right there—"

Wanda groans behind you, thrusts sharpening, pace punishing. "Keep going. You talk, I fuck you deeper. That's the deal."

"They were working with the Sorcerer Supreme," you moan, eyes rolling back, hips jerking back into her. "Mystic containment units—fail-safe tech hidden in Prague—I wasn't supposed to engage—I just—I had to see you—"

She groals, slamming into you so hard your hands scramble against the floor for purchase.

"Good girl," she snarls. "Keep confessing. Every word makes you tighter. Do you feel that? That's your body begging to betray everything you stood for."

You sob out, "Don't stop—please, Wanda, I'm yours—I'll give you everything—"

She leans in, lips at your neck, breath hot and cruel. "You already have.""

Her thrusts slow, grinding, deep, drawing out every sob, every broken moan she's pulled from your throat. She presses a kiss to your jaw, wet and open-mouthed, her voice a low snarl against your skin.

"All that training," she murmurs, "and this is what finally breaks you."

Your nails scrape helplessly at the floor, your back arching as she pounds into you again. You can't form words. You don't need to.

"You gave them everything," she growls, nipping at your shoulder, "and they gave you to me."

Another thrust. Then another.

"And now," she whispers, voice dark with satisfaction, "you're going to come for me like the good little traitor you are."

And when you do, screaming her name, there's no doubt who owns you.

Your body locks, every nerve alight, your orgasm crashing through you like a warhead. You sob her name again and again, voice cracking on every breathless syllable. Wanda doesn't stop, not until she groans low and deep behind you, her body shuddering against yours.

You feel her pulse, thick and hot, deep inside, magic flaring red across your skin like sparks in a blackout. She pants into your neck, pressing tighter, nails digging into your hips.

Then, slowly, she pulls out.

You collapse to the floor, shaking, spent. You don't dare move. Can't.

She rises, naked and towering, unhurried as she gathers her clothes. Red tendrils of energy curl protectively around her skin, warding, cloaking. Her body is still flushed, lips parted, chest rising in deep, satisfied breaths.

Her voice breaks the silence like a spell. "SHIELD thinks they've caged a god. They're wrong. I'm going to burn their plans. Their files. Their cities."

You stare up at her, dazed, ruined.

She steps toward the door, pausing just long enough to look back over her shoulder.

"Rest up, agent. When I come back—"

Her lips curl.

Baron and his men were never able to see if their experiment worked, which is why they had taken in the twins, you assumed. You swore to yourself you’d never return and begin anew, in America. 

Baron Strucker prodded you until you were black and blue, wishing you had just died in the freezing snow underneath a bridge, which had been your current residence before that hellhole. The days spent in that cold and dark cell were some of your worst, but it shaped you into who you became.

The roof over your head and money that they had promised you were never in the picture to begin with, but you had been too naive to question their words.

Somewhere in that idiotic mind of yours, you found it in yourself to outsmart the men who guarded you and escape, your new power made you able to do things you’d never dreamed of. 

And you did just that. 

Soon, you took the attention of Nicolas Fury and his agents and eventually worked your way into being an Avenger. You were now smarter, faster, and more experienced than you had ever been, and you were incredibly grateful to have found a family in the team that surrounded you. 

Contrary to the promise you made yourself, you had to return to your hometown, not knowing you’d also be witnessing its demise. Back in Sokovia, it was pure chaos. Robots and people crowded the streets while smoke filled the air in your lungs.

You were breaking the metal soldiers with ease, a simple wave of your hand sent twelve flying into the air, crushed to pieces. You’d seen Wanda in the distance, struggling to hold her own against seven robots. Weak strands of red escaped her hands, but it did little to no damage.

“You okay?” You were still holding her arm tightly, noticing the way she trembled. Wanda quickly removed your touch as if your skin burned her. 

Watching her fall to the ground in despair you quickly ran to her side, obliterating the pieces of metal that surrounded her. Shrapnel flew into the air, and you covered both yourself and Wanda the best you could with a shield bubble, flecks of pale blue swirled deeply.

Pulling her off the ground, you dusted her jacket off and introduced yourself with a smile.

“I didn’t need your help,” she said sourly, before brushing past your shoulder. 

“You did though,” you mutter to no one but yourself. Shaking your head, you dismissed her strange behavior and blamed the circumstances around you. 

Soon they’ll calm down, you told her, trying to be of any comfort. You didn’t know it at the time, but your matching accent and similar clothes overwhelmed her immediately, and she only responded with a simple shrug before wandering back into her room.

You had joined the Avengers three years before Wanda, and you’d understood what it felt like to be an outsider to them, especially with the power you harnessed.

You were deemed dangerous and violent before you were completely able to take control of what was inside you, like Wanda had been. When Wanda had just moved into the compound in the early days, she seemed like a fish out of water, keeping to herself while agents and higher-ups named her a threat to society.

You knew you didn’t have a desperate craving for validation or to be liked. You were your own person and you tried your best to be the opposite of how you’ve been treated in the past. You were encouraging to your other teammates and didn’t like to get on anyone’s bad side.

You told yourself that at least, especially when Wanda was really starting to test your patience. 

Well over a year had passed since the incident of Sokovia, and you’re one hundred percent certain that the most you’ve ever conversed with her had been the day you met. 

The way her eyes avoided you when you entered a room. Her loud sighs of annoyance when you suggested an idea for a mission. How she never made sure to accept help from you again, taking bruises or cuts instead of letting you lend a hand.

Over coms, you praised her hard work and complimented her wit only to be met with silence on her end. Even something so simple as existing in the same shared space as Wanda seemed to make her upset. It drove you crazy how she would leave as quickly as you walked in, mumbling some excuse under her breath.

“Why does this bother you so much?” Natasha asks, reviewing files on her computer. She had been glued to her screen for over an hour now, responding to emails and going over data she’d been collecting. 

“I just don’t know what I’ve done!” You say, your head in your hands as you lay in Natasha’s bed. She had always been your favorite of all the others, and you had gotten close over the years.

She was someone you could confide in, and likewise. You understood each other having been the only other woman to join the team, so Natasha stuck by your side almost immediately. 

“We are Sokovian, we are similar in our age, we share a home that we lost, and we both fought in that battle. I thought maybe she would like to…” you trail off, rubbing your face. “Confide in me.”

“Is that the only reason?” You can’t see her face but you hear the smirk evident in Natasha’s voice.

“Yes,” you say with some uncertainty. You didn’t know why it bothered you past the point of pure annoyance for her hatred, but you were settled on that answer. 

“I don’t like every Russian I encounter, you know. Some people just aren’t meant to enjoy each other. And your little crush on Wanda seems to be unreciprocated so I’d just leave it if I were you.” Natasha holds in her laughter as she waits for your response. 

You sit up in her bed quickly. “Take that back!” 

Natasha turns around in her swivel chair, folding her arms over her chest. “No.”

“You’re making a joke? Pulling my leg,” you say, laughing now at her absurd suggestion. You had the furthest thing of a crush on that woman. Natasha might’ve just fueled your hatred even more at the mere thought of ever being that close to Wanda. 

Natasha says nothing else as she turns back to her work, leaving you in deep thought. You get up from her bed, confused but determined in your strong opinion.

“And for the record,” you begin to open Nat’s door, an amused look on Natasha’s face as she watches you. “She’s proven herself to be nothing but a jealous, power-hungry bitch. I could never love something like that.”

“Excuse me,” you shove your way past her, brushing her shoulder. “Mudak.”

“I never said anything about love, babe,” Natasha giggles, but her smile drops when her eyes land on a figure behind you. You turn to find Wanda wearing a disapproving sulk, standing as close to you as she’s ever been.

You didn’t care if she had been listening, you wanted her to. You’ve never heard her talk badly about you to anyone, but her actions alone were enough to justify what you’d just done.

From that day forward, it was now a strong mutual hate, and you were fine with that. 

You no longer offered her any sort of help on missions or around the compound. There were plenty of others to watch her back, and you were wasting your time doing that in the first place, anyway. Wanda was doing just fine on her own, as you watched her take down those around her with pure ease now. She must’ve been training hard, you thought. 

Catching your breath, you questioned why you ever had been so worried for her before, it’s not like she ever acted differently with you. 

You’re reminded of Natasha’s words, and you dismiss that idea quickly. No, it was just because you shared a lost country and you were concerned about how she dealt with her powers, you’re sure of it. 

“Watch out!” Sam yells your name loudly in your earpiece, and a sharp pain takes over your head, sending ringing through your ears. You cry out, feeling blood pool from your head. “On your left!”

He shouts again, but you have trouble focusing your vision when all you can see is red, gushing from the wound above your eye. 

“Shit, help!” You groan, as you feel a bullet graze the left side of your body. You quickly send a shockwave to those around you, knocking them to the ground, but it wasn’t enough.

More emerge from behind flipped and shattered vehicles, all armed and all shooting at you. Before you can even try to deflect the incoming bullets, a huge burst of red flows from behind you, trembling the earth beneath your feet and immediately obliterating the soldiers that had been firing at you. 

You’re not sure how much time passes before a boot that you recognize as Wanda’s is in front of your vision. “Try not to get distracted next time.” Dust clouds your eyes as she walks away. I hate you, you try to speak, but you can’t move your mouth.

With a flick of her wrist, Wanda shoves your body away from danger, continuing to send bursts of red into the air of the enemies around her. You can do nothing but lay in the dirt and wait for someone to get you, feeling all of your limbs shake from the impact of the bullet that was still lodged into your side.

The dirt around you turns warm from your blood, and it is the only thing you can feel now. 

The others gather around you quickly, followed by paramedics from the Avengers compound. 

You never thought you’d live to say it, but you were grateful that Tony Stark was throwing a party. Normally you’d like to unwind with a long bath, followed by reading a book or listening to music. But with the past week, all you wanted was to stop caring about everything, dance, and drink your thoughts away. 

Your week was spent with the others in long meetings about how to prevent things like this in the future, and to tell you for the one-millionth time just how vital the information that you let get away was. 

You recovered from your injury rather quickly, but the repercussions from that day hit you hard as well. The mission had completely failed because of your mistake and you compromised the safety of yourself and everyone around you.

You always took mission failures hard and blamed yourself for entirely too long. It happened to everyone, even to the best of the team, but it was humiliating knowing Wanda had to take on twice as many soldiers because of you, cover for you, and protect you.

Not to mention how you hadn’t seen the men come out of nowhere because your thoughts were consumed by her. But that was a thought you refused to process. 

“Vodka soda, please. With extra lime.” You smile gratefully at the bartender as she begins to pour the alcohol into a tall glass. Except for the long meetings everyone had to sit in this week thanks to you, you were pleasantly surprised to not have encountered Wanda at all these past few days. 

So, you were looking forward to forgetting everything that was going wrong at the minute and letting loose for the first time in a while.

You danced to the blaring music with Natasha, empty drinks in hand. Giggling and twirling each other around, you eventually tired and went to the bar to rest and continue drinking. 

While sipping on your drink, you began to look for her around the room, intrigued to see if she was capable of letting herself have fun. You get interrupted by a face you weren’t expecting to see, but you’re certainly not complaining. Sharon Carter walks up to you wearing a tight black dress, a small smile on her lips. 

“I’ll have what she’s having,” she says lowly to the bartender, who gives a nod and begins pouring her drink. “You look…” Sharon trails off, eyes glued to your chest. Her face flushes slightly, making you smile.

“You’re not so bad either,” you say, bringing the cold liquid to your mouth. The last time you saw Sharon was around three months ago, wrapped in the sheets of your bed. “Nice of you to say goodbye.”

“You have my number, you could’ve reached out at any point,” Sharon laughs, taking a sip of the drink placed in front of her. “I hate these, you know.”

You grinned. 

Whoever wasn’t on the dancefloor was engaged in conversation, laughing loudly with a cup or bottle wedged in their hands. On your fourth drink of the night, you realize you’ve been taking everything in your life way too seriously.

You need to drink more alcohol you decide, as you listen to Sharon drone on about what was new with her. You always seemed to fall back into a cycle with the blonde.

Sure, she was great and you found her attractive, but you know you didn’t feel anything real for her. She was gone half the time anyway, the only time you ever saw her was at these stupid gatherings. 

But tonight was about forgetting, you remind yourself, downing your soda. Sharon had stopped talking and was now closer than before. With the way she was leaning further into you, it was clear what her intentions were.

You’d been with her plenty of times to know how she operated, you’d like to think. Her lips brush your ear, gently pressing a kiss to your neck. Your eyes begin to close as you allow her more access, but they quickly re-open when you hear a sound from across the room.

A loud shatter caused Sharon to pull away, both of you looking to see the source of the noise. 

“Let’s get out of here,” you whisper, biting your lip gently. Sharon nods, staring at your mouth. You tug her arm, stumbling off the bar seat you’d been sitting on. You turn around, noticing Sharon is frozen in place. You frown as her eyes turn a deep crimson, the color draining from her face. 

It turned out to be Wanda's glass, looking like she had just shattered it with her hand. She was smiling apologetically at a busboy, who was beginning to clean her mess up.

Your mouth parts slightly in surprise, her actions forgotten as you focus on the green dress that Wanda wears. Sharon brings you out of your thoughts by focusing on your neck again. 

“I have to go,” Sharon says dryly. She forces a smile before wandering off, now lost in the sea of people in front of you. Wanda. Of course, she would want to ruin yet another moment of happiness for you, like she hadn’t sucked it bone-dry from you enough. If it was somehow possible, you felt every emotion inside you physically snap.

“Oh, I’m fucking done,” you whisper, whipping your head around to see where the brunette was. From across the room, you can see her looking pleased with herself, quickly downing the new drink in her hand. Before you can even think about how things might turn awry, your legs walk you to where she stood. 

You gripped her arm, a light blue glowing from your eyes as you stormed out of the room, dragging the brunette with you. Your nails dig into her skin, and you stumble upon a supply closet door that you push her through. Wanda gasps as you press her against the wall, but she does nothing about the new physical contact. 

"What's your fucking problem?" You gritted through your teeth, squeezing her arms. "You can't let me have anything nice?

Wanda's eyes scan your face, her green eyes look darker than usual. "I didn't want you to sleep with Sharon,” Wanda says as if it were obvious, making you angrier. 

"What is it to you?" You cry, aware of how loud your voice is. You didn’t care if the entire world heard this long-awaited conversation, you were going to say what you wanted, at whatever volume. “I’ve slept with Sharon several times before, and only now you’ve got an issue with it?”

Wanda’s eyes flash with surprise, unaware of that fact. “I-”

“You ruin my day, my mood, you ruin everything!” 

Wanda tilts her head at that statement, watching your chest rise and fall heavily. "Is that so..."

“Do you?”

"I hate you," you choke out, looking away from Wanda's eyes. You realize you’d been staring into them this whole time. You let go of her arm, leaving her standing against the wall as you begin to turn away to leave. She catches your grasp again, pulling you back into her orbit, and making you stand where you originally had been.

Close.

“What?”

“Hate me,” Wanda says softly. You’re looking at her in utter disbelief, unable to believe this is happening. Her hand is wrapped tightly around your wrist, warm and firm. You and Wanda have never conversed this much, let alone touched like this before.

“You hate me,” you say slowly, as if you’re trying to make her remember. “What are you doing?” You try to read her eyes, her face, her anything for an explanation of what was going on, what she was playing at. Before you can take another breath, Wanda’s lips connect to yours softly. 

They touch for an instant before you immediately shut it down. Breaking away from her, you’re unable to speak. 

She watches you intently, reading every expression on your face, imagining the thoughts running around in your mind. So much has just happened in the last ten minutes, and you can finally feel the effects of all of the drinks you carelessly downed.

It settles at the bottom of your stomach, along with the newfound nervousness and pit that forms because of the girl in front of you. Wanda’s face is flushed, matching the same color of her mouth. She looks beautiful. 

You feel like you gain consciousness when she starts to kiss your neck, holding your head in her hands as she does. Your mouth falls open slightly, breathing hard with her. You remember there’s a party still happening in the next room and the world did not stop spinning the moment she kissed you, as much as it felt like it had.  

What she doesn’t expect is for you to lean in, crashing your lips back onto hers. She sighs into your mouth sweetly, tilting her face to deepen the kiss. Your hands make their way into the soft strands of her hair, pressing the back of her head further in, closing your distance over and over.

Her hands rest on your arms, holding on tightly, as if you’d disappear at any moment. It’s so hot, the way she kisses you like she knows just what you want, like this was her last chance to have you.

“I shouldn’t,” you whisper. You don’t stick around to see the pained expression that covers Wanda’s face, closing the door behind you quickly. You find your way back to the party, and so does Wanda who heads to the bar. 

Not to forget, several people saw you leave with Wanda, and everyone knows your weird history. After this long week, you didn’t want to have to deal with anything else.  It takes every ounce of strength in you to gently grab her shoulders and push her away from you.

Wanda’s fears are confirmed. Her hands still hold your arms as she watches you, confused. 

“Back from seven minutes in heaven so soon?” Tony Stark calls out to you, placing a blue colored shot in your hand, and into the hands around you as well. 

-

“Shut up,” you giggle, downing it quickly. Shocker, you want to forget whatever had just happened with Wanda, again. You find yourself full circle, starting just as you had at the beginning of the night.

Another drink, another dance, another song, and you’re completely wasted. The last thing you remember is pulling on Mjolnir’s handle tightly before everything goes black. 

The next morning arrives too soon, rays of sunlight peak through blinds and onto your eyes. You roll over, hoping to catch more sleep as your headache begins to burn slowly. You’d deal with that in a few hours, you thought, stretching your arms out in front of you. You’re met with soft skin, and you retract your arms as if you’d gotten slapped. 

Any more thoughts of sleep are forgotten as your eyes shoot open, a full vision of a bare back in front of you, the torso connected to it covered in a white duvet and sheets.

Your first context clue is the fact that your blankets and sheets have always been dark blue, and you know the brown messy waves that contrast against the white pillow are Wanda’s. Your heart sinks, remembering what a mess you’ve created as the night came back to you.  

Never mind any of that, you need to get out of here now before Wanda wakes up and you two are forced to talk again. Your face heats up when you think of the supply closet from just a few hours ago.

The way Wanda had held and kissed you was permanently burned into your mind, you’re sure of it. “Jesus Christ,” you whispered to yourself. 

You slowly remove yourself from Wanda’s duvet and search for the dress you had on last night. You pick up the low-cut red dress you were wearing that had been crumpled underneath Wanda’s, your mouth dropping in surprise when you saw that your dress had been ripped open, instead of zipped down the back. 

After a few minutes of gathering your thoughts, you decided to stick to your original plan: to get the hell out of this room. The last thing you've ever wanted to do was sleep with Wanda, and now here you are, butt naked in her bed.

You can’t remember anything besides kissing her in the closet, you were so sure that was it, that you didn’t find her after the party had ended. 

"I'm sorry about your dress..." Wanda says, startling you. 

"No, it's-it's fine, I can fix it," you stammered, averting your gaze away from the brunette. You heard the sheets ruffle as she began to sit up. You stole a glance at her, noticing her red face as she stared openly at your naked chest. "I'm borrowing one of your hoodies," you told her, and she nodded.

Wanda rubs her eyes with her hands, letting out a small yawn. “You showed up at my door after the party.”

You pull your head through Wanda’s soft hoodie, her sweet scent immediately filling your nose. 

“In case you were wondering,” Wanda adds. You weren’t sure if she’d be happy if you told her you didn’t remember a single thing that you did with her besides a few kisses. 

“Thanks…can I take these shorts too?”

You know you’ve made a huge mistake in venturing out when you find Natasha Romanoff sitting on a chair in the kitchen, eating her toast while scrolling through her computer files. She greets you with a nod, her eyes remaining on the device in front of her.

“You smell weird,” she states flatly. 

“You smell weird,” you say back, poking your head in the fridge for something to eat. After the events of last night, all you’d had to consume was alcohol, and though you could handle your liquor well, you’d completely forgotten to eat. 

Nat takes a bite of her toast, crunching as she talks. “Mm- no, you smell like that fancy shit Wanda wears.” 

“Of course she wears expensive.”

“Damn right.” 

You pop a bagel in the toaster, hands across your chest as you face her. “I’m so tired,” you try to act as natural as you can for being fully dressed in Wanda’s clothes. You knew you should’ve at least tried to cover up what had happened, maybe fled back into your room to change, yet your hunger placed a higher significance. “I’m never drinking again.”

“I guess you’re too tired to tell me what you’re doing in that,” Natasha looks you up and down once before returning to her work. You don’t miss the slight smirk that covers her lips. 

“I just-”

You don’t have the chance to finish before others walk in, Clint takes his spot next to Natasha, and Sam begins to raid the fridge, making you move out of the way. You quickly finish putting together your food before your clothing is recognized by anyone else. Turning around, you almost collide with a pair of green eyes, the woman you’d just had an extremely awkward interaction with earlier. 

“Hi,” you say.

“Hi,” Wanda replies gently. She holds your gaze for a few moments longer before you decide to head back to your room. She smiles to herself, hiding it from the others as she reaches for her tea mug. She fills it and drops in the bag, before walking to the living room to drink.

Sam’s eyes widen as he turns towards the kitchen table.

“No fucking way,” he whispers loudly to Natasha and Clint, who try to hold in their laughter. 

-

You’d be lying to yourself if you weren’t waiting for Wanda to make the next move. Everything about your relationship with her had been flipped upside down. You liked feeling her eyes on you when you’d work out in the training room, or during a long meeting. Chances are when you’d turn your head to look at her, she’d already be looking.

Instead, you faced the wrath of Natsha’s interrogation shortly after. 

You didn’t talk about what had happened, it was complete radio silence except for body language. The way she let her legs lean against yours in a van, heading to a stakeout location for a mission.

The smile on her lips you’d catch when she walked past you, looking to the ground. The day she moved strands of your hair that covered your eyes, in front of the whole team. You wanted to end the tension that had been building right there and then, staring into her soul. 

These were incredibly tiny moves she was making, and you found yourself wanting more. 

Wanda had been gone for two long days, making your life stuck in the compound completely dull. Clint was away visiting his family, Natasha was busy working on her files, and the others had been sent away on missions of their own, Steve and Sam had gone with Wanda.

It was a rare few days off, but without anyone to talk with or…glance at, you found yourself with mind-numbing boredom. You tried going for a walk with your headphones in, shopping, or reading a book in a local park, but none of it makes you happy. You realize all you’d wanted was a certain someone close.

I added a little bit to it, I hope you don’t mind. 

Your wishes are granted when you get the sign you’d been waiting for when you return to your room, late at night. On your bed rests your red dress from weeks ago at the party, in brand new condition.

Hung on a hanger and neatly folded, the red seems as if it’s a deeper color, with additions of tool and length. The low cut remained the same, and you traced the fabric in awe, running your fingers over the smooth material. Your eyes travel to a small note attached to the front. 

Wanda didn’t sign her name, but you knew it would have only been her. You had left her room in a hurry, your ripped and ruined dress was merely an afterthought. You had only thought of her in the time that had passed since the morning after the party.

You fold the note and put it on your nightstand, cherishing her small words. You check her location to see she was still a ways away from the compound, meaning she had sent the dress to your room with magic.

An hour passes as you debate what you want to do. This was Wanda’s sign, returning the very thing you’d been with her in, even improving and adding her spin to it. You know you had nothing to top her grand gesture, but maybe you didn’t need to. It had been so long since someone made you feel so special like this, and Wanda of all people.

Wanda came to see you first. Her green eyes widened in slight surprise, and she looked like she had heavy words on her mind. Her thumbs play with the hem of her long sleeve, showing you she was anxious to have shown up. You take notice of a small cut above her eyebrow that she hasn’t bothered to fix yet. 

You lay in your bed with your thoughts, brushing over the dress with your fingers to check if it was real every so often. A small blush creeps its way to your face, re-reading the note she left, and finding yourself smiling at it.

All you knew at this moment was that you wanted to be with her. In whatever way, even if she was in the same room paying you no attention you’d be grateful. There’s no harm in checking, you impatiently decide as you climb out of bed and begin opening the door, only for your heart to swell at the sight before you.

“Did you just get back?” 

Wanda nods. “Ten minutes ago I think.”

You part for air after pressing a singular kiss to her mouth, your hands make their way to her face. Wanda watches you examine her, taking notice of the bruises along the side of her cheek that you didn’t see right away. “How did you get these?” You whisper, your thumb traces the cut above her eyebrow.

That was enough for you to pull her inside your room, kissing her against the shut door. She kisses you back instantly, letting you take full control as she melts into your touch. Her scent was a mix of her signature perfume and salt, filling your senses and making you want to be closer to her.

Her hands finally begin to touch you when she deepens the kiss, opening her mouth against you and you gladly accept. Her fingers run along your arms, squeezing gently. She wanted the same thing you did, and you wanted to remember this time. 

“I was distracted.” Wanda smiles slightly, looking into your eyes. You exhale a short laugh, kissing her bruised cheek carefully. 

“Can I?”

Wanda nods, her eyes closing when small swirls of blue extend from your fingertips. Gently, you heal her cut, the deep red turning back into her soft skin. You heal her bruise next, her cheek returning to its normal color. “Better?”

Wanda kisses you, thanking you for your services. You know she could’ve very well done it herself, but you were almost proud she let you help her, even if it was just this small thing. “Better.”

The smile doesn’t leave her face when she notices you staring from above. She felt so small underneath your gaze, and she leaned in to kiss you softly. “What?” 

Wanda lets you take her to bed, missing the warmth and touch of your skin. She lays down, resting her head on your pillows as you kneel, your knees digging into the soft padding around you.

You kiss her messily, leaning over her. She bites her lip as you remove your shirt, and she fumbles with her own, her hair getting messier when she tosses it to the floor. She smiles playfully when you laugh at her, gently slapping your bare arm. 

Her mouth parted when you entered her, inching off the mattress that lay beneath her back. You noticed the slight beads of sweat on her forehead and the way her breathing changes when you quickened your pace. You adjusted to what she liked, what she asked you for. You wanted to give her everything you had. 

“Nothing,” you whisper against her lips, kissing her again. You could never face her again if you’d told her just how beautiful she truly was. How her wavy hair fanned against your pillow, her soft and pale skin gleaned with your marks all over, her half-moon eyes and curious smile, and the color of her now swollen lips.

There was so much beauty to take in, she didn’t even know, she could never see herself from your eyes.

Your name echoed into your mind as she whispered it over and over. 

-

“I missed you.” You speak during a long moment of silence, lying next to Wanda. Your fingers traced the outline of her hip, spreading to her back and sending chills down her spine. You figured she would be asleep with her face turned away from you, but she proves you wrong by rolling back over. 

An amused smile spreads over her lips. “Did you?” She reaches out to comb her slim fingers through your hair. “I was gone for only two days.”

You nod, closing your eyes under her touch. “I want to ask you things. I feel like I have so many questions…” You begin to feel drowsy, and you mumble something incoherent that Wanda doesn’t understand.

“Ask me things,” Wanda whispers into your ear. It’s the last thing you hear before falling asleep, Wanda’s hand still running through your hair. She watches you sleep peacefully, before joining you shortly after.

After that encounter, your mornings start to change, as do your nights. You wake up and go to bed with the same body by your side almost every night, and when you don’t, you miss her a little too much. As weeks go by, you feel like you could truly be happy with only her , forever. You don’t tell her that, but you desperately want to. 

It turned out Wanda had the best taste in movies and TV shows that you desperately needed to be cultured on, in her opinion. You showed her your CD's and records, letting her listen to all of the music you loved.

She cooked for you and lent you her books and clothes, surprising you with her generosity. You spent long hours by her side, sleeping, reading, talking… doing whatever you could just to stay with her a little longer. She did the same, finding peace and comfort in your presence, something she never would have expected from you. 

You especially loved coming home to her after a solo mission, as she would examine you for injuries carefully. You let her heal your wounds and kiss away your pain, as you did the same for her.

You trained together and against each other. You were still faster and stronger, but you gave her helpful tips and information that she could discover about herself. And you did normal things, shopping around New York, meeting each other for coffee, trying to be as ordinary as you could be while balancing the lives of being Avengers.

You made sure to look out for Wanda more than you ever had, helping her when needed and making sure she could hold her own from a distance. She no longer refused your help, instead took it gratefully. 

You slept peacefully in her arms and woke up happily to the sight of her next to you. 

One day while you traced patterns on her back as she slept, you realized your biggest hatred had turned into something you were beginning to fall in love with.

-

“Was it just from the day we met?”

Wanda’s eyes narrow, turning her head to think back to the memory. “Sokovia?”

“The robots. When I pulled you from the ground.” You sit up in your bed now, wanting to find something to wear. You’d been with her a few hours now unclothed, and only now you felt the urge to cover up.

Wanda shakes her head, letting out a small laugh. “I was embarrassed, yes, but no it wasn’t just that. Could I have my shirt too?” She watches you get dressed, a small frown wrinkles her face as you toss it to her, seeing you slip on a pair of underwear. “Do you want me to leave?” 

“No!” Wanda can’t hide her smile at the speediness of your reply.  “No, I mean, I want you here.”

“Okay,” she whispers. “No, it wasn’t because of the day we met.” The mattress moves slightly when you sit back next to her. You nod, urging her to continue. “You were a reminder of home. My family and my brother,” Wanda hesitates before mentioning Pietro. “Your accent and your clothes… it was a lot for me, back then at least.”

“I wish you told me, I would’ve backed off, or-”

She reaches forward to touch your hand, intertwining your fingers slightly. “And, I hated how you made me feel. I thought maybe if I pushed you away as hard as I could, you’d never want me how I did you. I thought I got what I wanted when I saw you that night with Sharon at the party.”

Wanda’s eyes shine with honesty, and she watches your face carefully as she explains herself. “But I never hated you,” she speaks the most quietly of all her words. “I was... scared.” She shakes her head, embarrassed. “It sounds so stupid when I say it but-”

“It’s not stupid, I promise. I’m not angry anymore…” You trace her shoulder with your free hand softly. If you were sure of one thing, it was certainly that. All the walls you’d thrown over your heart for Wanda were torn down, and you couldn’t have been more grateful.

You allow her to focus on your hand, mindlessly fiddling with your fingers as she speaks. You can only think how you wished you knew, you feel like you foolishly wasted so much time hating her and doing things just to spite her, like a child. As if she heard your thoughts, she connects her eyes to yours, shaking her head. 

“I’m sorry. For all of it. And I understand if you don’t want something serious,” Wanda pauses reluctantly. “With me.” There’s a hint of insecurity in her voice, and you reach out to tilt her face to yours.

“You’re all I want.”

so, while her blue eyes scan every corner of your house, the eyes of a random person watch your every move

feeliing like you're being watched is the worst, but you know whats worse? going home, taking a shower,. and when you go to look for your underwear, you notice that some pairs are missing and they're not even in the washing machine.

it's really unsettling, especially when you thought your house was well secured.

it starts keeping you up at night; your friends worry about you, and some think you’re overreacting—that no one’s really spying on you.

but it wasn’t even your friends who were saying those things—it was her. she’d tell you that you had nothing to worry about, that everything would get better, and that there really wasn’t anyone after you.

and you held your friend's body close to you, grateful for their words of comfort even though they felt a little strange and different from how your friends act.

and Jean enjoyed the feeling of your body touching hers (even though it wasn’t really her body).

feeling your body close as she pressed your underwear to her nose and imagined that instead of hers it was your fingers stuffing her cunt made her feel like she was in heaven. moans spilling from her mouth while she rubbed her clit and closed eyes to see your face contorted with worry and unease.

she knew it was wrong—to follow you, spy on you, and manipulate your friends’ minds. but she really couldn’t stop moaning your name over and over again. and she couldn’t stop her fingers from typing “hey” to you and using everything she knew about you to win you over and sweet-talk you.

The lantern rocked back and forth, and you cursed yourself.

The torch whips back and forth, pushing light around like a god damn light show. 

The carvings in the walls were of terrifying figures. Their swords drawn, ready for battle, all pointing, ready to kill each other.

Your bare feet step forward, the cobblestones cold under your toes. You shudder. You hate the cold.

For hours you’d been getting lost. Your teeth chatter from the temperature. 

“Oh go on, you love a puzzle, Pet.” The voice booms, and you cradle your skull as your head pounds. 

“Get out. Leave me alone.” You yell as your fingers dig into your hair. 

“You just keep running around the castle like my little Bunny. But we both know when night falls, you’ll need me again. You can’t go for long. Why not end this little game early tonight? I’ll let you soak in the tub. Kiss that spot that makes you sing for me. What do you say?” Agatha’s sickly sweet offer was almost worth it. 

Your skin feels like maggots are crawling all over it.

“I have more time!” You argued, though the way your canines pierced your own tongue, you knew it to be a lie. You were tired, hungry, exhausted, and oh so cold.

“You’ve been this way before; it doesn’t lead to the book. It never does.” Agatha reminds you solemnly. A game stacked for you to always lose, but to keep you occupied, you were sure. 

“I already tried the kitchen.” You said out loud, as if this made more sense. 

“Hmm, and you crawled around with the rats I saw, so much better than piano practice than little bug?” Agatha questioned, and you tried not to roll your eyes. 

You were getting too cold; you couldn’t keep this up. 

“I just need to figure out how to get to the gazebo.”

“No, that’s outside; it’s winter. Try again.” Agatha said, bored with your confusion. 

“You’re just trying to confuse me.” You talk back, knowing that won’t do. 

You stumbled forward and gasped, pain searing your mind, icy pain shooting through your body.

“I could always just find you….Call you back to Mommy.” Agatha's threat rang in your ears until you felt sick.

“No, no cheating.” You reminded her; the Lady of the castle was many things- monstrous, disgusting things. A cheat was very much on that list.

Lady Harkness was a liar up in her tower. A coward for her creator, Mother Miranda. 

And it didn’t matter how you felt about Agatha. 

This would not be the first time she cut your game short simply because she’d grown bored. 

“Pet, are you telling me the rules now?” Agatha’s temper flared, and you picked up the pace as you ran through the opening. 

“I have until sundown.” You insist like a brat, but even now you can feel yourself slipping. You weren’t even sure you wanted to move forward.

“I don’t see the sun, do you?” Agatha cackles and you’re no longer solid. 

You break out into the flies, just as the wicked woman had created you. 

“Come back to Mommy. It’s time to feed; you’ve grown too weak on this childish fantasy.” Agatha scolds you; this sick relationship between you and her was the only thing that gave the wicked woman any purpose.

Being obsessed with you, creating you from Mother Miranda’s haunted book…making you a bloodthirsty, rotten thing. Made from flies….having you call her Mother all while lying with her like man and woman every night. 

It was fucked up. 

But you don’t remember who you were before, or if you were…human once?

When you materialize again, you’ve rushed through the air, through the castle; you try so desperately to remember the path, the way you went. But Agatha didn’t want that, and so as soon as you land - it’s all gone.

It’s no use; you’re back to Mother's room, the fire roaring, and you are in your body once more. 

You fall to your knees, tears unable to roll down your face.

“I was close.”

High heels move in front of your face, Agatha’s lounging, enjoying an old record in the corner. She snaps the faded novel she’d read before closed, setting it on a gorgeous gold etched tabled. Everything in the castle is lavish, gold and silks. Flowers, expensive vases, and oil paintings. Frozen in time, dipped in the finest money could offer. 

Your knees come into contact with the luxurious furs and intricate rugs. 

Your hands shake, black nails the color of the black flies you’d just been. 

Agatha’s gazing at you adoringly, as if you were just too cute to be angry with.

“My little maggot, you and I both know that just isn’t true.” Her soft grin is condescending, and your nostrils flare in anger. 

“You didn’t-”

“Enough.” Agatha snaps at you, and your bottom lip quivers, but your body listens. 

As it always does to Mother. 

You don’t speak out of turn again. 

“Did you do your lessons before you went gallivanting around the castle?” Agatha questions; you hesitate, unable to lie by the powers beyond your understanding.

You don’t make another noise, yet you flutter like when flies rub their legs together. 

Agatha tilts her head to the side. 

“You know these lessons are paramount to your education; they are not meant to be ignored for some foolish game. Now recite Latin, or we’ll need to start at the beginning.”

Mother instructed, her legs falling open as a threat for what was to happen.

You know better than to stand up, you’ll have to walk the music room with a tower of books on your head, reciting anxiety potions magic. Agatha was a teacher like no other; it was like she was preparing you for a war only she knew of. 

No matter what Agatha was, you belonged to her. 

You crawled on your hands and knees until you got to the edge of her bed. 

“Come on, little fruit fly, before dinner.” Agatha urged you, and you know there’s not a chance you read today’s passage of Latin. Hell, you skipped Geometry, Art History, and even your Psychology homework. 

But Agatha knew that, the only thing you could hope is that she wouldn’t figure out why. 

You turned your face to the fireplace that heated you back up from the dank dungeon. You smelled the blood in the bottle before your eyes found it, in a silver bucket with one gorgeous glass you’d never be allowed to sip from. 

You twist back to see Agatha waiting braced on her elbows for you. 

“I didn’t manage to study today, Mommy.” You answer carefully, your canines shining in the light of the fire.

“No?” Agatha asked, pretending to be surprised in her combative, sarcastic manor. 

Her dark curls fell around her face as she sat up.

“Tell me why.” Agatha instructed, something in you knew not even Mother Miranda would save you from this fate.

“I believe the Darkhold could save-“

Agatha made a growl deep in her throat and you were silenced again. 

“You are but a child, and you will do as you are told.”

“The darkhold-“ you raised your voice only for Agatha to glare at you,among you stop.

“I’ve allowed these adolescent games to go on far enough.” Agatha almost seems like she’s curing herself far more than you. 

“Mother Miran-” 

Agatha’s lip curls back and you’ve acted out far too much. The fire flickers, the scent of wine has you ready to break down, to give in, to give up. 

You’ve acted out for the last instance tonight. 

“You know better Pet.” Agatha’s tone is not above a whisper, an oath, a swear to something that see’s all. Mother Miranda would not be taken in vain. 

You know how to ask forgiveness, and so you do, you find the hem of her dress, and carefully pull back the fabric. 

Her pressed gown under your fingertips was a delicacy, and you are experienced enough in these nightly routines to not wrinkle it.

You start with her heels, pressing the softness of her achilles, releasing the black shoe, once then twice. They make a soft scuff as they fall to the floor, you gently push them aside, there was time for worship of leather later. 

On that sweet blend of dusk and dawn where you deserved reward, not tonight. 

Agatha doesn’t speak, but her disappointment radiating over you, much like the heat from the fire. 

You inhale through your nose, the scent of her is forbidden, metallic and sweet - like licking blood off sex bruised flesh. 

Her bathsalts are from a different continent, her stockings never run, the magic that encases her. Those blue eyes darken; her obsession for you is dangerous, enough to kill for. To turn the tide on Mother Miranda herself. 

Agatha watched, unblinking like the creature that she was, as you laid your first kiss on her calf muscle. 

Lips leaving the smallest of ruby marks on her pristine pale skin, one kiss trails up the knee to two. 

Slowly.

If you rush, she’ll know you are guilty, guiltier than you truly are.  

Your hands ache to pull the fabric back further, unveil where the nectar truly lies, but if you fidget, you'll go too quickly.

You’ll face Mother's wrath again, and you’ve more than taken enough of her patience tonight. 

Your fangs poke out from your lips, and you are so careful; they’d cut faster than razors, but you were no threat to Agatha. 

Not to the woman who sculpted you from the dark magic. 

You let the fangs drag past the artery pumping, your eyes close as you inhale. 

Agatha’s blood isn’t human, isn’t like the virgin's blood bottled in the cellar for centuries. It’s something dark, like the way Mother Miranda’s eyes gleamed, dark like the roots of trees outside.

You pressed a kiss where you’d once sucked.

Agatha had trained you not to bite, not when you weren’t allowed. 

You move up, up her thigh, and your eyes cast upwards. 

Meeting Mother’s, blues gone, only dilated, biting her own lip to stop from devouring you. 

A bit of blood dripped down her chin. 

You felt the frenzy, the pull to climb her and lick it off her lips, to go mad.

You stop. 

Your fingers twitch, and it’s a tell, your poker face gone.

“Running will get you nowhere.” Agatha reminded you hotly; blood one her teeth had you in a frenzy. 

You open your mouth, but you can’t lie again. 

“Show me,” Agatha instructs, and you are a child now, about to be punished for something so frowned upon. 

You lift your dress, over your hips, over your head, and drop it to the floor. 

What was the use? She would have torn it to shreds in a matter of moments, and you’d be in even more trouble. 

In ink drawn upon your stomach and thighs was a crude attempt at a map. 

Agatha’s eyes darkened.

“You think your Mommy a fool, do you?” Agatha’s getting to her feet and you are in for it now. 

“I-”

“YOU DO NOT SPEAK!” Agatha shouts, spit flying and you cast your eyes down. 

The buzz of your flies inside vibrates in your ears. 

“YOU THINK I BOW TO HER IS THAT IT? YOU THINK I DON’T HAVE A PLAN? YOU ARE MEANT TO STAY WITHIN THESE WALLS! WARM AND WITH ME! You can’t-this is not for you to handle.” Agatha sighs, and you are even more confused than before. 

The log cracks in the fire place and you long to look up and see her. 

“Get on the bed.” Agatha sighs, wiping the blood off her lip with her thumb, the sharp nail powerful enough to slice a mans throat open like a turkey. 

You crawl onto the bed and let your bare ass stick out. 

“Little fly you just keep forgetting…you go down into those tunnels and keep searching for the book. I’ll break you again. Then tomorrow you’ll do it again. When will you see Mommy’s got you on a fool's errand, hmm?” You twist your head around, and Agatha’s got her nails sinking into the soft flesh of your hips as she angles back. 

You lose your balance, and your heads are pushed into lush pillows with tassels. 

You groan in pain and pleasure; her riding crop is quickly trailed ever so gently down your spine. 

You shiver.

What a decadent threat.

“Tomorrow we will try again,” Agatha answers, the crop slapping down on your ass cheek, blistering the skin. 

“Mommy, please,” you cry out. The buzz coming to a climax, you were hers to control. 

“There’s nowhere else to be my love. In my castle we rot, my sweet maggot. Here for eternity, you and I.” Agatha’s arousal-soaked voice doesn’t prepare you for the blood dripping down your back. 

The scent of blood invades your senses, and you try to twist to drink it.  

Agatha pins your arms and makes you unable to wiggle free. 

“Mommy knows best, you know this. Stop fighting me, stop it.” Agatha argues, with you and you can’t stop the frenzy. 

“Have I taught you nothing?” The vampire seems more entertained than anything else. As her face comes down to your back, her long tongue licks her messy meal off of you. 

You shake with need, the hunger too much for you to take. 

Agatha drops the crop and moves down your body to your ass. Opening you up, she licks your cunt, and you lose your mind.

Only hearing Agatha as she comes up air.

“Beg.” Mother reminds you of your place. 

“Quaeso, Mater.” You beg in Latin; you beg Mother. Fuck you can’t remember why you ever disobeyed in the first place. 

Agatha’s tongue fucking your cunt with such intensity that you’re not going to make it; her fangs make your labia bleed in little pinpricks. The pain and pleasure too sweet. You writhe on the bed with nowhere to go. 

Agatha’s too cruel, too used to this game of cat and mouse. 

This is her castle, and you were her baby. 

“Quaeso, Mater. Quaeso, Mater. Quaeso, Mater. Quaeso, Mater. Quaeso, Mater.” You chant over and over, proud of how the Latin falls. The fire roars, the magic sparks around the room, and the flies in your body buzz with excitement. 

But you know better, and Agatha’s leaving your soaked cunt bleeding and stretched, arousal drips down to the satin sheets, and you cry out. 

“You should have done your reading.” Mother tells you, standing up, grabbing the crop she comes down across your asscheek, once, twice, three times. 

You lose count, the skin splits open like a piece of fruit in the sun. Bursting and then healing with inhuman ability. Agatha’s strong, she doesn’t stop when it heals again. 

Specks of your blood splatter across your Mommy’s face like red freckles. 

The crop pulls back in the firelight, only to come back down against your flesh. 

Harder and harder with each blow, the elder vampires strap sliders down and her breast is spilling out. 

You wail in agony, pleasure just out of reach. 

Agatha flips you over, and the blood stains the bed, the crop breaks in half, and the vampire let’s the fractured instrument clatter to the ground. 

Agatha’s anger sears you, as she gazes at your cheat sheet, your inky map down your flesh. 

Getting off the bed and grabbing the bottle of blood, she uncorks it easily and pours the whole thing onto your stomach; the black ink runs from the blood, and you’re covered. It glugs audibly, the bubbles escaping. The blood splatters onto you, slippery, thick liquid.

All your day's work of dungeon and tunnels, maps and codes - it’s all gone. 

You’re bathed in blood, reborn under Mommy’s punishment. All sins would be washed away, and you shudder your hands free, moving to lick all that goodness off of you. 

The bottle with all its jewels and carefully painted parchment label falls to the ground.

Agatha rids herself of her dress and climbs onto your hips. Her black pubic hair rests in the bloody mess and you are excited to be rewarded with the treat. 

Agatha gets her fill first, leaning down and drinking her delicious wine off of your body, sucking it off of your ribs, then nipples. Your eyes roll back and Agatha can hear the hum of the flies delighted at what Mommy can do. 

Your toes curl, and your canines are visible as you moan and your mouth opens to howl out in need. 

Agatha’s not going to stop, not for hours; she had all night to enjoy you. Her tongue writing runes older than this castle in your skin. Silent promises that Agatha would do everything to keep you. 

Tomorrow you’d forget again. Tomorrow Mommy would bring you back. 

She whispered into your very soul. 

“Silly Pet, It’s so much easier to catch flies with honey.”

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Leighton’s voice was still sharp from the fight when you shoved her down onto the bed, her knees hitting the mattress hard. "You’re such a fucking asshole," she spat, but her ass lifted anyway, presenting herself without being told. You grabbed the strap from the drawer, slicked it fast, and lined up behind her. 

"Yeah? Then why are you already dripping for it?" you growled, gripping her hips and slamming the thick silicone cock into her in one rough thrust. Leighton’s back arched instantly, a choked sound ripping from her throat. 

"Shut up—fuck—" she gasped, pushing back to meet you. You didn’t give her time to adjust. You started pounding into her immediately, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. 

Leighton’s fingers clawed at the sheets. "I hate you," she hissed between thrusts, voice breaking every time you bottomed out. "I fucking hate—ah!—hate how you think you can just—"

You leaned over her, fisting a handful of her hair and yanking her head back hard enough to make her neck strain. Your hips never slowed.

"You say that you hate me...but your body can’t say the same," you snarled right against her ear, then drove into her even harder, the strap-on slamming deep with every brutal thrust. 

Leighton’s whole body jolted. Her pussy clenched around the toy so tight it almost stalled your rhythm. "Oh, fuck!" she cried out, voice cracking as the orgasm ripped through her.

Her thighs shook violently, juices dripping down her legs while you kept fucking her through it, hair still fisted in your grip, pulling her back onto every thrust. 

"That’s it," you muttered, still moving. "Keep coming on my cock while you pretend you hate me." 

Leighton’s only answer was another broken moan, her body twitching and pulsing around you as the aftershocks rolled through her.

Leighton was still shaking from the first climax when you yanked the strap-on out of her soaked pussy with a wet sound. She barely had time to catch her breath before you flipped her onto her back and shoved her thighs apart. 

"What the fuck are you—" she started, but the words cut off into a sharp gasp as your mouth sealed over her cunt.

Your tongue dragged hard through her folds, licking up every drop of her release before you sucked her clit between your lips and flicked it fast. 

"Jesus Christ—get—," she snapped, but her hips jerked up against your face anyway.

You locked your arms tight around her thighs, pinning her down so she couldn’t twist away. Your grip was iron, holding her open while you buried your face deeper, tongue thrusting inside her before sliding back up to circle and suck her swollen clit again. 

"I—too much—fuck, you’re so stubborn—," Leighton hissed through clenched teeth, fingers twisting into your hair like she might push you away. Instead her grip tightened, holding you there.

You didn’t slow down. You licked harder, messier, slurping at her dripping pussy while she squirmed and bucked uselessly in your hold. 

"You—ah!—you think this proves anything?" she panted, voice cracking as your tongue lashed over her clit in relentless strokes. "I still fucking hate you—"

Her first orgasm hit fast. Her thighs tried to clamp around your head but you kept them spread, arms locked tight. Leighton’s back arched hard off the bed, a broken cry tearing from her throat. "Oh my god—fuck—fuck!"

Her pussy pulsed against your tongue, flooding your mouth with fresh wetness as she came again, shaking violently while you kept licking straight through it. 

You didn’t give her a second to recover. You dragged your tongue lower, fucking it into her clenching hole before sucking her clit again with the same aggressive rhythm. Leighton’s hands shoved at your shoulders now, but there was no strength behind it. 

"Too much—please—I can’t—" she gasped, even as her hips rolled up to meet every stroke of your tongue. You growled against her and doubled down, sucking harder, licking faster, your arms flexing to keep her pinned exactly where you wanted her. 

The second orgasm ripped through her even harder. Her whole body seized, legs kicking against your grip. "Shit—shit—fuck!" she wailed, voice hoarse as her pussy fluttered and gushed against your mouth. You kept going, tongue working her through every spasm, refusing to let up even as she thrashed and sobbed out another curse. 

"You’re insane—ah!—you’re actually fucking insane," she managed between ragged breaths, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes from the intensity. But her hands stayed tangled in your hair, pulling you closer instead of pushing away.

You answered by flattening your tongue and dragging it in long, firm strokes from her entrance to her clit, then sucking the sensitive bud again until her third climax started building. 

Leighton came with a raw, broken sound, her voice cracking completely. "Oh fuck—oh my god—" Her thighs trembled uncontrollably in your iron grip, pussy clenching and releasing in waves while fresh slick coated your chin and lips.

You kept lapping at her greedily, tongue thrusting inside her again to feel every pulse, then moving back to her clit to drag out every last aftershock. 

She was sobbing now, half-laughing, half-crying, still muttering between gasps. "I hate you—I fucking hate you—so much—" but her body kept twitching and coming under your relentless mouth, locked in place with no escape while you pulled orgasm after orgasm out of her.

Leighton lay trembling, her thighs still twitching from the string of climaxes your mouth had wrung out of her. You finally pulled back, lips shiny, and she barely had time to suck in a shaky breath before you grabbed the strap-on again. 

"Wait—fuck, I can't take any more," she rasped, voice hoarse from all the screaming.

You ignored her, lining the thick head up with her swollen, dripping entrance and shoving back inside in one smooth thrust. Leighton cried out, back arching as you buried the strap deep. 

You hooked your arms under her knees and folded her legs tight to her chest, pinning her completely open. Her pussy clenched hard around the toy as you started thrusting again, deep and steady. 

"You fucking asshole—ah!—feels s'good fuck—" Her words broke into a moan when your hands found her tits.

You squeezed them roughly, fingers digging into the soft flesh, thumbs flicking over her stiff nipples. Leighton gasped, hips jerking in your hold. 

"Look at your pretty tits," you muttered, kneading and groping, rolling the sensitive peaks between your fingers. "Bouncing every time I fuck you." 

"Shut up," she hissed, but her cunt fluttered around the strap with every squeeze.

You kept pounding into her, the new angle letting you hit deeper. Every thrust forced a wet sound from her soaked pussy. Your right hand slid down between her legs, rubbing tight circles over her swollen clit while you kept fucking her. 

Leighton's whole body jolted. "Oh god—I can't—fuck, it's too much—" 

You didn't stop. You rubbed her clit harder, matching the rhythm of your thrusts, while your other hand kept groping and squeezing her breast. Her nipples were stiff under your palm. 

The next orgasm hit fast. Her legs shook against your chest as her pussy clamped down around the strap.

"Shit—I'm coming—fuck!" she wailed, voice cracking. Her cunt pulsed and gushed around you, slick coating the toy as you kept thrusting straight through it. You didn't slow down, just kept rubbing her clit and squeezing her tit while she came. 

Leighton was still twitching when you started building her toward the next one. You pinched her nipple, twisting lightly, and rubbed her clit faster. Her head thrashed on the pillow. 

"I hate you—I fucking hate you," she sobbed, even as her hips tried to roll up to meet your thrusts. "You're such a—ah!—such a stubborn bitch—" 

Her second orgasm ripped through her harder. Her thighs trembled violently in your grip, pussy spasming around the strap as fresh wetness flooded out.

"Oh fuck—oh my god—" she cried, tears slipping down her temples. You kept fucking her through it, deep and relentless, while your fingers worked her clit and your hand mauled her breast. 

You didn't give her any recovery time. You shifted your angle slightly, grinding the base of the strap against her with every thrust, and rubbed her clit in tight, fast circles. Leighton's breath came in ragged gasps. 

"Please—please, I can't—" she begged, but her body betrayed her again. The third climax crashed over her with a broken scream. Her pussy clenched and released in waves, squirting a little around the toy as you kept pounding into her. You squeezed her breast hard, fingers digging in, while your thumb rubbed her clit through every pulse. 

Leighton was sobbing now, half-laughing, voice wrecked. "Last one, baby," you whispered against her, echoing your earlier words as you kept thrusting. She glared at you through wet lashes even as another orgasm started building. 

"Fuck you—don't call me baby—" she gasped, then came again with a hoarse cry, her cunt fluttering wildly around the strap.

You kept going, fucking her through the fourth, then fifth climax, each one leaving her more wrecked. Your hand never left her tits—squeezing, groping, pinching her nipples—while your fingers occasionally dropped to rub her clit again, dragging yet another orgasm out of her trembling body. 

By the time you finally slowed, Leighton was a shaking, sobbing mess, her pussy still twitching around the strap, thighs slick with her own release. She could barely form words anymore, just soft, broken whimpers as you held her folded in place.

"Y'alright?" You asked breathlessly.

Leighton curled into herself away from you, "Shut the fuck up."

-----------

Part 5

For a while, there was nothing except sound. A soft, repetitive beeping somewhere near your head, the hum of ventilation and something mechanical clicking every few seconds. You listened without understanding any of it, suspended between sleep and awareness until sensation returned piece by piece.

Your mouth was dry and your tongue heavy. There was an ache behind your eyes and a weight in your limbs worse than ordinary exhaustion. You tried to swallow and noticed something tugging against the back of your hand. When your eyes opened, the ceiling above you was unfamiliar. White panels. No exposed piping from the recruit wing, no narrow window beside your bed, no crack above Lu’s side that she insisted looked like Italy.

For several seconds, you stared. Then your gaze lowered to the thin line beneath transparent tape on the back of your hand. Wires disappeared under the loose hospital shirt covering your chest and connected to a monitor beside the bed. A pulse sensor clipped around one finger, another cable disappearing beneath the blanket.

Medical. You were in the medical wing.. Confusion shifted into unease because you could not remember coming here. Your hand moved instinctively toward your stomach and stopped when your fingers touched the thick dressing around your lower side and pain answered immediately. Your breath caught and the monitor accelerated. You stared at the bandages. What the hell had happened? Your mind offered nothing at first. Then you looked toward the chair beside the bed and saw Natasha.

The chair had been pulled almost against your mattress, close enough that one of her arms rested near the edge. Her head tilted awkwardly against the backrest, red hair loose around her face instead of tied away for work. She still wore dark tactical pants and the black shirt she had been wearing when..when what?

There was dried blood near Natasha’s sleeve and the memory returned violently. The common room. Food spread across two tables. A knife disappearing beneath ribs. Blood everywhere. Your own blood running between your fingers and Natasha bursting through the doors with her weapon raised.

The monitor began screaming and Natasha woke instantly. One second she was asleep, the next upright, exhaustion disappearing beneath reflex. Her eyes found you, then the monitor, then your hand moving toward the dressing. “Y/n.”

You couldn’t answer. The room was still there, but so was the common room. They folded over each other until Natasha stood in front of you and Reeves was there too, blood across his mouth, knife in hand, moving toward you while your legs stopped working. “Y/n, look at me.”

Your chest rose too quickly. “Where is he?”

Natasha leaned closer without touching you. “You’re safe.”

“Where is he?”

“He cannot get to you.” The words barely registered. You tried to push yourself higher and pain tore through your abdomen hard enough to blur your vision. Natasha reached for your shoulder. “Don’t. You’ll pull the incision.”

“H-He’s here!” The panic in your voice changed her expression.

“He’s in medical.” she admitted carefully, “but secured on another level. Armed personnel are outside his room and Hill has additional security in the corridor. He cannot reach you.” Your eyes widened. “He’s alive?”

“Yes.”

You stared as though she had said something impossible. Natasha lowered herself back into the chair but remained close, making herself the easiest thing to focus on. “The bullet missed his heart. He survived surgery.”

“He tried to kill me?”

“I know.”

The answer sounded rougher this time. Your eyes dropped to Natasha’s hands and you remembered them covered in blood, pressing her jacket against your side while you screamed. You remembered her begging you not to close your eyes. Natasha noticed where you were looking. “He can’t hurt you anymore.” she said quietly. “Not you, not Lu, not anyone in the unit. He’s restrained and monitored until he’s stable enough to be interrogated.”

The word interrogated gave your mind something solid. “He’ll talk?”

“He will.” Something cold in Natasha’s voice made you believe her completely. The monitor still complained about your heart rate and she glanced at it. “You need to slow down.”

You closed your eyes and instantly saw the knife again. You opened them. Natasha understood without asking and shifted forward, hands visible. “Look at me instead.”

You did. Only then did you see how exhausted she looked. Dark shadows beneath her eyes, a faint crease from sleeping against the chair, red hair tangled around her shoulders. She looked as though she had not moved in hours. Natasha waited until your shoulders loosened slightly. “That’s better.”

You sank farther into the pillows, panic leaving exhaustion behind. The fog inside your head returned and every part of you suddenly felt heavy. Natasha saw it immediately. “You nearly died, Y/n,” she said quietly. Your gaze returned to her. “Your body is going to feel wrong for a while.”

You looked down again. “How bad was it?” Natasha’s jaw tightened. “That bad?”

“The knife entered your lower side and damaged muscle. It also caught a blood vessel. You lost a lot of blood before surgery controlled it.”

The words should have reassured you, but you stared at the blanket instead. You had almost died. It didn’t feel real. You knew what blood-loss shock looked like from training and simulations. You knew how quickly it changed consciousness. None of that prepared you for realizing your own body had been doing exactly that while Natasha pressed her hands into your side.

“How are you feeling?”

You frowned because it was such an ordinary question. You didn’t know. Your side hurt. Your body felt impossibly heavy. Your thoughts kept catching between the present and the common room. You were frightened, angry and strangely numb at once.

“I don’t know.” Natasha nodded. “That’s okay.” You looked toward the ceiling. “I remember everything.”

“We’ll have someone talk to you when you’re ready.”

“A therapist?”

“Yes.”

You almost smiled at Natasha Romanoff suggesting therapy, but it never reached your mouth. “I’m not crazy.”

“I didn’t say you were.” Natasha studied you. “Someone tried to kill you. Nobody knows yet what your head is going to do with that.”

Then another memory surfaced. A hand beneath yours. Maya. Your eyes widened and you tried to sit upright. Pain ripped through your side so violently Natasha was on her feet before you made a sound. “Y/n!”

“Maya.” The name came out breathless and Natasha stopped. Her silence lasted half a second too long and you knew that look. You had seen it when Fury gave bad orders, when medical reports came back worse than expected, when Natasha was deciding how to say something painful. Your stomach dropped. “No.” Natasha’s expression broke. “No…”

“Y/n-”

“Where is she?”

Natasha didn’t answer quickly enough. “Where is Maya?”

“I’m sorry.”

The room disappeared and you stared at her. “No.”

Natasha’s eyes filled, but she didn’t look away. “She didn’t make it.”

You stopped breathing. For several seconds, language seemed meaningless. “What?”

“She went into surgery shortly before you did, but the knife caused severe internal bleeding.”

“No.”

“They tried-”

“No!”

Your voice cracked hard enough to pull at your wound, but you barely noticed. “She…she was fine.” A tear escaped before you realized you were crying. “We were just eating.” You looked around the room as though someone might explain how both things could belong to the same night. “We were eating together.” Natasha stayed where she was. The tears came faster. “She was right there.” You could see her perfectly: Maya holding her drink, rolling her eyes because Lu said something stupid, her injured leg stretched beneath the table. Maya laughing.

Then Maya looking down at the knife inside her, and your chest tightened until breathing hurt. Natasha moved closer slowly and you didn’t tell her to stop. “She can’t…”

“I’m sorry.”

Your hands covered your face and a sob tore through you, immediately pulling at the surgical wound. Your body curled around it and Natasha reached you before you folded too far forward. “Careful.”

You shoved weakly at her arm. “I don’t care!”

“I know.”

“Then stop-”

“I’m trying to keep you from opening your stitches.”

There was no authority in her voice, only desperation wrapped around practicality. You looked at her through tears and the next sob was worse. Natasha sat on the edge of the bed and, after the smallest hesitation, wrapped one arm around your shoulders. You could have pushed her away, but you didn’t. Instead you broke against her, fingers gripping her shirt and forehead pressed into her shoulder while grief shook your body.

“She was supposed to come with us..”

Natasha closed her eyes. “I know.”

“She was scared.” The thought destroyed you again. “Maya was scared and I left her.”

“No.”

“I went after Reeves.”

“You were trying to stop him.”

“I left her with Lu!”

“You did not leave her.”

“I should have stayed!”

Natasha pulled back enough to look at you. “No.” The firmness in her voice finally reached through the grief. “You do not do this.”

Your face twisted. “You don’t get to tell me-”

“I know exactly where that thinking goes.” You froze. Natasha held your eyes. “You’ll replay that room until you find a version where she lives. You’ll tell yourself that if you stood somewhere else, moved faster, hit him sooner or stayed beside her, everything would be different.” Your breathing shook. “There will always be another version.”

Her voice softened. “That does not make it real.” For one brutal second, you saw seventeen years inside her face. Every route Natasha had probably replayed after your parents died. You looked away and settled against the pillows, exhausted. Natasha stayed close, one hand near yours without taking it. “What happens now?”

Her eyebrows drew together. “With what?”

“Everything.” Your voice sounded hollow. “The mission…the team.”

Natasha watched you for a moment. “You don’t need to solve any of that right now. Reeves will be interrogated. Hill is rebuilding the security investigation and Fury will decide what happens after we know what Reeves gave Vesper.”

“And the mission?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“You think it’s still happening.”

Natasha didn’t answer, and you knew her well enough to understand. Your eyes drifted shut briefly. “We trained for it.”

You stayed quiet for a long time, then looked at Natasha’s shirt again, the dried blood, her exhaustion, the chair beside your bed. “You were here when I woke up.”

“Yeah.”

“How long?” Natasha looked away. “Natasha.”

“Since you came out of surgery.” You stared. “That was when?”

“Twelve hours ago.”

“You stayed here all night?” Her jaw tightened faintly. “Yes.”

The memory returned. Natasha running into the common room, shooting Reeves, kneeling in your blood, hands against your side while she begged you to stay awake.

“You saved me.”

Something moved across Natasha’s face. “The surgeons saved you.”

“You know what I mean.” She looked toward the floor. “If you hadn’t come in, he would-”

“I did.” There was almost anger in the answer, not at you but at the possibility. None of this erased what came before. Natasha had lied about your parents and let you fall in love with her without giving you information that might have changed your choice. That remained true. She had also saved your life. You hated how desperately your heart wanted one truth to cancel the other. Natasha seemed to read something of that on your face. “Did you read the file?” You nodded.

“All of it?”

“Yes.” Her eyes closed briefly. “I’m sorry you had to read it that way.”

“I’m glad I did.” Natasha looked at you. “I understand more now.”

A tiny, dangerous hope appeared in her expression. “But I didn’t forget.” It disappeared. “I know.”

“I know what happened to them now. I know why the arena scared you and why every time I did something that reminded you of them, you reacted the way you did.” Your voice remained weak but steady. “But you still lied.”

“Yes.”

“You still looked me in the face when I asked.”

“Yes.”

“You still decided I wasn’t allowed to know.” Natasha swallowed. “Yes.”

“And understanding why doesn’t make me okay with it.”

“I don’t expect it to.” The answer surprised you. Natasha lifted her eyes. “I’m not going to ask you to forgive me because I stayed here.” Your throat tightened. “Not because I shot Reeves. Not because I love you.” Neither of you moved. Natasha’s voice softened. “You don’t owe me anything because I did what I was supposed to do when you were hurt.”

You stared at her until exhaustion became too much. “I don’t want you to leave.” Natasha’s breathing changed almost imperceptibly and you looked at her again. “That doesn’t mean I forgive you.”

“I know.” You almost corrected her, but this time you didn’t.

“Okay.” Natasha sat back in the chair and when you finally fell asleep, she was still there.

The next few days passed slowly. Your body healed faster than your mind. The surgical team was pleased with the wound; you weren’t. The incision pulled whenever you turned too quickly and walking farther than the bathroom exhausted you. The first time you tried to make it down the hall alone, a nurse found you gripping the railing halfway there and marched you back to bed. Natasha somehow heard, because twenty minutes later your phone vibrated. Stop trying to escape medical.

You stared at it before answering. I was walking.

Her reply came almost immediately. You were caught halfway down the corridor looking like you were negotiating with gravity.

You looked suspiciously toward the door.

Did you put surveillance on me?

I work for S.H.I.E.L.D.

That was not an answer.

It was the only one you got.

You hated the small smile that pulled at your mouth. Then you remembered Maya and it vanished. Grief worked like that..it let you forget for half a second, then punished you for it. Five days after waking, medical finally cleared you to leave under restrictions long enough to fill a second page. No physical training, lifting, combat drills, running, field simulation or weapons work beyond seated maintenance. You stared at the physician. “So I can breathe?”

Natasha had apparently spoken to the doctors too; you could tell from his expression. Hayes walked you back to the recruit wing because you refused Natasha’s offer, and she didn’t argue. When your door opened, Lu sat on her bed and looked up immediately. Relief transformed her face for a second. Then you looked toward the third bed and everything stopped. It had been stripped. No blanket, pillow, clothes, books, shoes or the medical supplies Maya had obsessively organized inside her locker. Nothing remained.

Lu saw you looking and her face crumpled. You barely put your bag down before she crossed the room, slowing at the last second because of your wound. You opened your arms anyway and she hugged you carefully. Both of you started crying, two people standing in a room that had belonged to three, holding on because the absence across from you was too large to face alone.

“I hate it.” Lu’s voice was muffled against your shoulder.

“I know.”

“They cleared her stuff before I got back.” Your arms tightened around her. “I came in and it was just gone.”

Lu cried harder. “She would’ve hated everyone being this sad.” A wet laugh escaped you. “She would’ve corrected our posture while we cried.” Lu laughed too, and it hurt. Everything hurt. But for one second, Maya existed again between you, somehow making it worse and better at the same time.

Two days later, every recruit, selected agent, instructor and operational lead received the same summons. The room was already half full when you and Lu entered. You still moved carefully. Your side no longer burned with every step, but the incision pulled when you stretched too far and your body tired faster than your pride wanted to admit. Natasha stood near the front beside Hill and saw you immediately. Her gaze dropped once toward your side before returning to your face. The chair beside you remained empty because nobody chose it.

Fury entered exactly at ten and the room fell silent. He looked over the gathered agents before speaking. “Maya Patel is dead because this organization failed to identify an embedded Vesper operative before he was placed inside an active training unit.” His voice remained controlled. “Reeves entered S.H.I.E.L.D. under an identity constructed years before his application. His education records, medical history and travel documentation were manufactured to withstand federal screening. He did not become compromised after joining us. He joined us compromised.”

Anger moved through the room and Fury continued. “We have also confirmed that the arena malfunction was deliberate. Reeves introduced malicious code into the automated weapon system seventy-three hours before the exercise. The incident that injured several of you was not a technical failure. It was an attack.”

The room seemed smaller. Your stomach turned. Reeves had been inside the arena too. He had helped people, carried wounded recruits and looked frightened. How much of it had been real?

“S.H.I.E.L.D. missed him. That failure belongs to us.” Several recruits looked up. “I will not insult Patel’s family, this unit or any of you by pretending an apology balances the equation.” His gaze moved toward Maya’s empty seat. “It does not.” He paused. “You entered this program knowing field work carried risk. Operations fail. People get hurt. What you did not agree to was sabotage from someone standing inside your own unit. Patel did not die because she was careless or lacked training. She was murdered by someone who betrayed every person in this room.”

You stared forward while Fury continued. “Reeves is alive, under continuous guard and being interrogated by counterintelligence. We have recovered portions of his communications with Vesper, although we are still determining how much operational intelligence left this facility.”

A recruit near the front raised his hand. “Is the mission burned?”

“Parts of the original plan are.” Another voice followed. “So it’s canceled.” Fury looked across the room. “No.”

The word dropped like a weight. “The mission objective remains active.” Anger moved through the room, but Fury didn’t flinch. “Vesper still possesses an intelligence archive containing active assets embedded inside allied agencies, weapons routes, financial channels and personnel records. Reeves’s arrest does not make that disappear.”

Carter spoke from two rows ahead. “One of us is dead and you’re still sending people?”

“Yes.” The answer was brutal in its simplicity. Fury stepped forward. “Because if Vesper is allowed to dismantle that archive and disappear, Maya Patel will not be the last agent they kill. This is the part of the job no simulation can make easier. The mission does not stop because we are angry, grieving or because continuing feels unfair.” His voice lowered. “You are allowed to hate that. You are allowed to question every decision made here. You are allowed to walk away if the cost is no longer one you are willing to pay.”

Several people looked toward Fury and Natasha’s gaze moved over the recruits. “But the operation will continue once Hill confirms the internal breach is contained.” The screen behind him activated and the field unit appeared. Two names turned gray.

Y/L/N — MEDICAL HOLD

NGUYEN — MEDICAL HOLD

You stared as Fury addressed the selected team. “Agents currently injured beyond operational clearance will be replaced by alternates during final preparation.” Your head snapped up. “No.” The word escaped before you could stop it. Everyone heard. Natasha closed her eyes briefly and Fury looked at you.

“Agent Y/l/n.”

“No.”

You pushed yourself to your feet. Lu’s hand moved toward your arm, but you stepped away. “I’m not being replaced.”

Natasha stepped forward. “Sit down.” Your eyes went to her. “No.”

Her expression sharpened. “Y/n.”

“I said no.”

Fury watched both of you while Natasha kept her voice measured. “You were stabbed less than two weeks ago.”

“And?”

“You had abdominal surgery.”

“I’m aware.”

“You still have movement restrictions.”

“For now.”

“Medical recovery is not a negotiation.”

You laughed bitterly. “Apparently neither is my career.”

Natasha’s jaw tightened. “This is not about your career.”

“Then what is it about?”

“Keeping you alive!” The words escaped with too much emotion and the room fell silent. Natasha realized how exposed the answer was but didn’t take it back. “You nearly died.”

Your voice dropped. “But I didn’t.”

“That is not the point.”

“It is to me.”

“You cannot fight properly right now.”

“I don’t need to fight tomorrow.”

“Y/n-”

“The mission isn’t tomorrow!” Fury stayed silent, letting the argument happen. You looked toward him. “How long?” His eyebrows drew together. “Until it starts.”

Hill answered beside him. “Earliest operational window is thirty-one days.” You nodded. “A month.”

Natasha turned toward Hill. “Do not encourage her!”

“I answered the question.”

You looked back at Natasha. “I’ll be fine in a month.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Neither do you.”

“I know what abdominal trauma looks like.”

“And I know my body.”

“You barely made it from medical to your room without exhausting yourself five days ago.”

You stepped forward and pain pulled through your side. Natasha noticed instantly. Your face hardened and Lu whispered your name behind you. “I want those assholes in prison.” Natasha’s expression changed. “I want Vesper exposed. I want every agent they bought dragged into the light and Reeves sitting in a cell knowing everything he did failed.” Your voice shook. “I want Maya’s name to mean something other than a casualty report.”

Natasha’s eyes filled. “That is exactly why you shouldn’t go. You’re angry.”

“Of course I’m angry!”

“You want revenge.”

“I want justice.”

“Right now, you don’t know the difference.”

The sentence hit like a slap. Natasha continued before you could answer. “You went after Reeves after Maya was stabbed. You left Lu with her and hit him because you were furious.”

“He stabbed her.”

“I know.”

“He killed her!”

“I know!” Natasha’s voice cracked across the room. Everyone froze. She pulled herself back under control. “And then he stabbed you. Do you understand why I’m saying this?” Your eyes burned. “He used your anger against you.” You looked away. “He baited you into closing distance while he still had a weapon.”

“I know what happened.”

“Then learn from it.” Your gaze snapped back. “I have.”

“Have you?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Because I’m not asking you to let me deploy tomorrow.” Natasha said nothing. “I’m asking for thirty-one days. Give me thirty-one days to recover. Let medical evaluate me. Let Hayes test me or Hill decide whether my clearance holds.”

Fury’s expression shifted slightly and you looked toward him. “If I fail, replace me.” Natasha turned sharply. “No.”

“If I cannot meet the same standard as everyone else, I’m out. No exceptions.” Fury studied you. “And if you pass?” Your chest rose slowly. “Then I go.”

Natasha stepped between you and Fury’s line of sight. “No.” You stared at her. “You do not get to decide this because you’re scared.” Her face went still. The whole room seemed to stop breathing. You knew what you had said and didn’t take it back. “You think this is fear?”

“You watched my parents die. You watched me almost die. I understand why you want me nowhere near that mission.” Natasha’s face had gone pale. “But you don’t get to turn that into my choice again.”

The sentence changed everything. Natasha looked as though you had struck her because that was the wound beneath all of it. “You already decided once that you knew what truth I could handle. I’m not letting you decide what risk I’m allowed to take because you love me.”

Several recruits looked down, suddenly aware they were hearing something private. You didn’t care. “I’m not asking you to ignore medical. I’m not asking for special treatment. I’m asking for the same chance everyone else gets. If I’m not ready in a month, I won’t go. But if I am, you cannot keep me here because you’re afraid to lose me.”

Fury finally spoke. “Romanoff.”

Natasha didn’t look at him. “Agent Y/l/n remains on medical hold.” You tensed and Fury continued.

“Not removed. She will undergo weekly surgical review, strength assessment and psychological clearance.”

Natasha finally turned. “Nick-”

“If any of the three fail, she is replaced.” He looked directly at you. “No argument.” You nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“And if you conceal symptoms to preserve clearance?”

Your mouth tightened and Fury’s eyebrow lifted. “You’re removed immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

Natasha looked furious. You knew her well enough to see what lived beneath it. Terror.

Fury looked over the room again. “Nguyen receives the same conditions. Alternates train with the operational unit beginning today until both medical holds are resolved.” You sat slowly and Lu leaned close. “You are insane.”

You stared toward the stage. “Probably.”

“You just argued with Fury and Romanoff four days after leaving medical. She is going to murder you.”

“Apparently she’s trying very hard not to.”

Lu looked at you and neither of you smiled. Then her eyes filled. “Maya would’ve been so proud of how stupid that was.”

At the front, Fury continued speaking about security restructuring, but Natasha heard little of it. Her eyes stayed on you. You sat pale beneath the lights, one hand unconsciously near your healing side. You were exhausted, grieving and nowhere near ready for the mission, yet wanted it anyway. Part of Natasha wanted to drag you back to medical and tell Fury to find another deputy, tell Vesper to disappear because she was finished letting them take people from her. But another part understood exactly what you had said. You don’t get to turn that into my choice again. Loving you could no longer mean keeping you safe at any cost, deciding what truths you could handle or which risks you could take. It meant letting you choose even when that choice terrified her.

The following weeks became a quiet war between your body and your patience. Medical called it rehabilitation. You called it wasted time. Every morning the rest of the unit disappeared into training while you reported to recovery and spent forty minutes performing movements so controlled they felt insulting. The worst part was understanding exactly why they were necessary.

You knew what the knife had damaged because you had read the surgical summary despite being advised not to. The blade had entered low through your side, cut through muscle and opened a vessel large enough that the blood loss became dangerous before Natasha reached you. The surgeons repaired the damage. Nothing permanent had been found. You had been lucky.

Everyone kept saying that and you were beginning to hate the word. Lucky people did not wake in medical to discover one of their best friends was dead. Lucky people did not return to a bedroom built for three and find one bed stripped clean. Lucky people did not have thirty-one days to convince a medical board that a knife wound should not determine their career. So you trained.

At first, only where you were allowed. You treated every rehabilitation session like an assessment. If the therapist requested ten repetitions, you tried twelve until he stopped you. When resistance increased, you asked when it would increase again. If the treadmill timer ended, your hand was already reaching toward the controls. By the end of the first week, the staff learned not to praise you because praise only made you ask what came next.

Natasha noticed before anyone told her. As far as you were concerned, she stayed exactly where she belonged: outside your recovery. She didn’t attend surgical reviews, appear in medical unless duty required it or wait outside rehabilitation. After the auditorium argument, she never again suggested withdrawing you from Nightglass.

You assumed she had finally understood, and in a way she had. Walking into your appointments and arguing with doctors would only prove she still believed fear gave her the right to control your choices. So Natasha stopped. What she did instead was considerably less honest. Every evening, long after the compound quieted, she opened your updated medical status through her operational clearance. At first she told herself it was necessary because you were still her deputy and your readiness affected the mission. That explanation survived about three days.

By day thirteen, Natasha knew the difference between your left and right rotational strength. She knew your hemoglobin had returned to normal, the surgeon was pleased with the incision and less pleased with the stiffness beneath the healing muscle. She knew you reported a pain level of three during Thursday’s mobility assessment while the physician suspected closer to five.

Natasha stared at that line for a long time, then closed the file and told herself not to check again. The next night, she checked again. She never changed anything. She didn’t contact the physician, reduce your workload or ask Hill to reconsider your hold. She simply read the information and carried it around in her head. It was the closest she could come to watching over you without interfering. You would have hated it, and Natasha knew that, which was why she never told you.

Training resumed slowly. Medical cleared you for restricted weapons work, then controlled tactical movement and defensive drills without impact. Every new permission felt less like progress and more like a challenge. The first time Hayes allowed you back onto the tactical floor, Natasha was already there. You stopped at the entrance when you saw her. It was ridiculous that your body still reacted before your mind did. Then you remembered the photograph, remembered asking whether she knew how your parents died and watching her lie without blinking. Whatever warmth had appeared vanished.

You walked inside. “Agent Romanoff.”

Natasha’s expression didn’t change, but the title still hurt. “Y/l/n.”

That was how most conversations went now. Natasha never called you Y/n during training, even when nobody else was there. You never called her Natasha. She corrected you exactly as she corrected everyone else, perhaps even more precisely because she was terrified of giving you either advantage or protection. The only difference was that she refused to let you push too far. You discovered that on the third day.

The drill was simple: controlled room entry through a narrow doorway with no live opposition. It wasn’t about speed. Hayes wanted to measure whether your recovering side tolerated rapid directional change while your torso remained stable. You completed the sequence several times. On the fourth repetition, the pull beneath your scar sharpened and you ignored it. Natasha didn’t. “Stop.” You continued through the doorway. “Y/l/n.”

You cleared the final corner and lowered the weapon. “I’m fine.”

Natasha’s jaw tightened and Hayes wisely stepped away. “You shifted your weight.”

“I corrected it.”

“You compensated.”

“I finished the drill.”

“That wasn’t the objective.” You turned. “Then what was?”

“To see whether you could complete the movement without protecting the injury.”

“I did.”

“No.” Something hot moved through you. “You’re not my doctor.”

“No.”

“Then stop acting like one.” Natasha went still. You saw the words hit harder than intended but didn’t apologize. Natasha looked toward your stance. “You dropped your left hip during the turn. That means the movement is still pulling.”

“It means I adjusted.”

“It means you avoided loading the damaged side.”

“I adapted.”

“You compensated.”

“What’s the difference?”

“One keeps you alive. The other gets you killed when someone notices which direction you can’t turn.”

Silence settled between you. You hated that she was right. You lifted the weapon again. “Again.”

“No.”

Your eyes snapped toward her. “You said the drill is supposed to show where the weakness is. Now I know.”

“You knew before.”

“I can correct it.”

“You can heal it.”

Your voice went cold. “I have twenty-three days.”

Natasha’s expression shifted because she knew exactly how many remained too.

“Then don’t waste one by setting yourself back.”

You stared at her. Anger came easily now. It carried you through repetitions, assessments and nights studying Vesper schematics until the words blurred. Grief was harder. Natasha was harder still. “You still think I can’t do this.”

She hesitated, and the pause was enough. You gave a humorless laugh. “Right.”

“That isn’t what I said.”

“You don’t have to.”

You placed the weapon on the table. Natasha watched your fingers tighten against the edge before releasing it.

“I think right now you care more about getting the signature than what the signature means.” You looked at her. “And what does it mean?”

“That if I put you beside me inside Vesper, I trust your body to do what you ask even when you’re exhausted, hurt and terrified.”

Your jaw tightened. “I can.”

“Not yet.” Somewhere beneath everything, part of you wanted to prove Natasha wrong more than the doctors. “Then I guess I have work to do.”

Natasha watched you leave. Only after the door closed did Hayes speak. “You know she’s doing half of this because of you.” Natasha kept her eyes on the doorway. “I know.”

“You could tell her she’s improving.”

“She knows.”

Hayes looked unconvinced and Natasha exhaled. “If I tell her she’s almost ready, she hears ready.”

“And if you keep telling her she isn’t?” Natasha looked toward him. “She’ll keep trying to prove me wrong.” Hayes stared. “You realize that’s manipulative.”

“Yes.”

“Going to stop?”

Natasha looked back at the door. “No.” If anger at Natasha made you slow down long enough to heal, she could live with you hating her a little longer.

Saturday arrived beneath a sky so painfully clear it felt inappropriate. You stood before the mirror while Lu fastened the final button of her dress jacket. The notice about Maya’s ceremony had arrived three days earlier through the official system, mandatory for everyone who had served or trained directly with Agent Maya Patel.

S.H.I.E.L.D. rarely used formal uniform. Most days belonged to tactical black, field gear and anything capable of surviving concrete. The ceremonial uniform was different: dark navy, structured shoulders and silver insignia. Lu had complained that the sharply pressed trousers looked weaponized. Nobody laughed. Your own uniform felt wrong against your healing side. Lu stood behind you in the mirror and her eyes were already red.

“Do I look stupid?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God.”

You turned and she automatically straightened your collar. “Maya would’ve fixed that.”

“I know.” Lu’s fingers paused. “Ready?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

You went anyway. The south grounds had been transformed. Rows of chairs faced an elevated stone platform while S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel stood in precise dark formations beneath the sunlight. At the front sat Maya’s coffin, closed. You knew she was inside, but your mind refused to connect the polished wood with the girl whose bed had stood across from yours. A S.H.I.E.L.D. flag covered the coffin, perfectly smooth, its emblem centered across the top. Four members of the honor guard stood nearby and beyond them sat people you didn’t know. Family.

You recognized Maya’s mother immediately from the shape of her face. Her younger brother sat beside her, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone white. You looked away and felt Lu’s arm brush yours. The ceremony began exactly at eleven. Low brass and strings drifted across the grounds, restrained and formal. You hated it immediately. Maya would have hated it more. You could almost hear her: This is aggressively depressing. The thought nearly made you laugh. Instead, your eyes burned.

Everyone rose as the honor guard moved around the coffin. Commands were given quietly and boots struck stone in perfect synchronization. Then a mechanical roar grew overhead and several heads lifted. Three Quinjets crossed the field in formation against the blue sky. For a moment they stayed together, then one separated and climbed sharply while the other two continued. Lu made a small sound and you closed your eyes. You had seen this before. Not this aircraft or field or coffin, but something close. You had been six, small enough that someone held your hand because they were afraid you might wander.

You remembered black shoes, flags, words you didn’t understand. Adults telling you your parents had been brave. Music. Always music.

The Quinjets disappeared and Fury approached the lectern. Something inside you went cold. He removed his glasses. “Maya Patel joined S.H.I.E.L.D. because she believed competence meant responsibility.” You stared at the coffin.

“Maya understood that service is not defined by the moments anyone applauds. It is defined by choices made when nobody is watching. By the person who checks another agent’s equipment twice. By the one who stays calm when fear is easier. By the one who puts herself between danger and the people beside her.”

Natasha stood several rows ahead with the operational leads. Dress uniform fit her differently from tactical clothes, rows of ribbons and commendations across her chest, red hair pulled neatly away. From a distance, she looked carved from the discipline surrounding all of you. But Natasha wasn’t watching Fury anymore. She was watching you. “Maya Patel died because an enemy exploited the trust this organization requires to function,” Fury continued. “That failure is ours to carry.”

Your jaw tightened. Carry. You knew that word. Honor. Duty. Sacrifice. Service. Words adults used when somebody was dead because admitting they should still be alive was apparently too difficult.

“She served with distinction. She died protecting the agents beside her, and S.H.I.E.L.D. will remember that service-”

Your fingers curled. No.

“She will be remembered not only for how she died-”

No.

“..but for what she represented-”

Your breathing changed and Lu noticed. Her hand moved slightly beside you, but another voice lived inside your memory: Your parents represented the very best of this organization.

You stared at Maya’s coffin. She didn’t represent anything. She was Maya. She painted her nails after terrifying exercises because she deserved to look less traumatized. She organized medical supplies because Lu had “the survival instincts of a distracted pigeon.” She hated people touching her food, slept with one sock on and one sock off, cried during terrible dog movies and denied it while tears were still on her face. She was supposed to complain through Nightglass, sit beside Lu on the Quinjet and be alive. “Her sacrifice-”

You moved and Lu turned. “Y/n?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t do this.” If you stayed another second, you were going to scream. You stepped out of formation and kept walking, ignoring the few people who looked toward you. Your incision pulled beneath the uniform, but you continued beyond the last row, past the officers at the perimeter and toward the trees separating the field from the western training buildings.

You pressed one hand against a tree and bent forward. “Fuck.” The first tear fell, then another. You wiped them away angrily. It did nothing. Your shoulders shook and you pressed your lips together. You were exhausted from crying where someone could always find you. Then footsteps approached and stopped behind you. You knew who it was before turning. Natasha stood several meters away. For one stupid second, seeing her made you want to cry harder. You straightened instead and wiped beneath one eye. “What are you doing here?”

Natasha didn’t move closer. “I saw you leave.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“I followed you.”

“Why?” The question came sharper than intended, but Natasha accepted it. “Because you looked like you shouldn’t be alone.” You laughed once. “And you decided that meant I should be with you?”

There it was, the distance. Natasha felt it return and lowered her eyes. “No. I decided I’d make sure you were alright. If you tell me to leave, I will.”

You looked toward the field, Fury’s speech drifting faintly through the trees. “I hate those speeches.”

Natasha looked toward the sound. “So do I.” You glanced at her. There was no smile or attempt to turn the sentence into something between you.

“They’re always the same.” you said.

“Yes.”

“Different dead person. Same fucking words.” Natasha’s jaw tightened. “Yes.” You looked directly at her. “They said it about my parents.”

“I know.” Your expression changed instantly and Natasha saw it. The past snapped back between you. You turned away. “Right.”

The warmth almost forming disappeared, but Natasha stayed. She didn’t apologize because she knew it would make things worse. Instead she looked toward the ceremony. “They said it about people I knew too.” Your eyes shifted toward her and Natasha continued quietly. “Too many.”

You leaned against the tree. “She would’ve hated this.” Natasha looked at you. “Maya?”

“Yeah.”

“What part?”

“All of it.”

Something faint touched Natasha’s mouth. “She hated formal events.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“She hated being looked at.” Natasha nodded. “That I did know.”

“How?”

“She used to stand behind Bennett during group briefings.” You stared. Natasha remained perfectly serious. “Whenever visitors were in the training wing.” Your mouth almost smiled.

“She said Lu had a wider head.” Natasha blinked. “What?”

“So she could hide behind it.”

A laugh escaped Natasha before she could stop it. You stared at her. For one second, you forgot to be angry and that was dangerous. Natasha seemed to realize it too. Her laughter disappeared quickly, but the silence afterward wasn’t hostile. “What was she actually like?” You looked at her. “What?”

“They’re talking about her service.” Natasha’s gaze returned to you. “You don’t seem to want to.”

Your throat tightened. “She.. was annoying. Natasha’s eyebrow rose. You looked down. “Really annoying.”

“How?”

“She corrected everything.”

“Everything?”

“Posture. Equipment. How Lu folded clothes. How I held a coffee cup once.”

“Was she right?”

You gave Natasha a look. “That isn’t the point.” A hint of amusement returned and you should have stopped, but didn’t. Maybe because nobody at the ceremony was actually talking about Maya, so you did. You told Natasha about Maya alphabetizing medical supplies and nearly losing her mind when Lu mixed two drawers together. You told her Maya pretended birthdays didn’t matter because she hated people singing to her. You told her about the dog movie, and Natasha listened.

“What did she watch?”

“Reality dating shows.”

Natasha looked genuinely surprised. “Patel?”

“You better not tell anyone.”

“She’s dead.”

You stared and Natasha immediately closed her eyes. “That came out wrong.” A shocked laugh escaped you. “Oh my God.”

“I know.”

“You cannot say that.”

“I’m aware.”

“You literally just left her funeral.”

“Memorial.”

You were still laughing when you realized you were laughing with Natasha. The sound died. Both of you felt it happen. For several minutes, you had spoken exactly as you used to and the realization hurt differently. Natasha looked away first, giving you room to decide whether the conversation ended there. You stared through the trees and quietly said, “She was scared of flying.”

Natasha looked back. You kept your eyes forward. “Not enough to stop her. She just hated turbulence. She always checked Lu’s harness first so nobody noticed how hard she was gripping her own.” Natasha listened. This time neither of you forgot what existed between you. Talking about Maya felt less like falling back into something with Natasha and more like standing on opposite sides of the same wound. Eventually, the ceremony ended. Neither of you noticed until voices carried toward the main building. Lu walked away with Carter, one arm linked through his. “She’s leaving.”

Natasha followed your gaze. “Probably smart.”

You looked at her. “You’re not going to the dinner?”

“I was supposed to.”

“Supposed to?”

Natasha glanced toward the gathering officers. “Ceremonial dinners are where grief goes to become small talk.”

You almost smiled. Your gaze dropped toward the decorations across Natasha’s chest. You had never seen her full dress uniform before and there were more medals than expected. Some you recognized. Others meant nothing. Your eyes moved slowly across them and stopped. One medal sat lower than the others and Natasha noticed where you were looking and went completely still. “What is that?” She didn’t answer. You looked from the medal to her face and understood. “Oh.”

Natasha’s jaw flexed. “Nightglass?”

“Yes.” The answer was quiet and you looked away. “Sorry.”

“You didn’t know.”

“I shouldn’t have asked.”

“You’re allowed to ask.”

The sentence carried too much history and you both heard it. Natasha looked down at the medal, then unfastened it. “What are you doing?”

She held it in her palm. “I don’t want it.” Your expression changed. “Then why are you wearing it?”

“Dress protocol.”

You almost laughed at the absurdity. Natasha stared at the medal. “They gave it to me for completing the objective and extracting three wounded agents.” She held it toward you and you stared at her hand. “No.” Natasha frowned. “Take it.”

“No.”

“It came from their mission.”

“That doesn’t make it mine.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Then throw it away!” Something flashed across her face. “You know I can’t.”

“Then keep it.”

“Y/n.”

You looked directly at her. “I don’t want something you hate because my parents died earning it for you.” Natasha flinched and you immediately regretted the wording.

“That came out wrong. I’m sorry.”

“No.”

“It did.”

“No.”

Natasha looked down at the medal. “You’re not wrong.” Neither of you spoke. Then you touched the edge of the ribbon and pushed it gently back toward her hand. “I’m going to earn my own.”

Natasha’s eyes lifted. There it was, the thing both of you had avoided for nearly an hour. Reality returned instantly. Natasha closed her fingers around the medal. “You’re still determined.”

You gave her a tired look. “Have you met me?”

“I have.” She reattached the medal. “You’re still not ready.”

You laughed once. “Of course. That again.”

“I’m not trying to start an argument.”

“You usually don’t have to try.”

“You’re compensating during rotation.” Your eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

Natasha realized the mistake immediately. Too much information. She corrected smoothly. “I watched your last tactical assessment.”

“I passed.”

“You completed it.”

“Same thing.”

“No.”

Your frustration returned. “You really cannot let me have anything.”

“I’m not taking anything from you.”

“You’re still waiting for me to fail.” Natasha’s face changed. “No.”

“You said yourself you don’t think I’ll be ready.”

“I don’t think you’re ready now.”

“You think there’s a difference?”

“Yes.” You folded your arms and Natasha’s gaze dropped toward your side. You caught it. “There.”

“What?”

“That look.”

“What look?”

“The one where you decide whether I’m about to break.” Natasha’s jaw tightened. “I’m not.“

“You are.”

“I’m deciding whether you’re in pain.”

Your expression went cold. “That’s none of your business.” The sentence landed harder than intended and Natasha fell silent. For a second, you nearly apologized. You didn’t.

“You’re right.” Natasha stepped back and the distance returned. You looked toward the field where people were gathering for the reception. The thought of standing beneath warm lights while strangers told you how proud Maya would have been made your stomach turn.

“You want your clearance.”

Your expression sharpened. “Yes.”

“You want to prove I’m wrong.”

“Yes.”

“Good.” You frowned as Natasha adjusted one sleeve of her uniform. “Training Hall Two. Twenty minutes.”

“You’re serious.”

“Very.”

“You want to train after Maya’s memorial.”

“No.” The answer stopped you. Natasha looked toward the field. “I want to leave a room where people are about to spend three hours explaining what Maya’s death meant.” Her eyes returned to yours. “And see what the people she trained with are going to do because she lived.” Your throat tightened before her voice cooled again. “You’ve spent two weeks trying to convince everyone you’re ready.”

“I am.”

“Then show me.”

Something inside you rose immediately to the challenge and you hated that she knew it would. “You said I’m not cleared for full combat.”

“You aren’t.”

“Then what exactly am I showing you?”

Natasha’s expression shifted. “Control. No speed or impact. No tearing half-healed muscle because you’re angry.” Your jaw tightened. “I’m not-”

“You are.”

You looked away and Natasha continued. “You want to go on that mission? Show me you know the difference between pushing yourself and losing control.”

You looked back toward the ceremony. Lu was gone and Maya’s coffin remained at the front while the honor guard prepared to move it. For one terrible second, you wanted to go back, touch the coffin, say something. Tell Maya you were sorry. Instead, you looked at Natasha. “Training Hall Two.” Natasha nodded once and you started walking.

Neither of you spoke much on the way back. Natasha stayed several steps behind you, close enough that you knew she was there but never beside you. When you reached the equipment benches, you stopped. “So?”

Natasha removed her ceremonial jacket first. For some reason, watching her do it made you uncomfortable. Maybe because that uniform belonged to the version of Natasha who stood beside coffins and collected medals for surviving things other people hadn’t. She folded it carefully over a chair. “Changing room.” You frowned. “I know where it is.”

“Then use it.”

“You dragged me away from a memorial to tell me to change clothes?”

“I didn’t drag you anywhere.”

You disappeared into the changing room without answering. Ten minutes later, your formal uniform had been replaced by black training clothes. Natasha had changed too and stood beside the ring, wrapping tape around one wrist. You stopped several feet away. “What exactly are we doing?”

She glanced toward your side. “Medical restrictions first.” You rolled your eyes. “No direct abdominal strikes, uncontrolled throws or full-force grappling against the recovering side. If you feel pulling, sharp pain, dizziness or weakness, you stop.”

“I know my restrictions.”

“I know you know them.”

“Then why are you telling me?”

“Because you have a selective relationship with instructions you dislike.”

Your jaw tightened and Natasha stepped beneath the ropes. “Inside.” You stared. “The ring?”

“Yes.”

“You said no full contact.”

“I said restricted contact.”

You climbed in. The mat compressed beneath your feet and muscle memory took over. You rolled your shoulders, checked your stance and faced Natasha. “So?”

“Attack me.”

You stared. “What?”

“Attack me.”

“This is your brilliant test?”

“It hasn’t started yet.”

“You want me to hit you?”

“I want you to try.”

Your eyes narrowed and Natasha stayed perfectly calm. You had forgotten how infuriating she could be. “Fine.” Your first strike went toward her jaw and she blocked it. The second came lower, followed by a turn meant to force her backward, but Natasha moved around it without giving ground. You knew that movement and adjusted, but she shut that down too.

You drove forward harder. For the first thirty seconds, it almost felt good. Your body understood this language better than conversation. There was no Nightglass in a block, no betrayal in a counter, no unfinished sentence from your mother hidden inside a defensive sequence. Only movement.

You attacked and Natasha defended. You changed angles, she changed with you. Every opening disappeared before you reached it.

“You’re not fighting back.”

“I know.”

“That isn’t a fight.”

“I didn’t ask you to fight me.” You swung again. “What did you ask?”

“For you to attack.” Natasha caught your wrist, redirected the strike and released you. You turned. “Why?”

“You wanted to show me what you can do.”

“I can do more if you actually participate.”

“Then make me.” That did it. You attacked harder, combining upper strikes with a low sweep Natasha avoided by half a step. You followed, catching her shoulder and trying to use her momentum against her. For one second, you almost had her. Then Natasha’s hand moved, not toward your face or shoulder, but your lower left side.

She never touched you. She didn’t need to. Her fingers moved toward the place beneath your shirt where the knife had entered and your body reacted before your mind understood. You twisted violently away and your guard vanished. Natasha caught your arm, stepped behind your center of gravity and brought you down with controlled precision.

You stared at the ceiling, then up at her. “What the fuck was that!?”

She stood over you. “You lost.”

“You went for my wound!”

“I feinted toward it.”

“You’re not allowed to strike there!”

“I didn’t.” Anger flashed hot and immediate. “That was cheap.”

“Yes.” The answer stopped you. Natasha offered her hand. You ignored it and stood alone. “You think Vesper is going to care?”

Your jaw tightened. “This is rehabilitation.”

“No. This is the clearance you asked me to help you earn.”

“I didn’t ask you to cheat.”

“You asked me to show you what you weren’t ready for.” You stared and Natasha reset her stance. “Again.”

You almost refused, but pride won. “Fine.” This time you expected it. You watched her hands more carefully and kept your injured side farther away. You lasted almost two minutes before Natasha stepped inside your guard, shoulder brushing yours as though rotating behind you, then suddenly dropped her hand.

You protected your side instinctively. Natasha caught your other wrist and a second later, you were against the ropes with your arm controlled behind you. “Again.” You jerked free when she released you. “You keep doing the same thing!”

“Because it keeps working.”

“It won’t!”

“Then show me.”

Again and again. The first hour became an exercise in frustration. Natasha never struck the injury and barely touched your torso. Sometimes it was a hand moving too quickly toward your side, sometimes a shoulder rotation suggesting she might close distance there. Once she deliberately glanced toward the scar before changing levels and your body tightened enough for her to sweep your leg. Every time, the result was the same.

By the first break, sweat had soaked your shirt. You climbed through the ropes without looking at her and grabbed your water. Natasha drank across the room. You could feel her watching your breathing and hated it. “I’m not hurting.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I think a lot of things.”

“Unfortunately.”

Her mouth almost moved. You put the bottle down. “Again.” Natasha checked the clock. “You need ten minutes.”

“I’ve had five.”

“Ten.”

“I’m fine.”

Her eyes lifted slowly and you stopped. “Fine. Ten.” Natasha said nothing and somehow that annoyed you too. When the break ended, you returned to the ring. The second hour was worse because now you understood what she was doing and still couldn’t stop it.

You became more aggressive and Natasha calmer. Every time frustration pushed you faster, she slowed the fight. Every time emotion drove your attack, she redirected you until you exhausted your own momentum. By the third hour, Natasha forced longer breaks whether you wanted them or not while you sat glaring at the floor and refusing to acknowledge how heavy your legs had become.

Physically, you were doing better than Natasha expected. That should have made her happy, but it made what came next harder. You climbed back into the ring after the final break. Natasha didn’t. Instead, she walked toward the equipment cabinet. You frowned. “What are you doing?” She opened it and removed a training knife.

Everything inside you stopped. The common room returned with brutal clarity: Reeves’s hand closing around the bread knife, Maya’s face changing, the blade coming free beneath her ribs. Your body hitting the table. Blood pouring through your fingers and pooling beneath you.

You realized you were staring and Natasha did too. She stayed outside the ring and her voice changed. “Y/n.” You dragged your eyes from the knife. “What?”

“Look at me.”

“I am.”

“You’re looking at the weapon.” You held out one hand. “Give it to me.”

“No.”

“I thought you wanted to train.”

“I do.”

“Then give it to me.” Natasha stepped into the ring with the knife low against her thigh. Your pulse had already accelerated and she could see it. “Attack me.” Your expression hardened. “With what?”

“Your hands.”

“You get a knife?”

“Yes.” You laughed sharply. “Convenient.”

“Attack.”

You moved because you refused to hesitate. Your first strike came too fast and Natasha slipped away. Her knife hand lifted and your attention snapped toward it. Wrong. You knew it immediately. Natasha’s free hand caught your shoulder and redirected you. You attacked again. This time she feinted toward your upper arm and you flinched backward hard enough to create distance.

You came forward once more, but Natasha shifted the knife into a reverse grip and your stomach dropped. Reeves had held it that way. Your breath caught. That half-second was enough. Natasha stepped inside, touched the rubber blade lightly against your shoulder and stepped away. “Dead.” You stared. “Again.” Something inside you cracked. “No.”

Natasha stayed still. You were breathing too hard. “No.” You looked at the knife, then her.

“This is bullshit.”

“No.”

“You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Yes.”

“You’re deliberately trying to fuck with my head.”

“Yes.” The easy agreement made you furious. “You think this proves something?”

“I know it does.”

“Fuck you.”

Natasha absorbed it and you stepped closer. “You drag me in here after Maya’s memorial, spend three hours pushing at my injury and now pull that out like you’re trying to make me break?”

“No.”

“That is exactly what you’re doing!”

“I’m showing you where you’re already broken.”

Silence followed immediately and Natasha regretted the word as soon as it left her mouth.

“Broken.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“You just said it.”

“I meant the reaction.”

“No. You said broken.”

“Y/n-”

“You think I’m broken because somebody stabbed me?”

“No.”

“Because I watched my friend die?”

“No.”

“Because sometimes I wake up thinking there’s blood underneath me?” Natasha went still because you had never told her. “Because I can’t look at a fucking kitchen knife without remembering Maya looking down at herself like she didn’t understand what was happening?”

Natasha lowered the training weapon because you were crying now. “I know it isn’t real!” You struck your chest. “I know Reeves isn’t in the room. I know he’s restrained. I know Maya is dead. I know that thing in your hand is rubber. Do you think I’m stupid?”

“Y/n, no.”

“Then what the fuck do you want from me?”

“I want you to stop pretending knowing something is the same as controlling it!” You froze. Natasha’s voice had risen and she stepped forward. “I have watched you for months.”

“Oh, trust me, I know.”

“No. You don’t.”

Anger sharpened her face too. “I know how you move when you’re tired. I know what you look like when your left side hurts and you don’t want anyone to notice. I know you choose seats where nobody can approach that side without crossing your line of sight.” Your expression changed. “I know you stopped carrying a field knife unless training requires it. When Hayes introduced blades last week, you watched the weapon instead of the person holding it.”

“Stop.”

“I know you check people’s hands when they enter a room.”

“Stop.”

“And every time someone reaches toward your side too quickly, you protect the wound before you know what they’re doing.”

“STOP!”

Your scream echoed through the empty hall and Natasha fell silent. You stood shaking. “How dare you?” Her expression tightened. “How fucking dare you stand there and tell me you’ve been watching me like that?”

“I’m trying to keep you alive.”

“There it is!” You laughed through tears. “Again.”

Natasha’s jaw set. “What?”

“Keeping me alive. That’s always your answer.”

“Because apparently somebody has to care whether you survive!”

“I care!”

“Then act like it!” You stepped toward her. “I’m doing everything they ask!”

“You’re doing everything they ask and twice as much when nobody is looking!” Your face went cold. “How do you know?” Natasha hesitated and your eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”

She couldn’t tell you about the medical reports. Not now. “I know you.” You laughed bitterly. “No, you don’t.” The words struck. “You thought you knew me because you knew my parents. You thought you knew what I would do before I walked into this building. You waited for me to become them, and when I didn’t, you still decided what I could handle.”

“I know.”

“No, don’t fucking say that.” Natasha tightened her grip on the knife. “You don’t get to stand there and analyze me like some tactical problem.”

“I’m not.”

“You always are!”

“No!”

“Yes! You watch and calculate and decide what everyone needs before they even speak. You decided I couldn’t handle the truth about my parents. You decided I shouldn’t go on this mission. You decided I needed space, that you needed to protect me, and now you’re deciding I’m too traumatized to do my job!”

“I am not saying that!”

“Then what are you saying?”

“That you’re afraid!” The word exploded between you. Natasha was breathing hard too. “Of course I’m afraid!” Your answer came just as loudly.

For one second, Natasha almost looked relieved. You shoved both hands through your hair. “Do you think I don’t know that? I was stabbed, Natasha. I watched Maya die on the floor and then the same knife went into me. I remember the blood. I remember thinking I wanted my mother while I was bleeding out because apparently some part of me is still six years old when I’m terrified.”

Natasha’s face broke, but you didn’t stop. “I remember you. I remember you kneeling in it, your hands covered in my blood, screaming at me not to close my eyes. Then I woke up and Maya was dead and you were sitting beside my bed and somehow I was supposed to understand what any of that meant.”

Natasha lowered the knife completely and you wiped angrily at your face. “Yes, I’m afraid of knives now. Congratulations. You found it.”

“That isn’t what this is.”

“Then what is it?”

Natasha looked at you. “The mission will not care.” You laughed incredulously. “There she is.”

“I mean it.”

“Of course you do.”

“All they need is one person carrying a blade.” You looked away. “If someone pulls a knife inside Vesper and you watch the weapon instead of their shoulders, you can die. If you turn your injured side away before you know where the attack is coming from, they’ll see it. If you freeze because the grip reminds you of Reeves, that half-second belongs to them.” Your eyes burned. Natasha held up the training knife. “This is not why you’re weak.”

“I didn’t say I was weak.”

“This is how he still has a hold on you.”

That hurt more. You stared at the knife. Beneath the anger, you knew she was right and hated her for it. You hated Reeves more because he was gone from your life in every way that mattered and your body still carried him. “I can fix it.”

“Yes.” The answer surprised you. Natasha didn’t look triumphant, only sad. “That’s why we’re here.” Your breathing remained unsteady. “You could have told me.”

“You would have argued.”

“I’m arguing now.”

“Yes.”

“Then what was the point?”

“This.” Natasha gestured between you. “You admitting it.” Your mouth opened, but nothing came. “I can’t train something you refuse to acknowledge.”

“So you had to humiliate me first?”

“I had to make you see it.”

“You made me feel like I was back there!” Pain crossed her face. “I know.”

“Stop saying that!”

“I DO KNOW!” Natasha’s shout cracked across the hall. She threw the training knife onto the mat where it landed harmlessly between you. “You think I enjoyed watching your face change every time I moved toward your side? You think I liked seeing you look at that knife like Reeves had walked into the room?”

“Then why did you keep doing it?”

“Because you want to go!”

“Yes!”

“And I can’t make this easy because I’m scared!” The admission silenced you. Natasha looked furious with herself. “I am terrified.”

Your chest rose and fell and she stepped closer. “I don’t want you anywhere near Vesper.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Her eyes filled. “I want to put you back in medical and tell Fury your clearance failed. I want to remove your name and lock every door between you and that facility.”

Your face tightened. “And you know why you can’t.”

“Yes.” The answer came instantly. “Because that would be what I did before.”

Your hands shook. “Then why the hell are you doing all this?” Natasha stared. “What?”

“Why do you care this much?”

Her face changed and you were too angry to stop. “Why do you know every stupid thing about how I move? Why do you care whether I flinch, whether my side hurts or whether I get that fucking signature?”

“Y/n-”

“No.”

You stepped closer. “You don’t get to hide behind command now.”

“I’m not.”

“Then tell me!” Natasha’s jaw tightened. “You lied because you thought you knew what was best. I told you to leave me alone and you did, except apparently you’re still watching everything I do. You follow me out of a memorial because I’m crying. You sit there and listen to me talk about Maya. You keep trying to protect me while pretending you’re not, and now you’re spending your afternoon letting me hit you because I said I wanted to prove you wrong.” Your voice broke. “Why?”

Natasha looked at you..really looked at you and all her control disappeared. “Because I’m in love with you, goddammit!”

The words echoed through the training hall and everything stopped. Even the anger lost momentum. Natasha stood several feet away, breathing hard, eyes bright with tears. You had heard her say it before. I think I fell in love with you.

That had been quieter. Broken. This sounded ripped out of her. Natasha swallowed, but there was no taking it back. “You want to know why I care?” Her voice dropped, rough and unsteady. “Because I love you. I’m still in love with you. I didn’t stop because you learned the truth. I didn’t stop because you told me to leave you alone. I didn’t stop because you’re angry with me.”

“I don’t hate you.” The words escaped before you could stop them. Natasha went silent. Your face changed and you looked away. Fuck. That had not been meant to happen.

Natasha didn’t move toward you. She knew better. “I wish I did. It would be easier.”

Natasha closed her eyes briefly. “Yes.”

You laughed weakly. “There you go again.”

A tiny broken sound escaped her that might have been a laugh too. Then the distance returned.

You looked at the rubber knife between you. “You love me.”

“Yes.”

“And you still think I shouldn’t go.”

“Yes.” Your jaw tightened. “At least you’re consistent.”

“I’m trying.” You looked at her and for the first time since the photograph, Natasha had nothing hidden behind her face. No calculation. No prepared answer. Just fear, love and the certainty that none of it entitled her to anything from you.

“That doesn’t fix it,” you whispered.

“I know.” You didn’t snap at her this time. Natasha noticed. She continued carefully.

“I’m not telling you because I expect it to change what happened.” Your eyes remained on the knife. “Then why say it?”

“You asked why I care.” A tear slipped down your cheek and you wiped it away. “And I’m done lying to you.” You stood in silence. Eventually, Natasha bent down and picked up the training knife. Your body tightened again. She turned the handle toward you and waited. “You’re not ready tonight,” she said quietly. “That doesn’t mean you won’t be.”

“How do I fix it?” Something changed in Natasha’s eyes. “The same way you learned everything else.” You looked at the knife. “By doing it until I’m not afraid?”

“No. By doing it until being afraid doesn’t decide what you do.”

The words settled into you. You reached forward and closed your fingers around the handle. Natasha released it immediately. The training knife felt ridiculous in your hand. You looked down, then back at her. “Again.” Natasha’s face softened for half a second before the instructor returned. “Again.”

The next morning, Hill took over the unit. At 0700, the remaining mission team stood in Training Area One expecting Natasha to walk through the doors with a tablet under one arm and some new method of making all of you regret having joints. Instead, Maria entered and stopped at the front. “Romanoff has been temporarily reassigned from general unit instruction.”

Hill activated the tactical display behind her. “Today we begin final role-specific preparation. Communications, breach, external surveillance and medical response will operate independently this morning before integrating this afternoon.”

Her eyes found you. “Y/l/n. Training Hall Two.” You frowned. “Now?”

“Unless you have somewhere more important to be.”

Lu’s mouth moved and you stepped on her boot before she could speak. “Yes, ma’am.” You left beneath the curious attention of half the unit.

Training Hall Two was already open and Natasha stood inside. You stopped outside the ring. “Hill said you were reassigned.”

“I was.”

“…To me.”

“Yes.”

You stared. “Why?” Natasha folded her arms. “Because you’re already performing above deployment standard in command evaluation, tactical planning and firearms.” You blinked. Praise from Natasha still reached places inside you it no longer had permission to access. “So naturally you’ve decided to ruin my week.”

You looked at the knife and Natasha followed your gaze. “Your weakness isn’t technical.”

“I know.” That answer made her pause. A week earlier, you would have argued. Now you stepped beneath the ropes while Natasha watched. Your gaze moved toward the weapon and your pulse accelerated.

“What are we doing?”

“The same thing we did yesterday.”

“For several days?”

“Until it stops deciding your movements.”

You flexed your fingers. “And Hill trains everyone else?”

“Yes.”

“That seems unfair to them.”

“I’m sure they’ll survive the disappointment.” Natasha picked up the knife and your attention snapped toward it. “Eyes.”

You forced yourself to look at her face. “Good.” She shifted the weapon into her right hand and your stomach tightened. “Attack.”

The first few days were humiliating. Natasha didn’t frighten you unnecessarily, but she refused to protect you from the reactions that could get you killed. She changed grips and angles and introduced knives without warning. Sometimes one was already lying on the floor when you entered. Sometimes there was no blade for forty minutes and Natasha produced one halfway through a sequence. Once she handed you a tactical map, asked you to plan an extraction route and casually placed a knife beside your elbow while you concentrated. You stopped speaking mid-sentence. Natasha said nothing. You looked at the knife, then her. “You’re an asshole.”

“Continue.”

That became the structure of your days. Natasha never asked you to stop being afraid, and that surprised you. You had assumed the goal was desensitization: enough exposure until the weapon became ordinary. Natasha corrected that during the fourth morning when you were sparring without weapons and she suddenly drew a rubber blade from behind her waistband. Your body jerked away, but instead of retreating completely, you caught yourself. Eyes off the knife. Shoulders. Hips. Hands.

Natasha advanced and you watched her center rather than the blade. She slashed and you moved outside the line, but not quickly enough. The rubber edge touched your ribs. Natasha stopped. “Dead.”

“What did I do wrong?”

Natasha’s expression changed slightly because that was new. You had asked without defending yourself. “You watched my shoulders.”

“Yes.”

“Too much.” Your irritation returned. “You told me to watch you.”

“I told you to read me.”

“That’s different?”

“Yes.”

She stepped closer and raised the training knife. “People lie with their shoulders. The hand has to deliver the weapon. The hips move the body. The feet tell you where the weight can go.” She shifted slowly and you watched. “Don’t stare at one thing because you’re afraid of another.” Natasha moved the knife once. “See all of me.”

By the end of the week, you stopped trying to win every session. That might have been the biggest improvement. Before the stabbing, losing to Natasha irritated you. Afterward, every mistake felt like proof she had been right to doubt your clearance. Every time she put you on the mat, you wanted to stand before the pain registered. Every break sounded like weakness. Natasha recognized that too.

On Thursday afternoon, you had been working nearly ninety minutes when she caught your wrist, redirected you and sent you onto the mat for the fifth time. You rolled immediately and started to stand. Something flew toward you. You caught it instinctively. Water bottle.

“Break.”

“I’m fine.”

Natasha didn’t move and you stopped. Your breathing was too fast, sweat darkening your shirt and the muscles around your healing side feeling heavy rather than painful. You looked at the bottle, then at Natasha. “How long?”

“Fifteen.” You almost argued. Instead, you opened the bottle and sat against the edge of the ring. Natasha looked surprised. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You expected an argument.”

“Yes.”

You drank and a quiet sound escaped her. You were beginning to understand those things could exist together. You could miss Natasha and still be angry. Laugh at something she said and remember five seconds later that she had lied. Trust her to teach you how to survive a knife attack while not knowing whether you could trust her with the softer parts of yourself. There was no clean progression, only days when the distance felt larger and days when you forgot to maintain it.

A week into the private sessions, Natasha called a break earlier than usual. “You haven’t made me miserable enough yet.”

“You say that like there’s a daily quota.”

“There isn’t?”

“No.”

Natasha walked toward the bench, picked up a tablet and opened a file. The Vesper facility appeared and you stopped drinking.

“What happened?”

“Reeves started talking.” For several seconds, you thought you misheard. “What?”

Natasha looked at you. “He’s cooperating.” You laughed. “No, he’s not.”

“He is.”

“Reeves?”

“Yes.”

“The Reeves who tried to murder us?”

“The same.” You stared. “He actually talked?”

“Yes.” Your suspicion sharpened. “Why?” Natasha turned the tablet toward you. New markings covered the facility map. “He confirmed the primary archive is still inside the mountain. Vesper started moving financial records and secondary intelligence two weeks ago, but the central ledger can’t be relocated quickly without physically dismantling several isolated storage systems.”

Your attention moved across the map. “So we still have time.”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Current estimate is eleven days before they start destroying what they can’t move.” Your stomach tightened. Eleven.

“He also confirmed a secondary service network beneath the eastern sector. Older than the main facility. Vesper uses it for emergency power, water access and maintenance.” You leaned closer. “It isn’t on our schematics.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Original construction predates Vesper’s occupation.” You studied the tunnels. “That changes extraction.”

“Yes.”

“And insertion.”

“Potentially.”

Your eyes moved toward her. “How much does he know about our current plan?”

“Almost nothing.”

“Almost?”

“He knows we retained the operation after his exposure. He doesn’t know the final deployment date, current insertion route, team configuration beyond the original selection or command contingencies.” You sat back. “That’s more than nothing.”

“Yes.”

Natasha didn’t soften information anymore. If you asked, she answered, even when you hated the answer. You looked back at the map. “How did Hill get him to talk?”

Silence and you looked at Natasha. Her face had gone carefully neutral and your stomach dropped. “Oh.” Natasha said nothing. “You.”

“Yes.” You stared. “You interrogated him.”

“Yes.” There were hundreds of questions you could have asked. What did you do? Did you hurt him? Did he beg? Did you enjoy it after what he did? There were enough stories about the Black Widow that your imagination could fill the gaps.

You looked down at your water bottle. “How long?”

“Several sessions.” You nodded and Natasha watched you carefully. “You’re not going to ask?” You looked back at her. “Would you tell me?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. That mattered. You hated that it mattered. You considered it anyway and shook your head. “No.” Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “I know enough about you to know keeping secrets during an interrogation is probably a stupid life choice.” Something shifted in Natasha’s expression. You looked back toward the map. “And I don’t particularly care whether Reeves had a pleasant week.”

A faint darkness entered Natasha’s eyes. “He didn’t.”

After a moment, Natasha enlarged the lower levels. “There’s something else.”

“What?”

“Vesper has a containment protocol.” You frowned. “If the archive is compromised, command can isolate sections remotely. Blast doors, environmental locks, emergency power rerouting.” Your eyes moved over the map. “They trap intruders.”

“They trap everyone.” You looked at her. “Their own people?”

“If command believes the archive is about to fall, personnel become secondary.” Something uncomfortable moved through you. “Can the doors be overridden?”

“Some.”

“And the others?”

Natasha’s mouth tightened. “We’re working on it.” You knew that expression. You looked back at the map. “Then we shouldn’t enter unless we know how to get through them.”

“We may not have that luxury.” You gave her a pointed look. “Reassuring.”

“It wasn’t intended to be.” For the next twenty minutes, the break became mission planning. You argued over extraction. Natasha rejected one route because it created a choke point. You rejected another because it separated Lu too far from the primary team. Natasha challenged you and you challenged back. Neither conversation became personal, and for the first time in weeks, you remembered what it felt like to work with her instead of against her. You stood when your side had relaxed and Natasha picked up the knife again. “Ready?”

You looked at it and felt your pulse shift. “Yeah.” Natasha entered the ring and this time, when she moved, you watched all of her.

Days became more days and the improvement was gradual. You stopped tracking every blade the second it appeared, then stopped turning your recovering side away automatically. Reverse grips stopped becoming Reeves every time. The memories remained and sometimes returned without warning. One afternoon, Natasha’s knife scraped against the mat and the sound was close enough to the real thing that the common room flashed across your vision. You lost half a second. Natasha caught you. Instead of getting angry, you stepped back and breathed. “Again.”

Another day, she came from your left and your body tried to protect the injury, but you recognized it while it happened. You turned the retreat into a pivot, caught her knife wrist and used her momentum to take her balance. Natasha hit the mat and neither of you moved for a second.

You stared down at her and realized the knife was in your hand. You had taken it without noticing. Natasha looked at the weapon, then at you. You waited for criticism- “Good.”

Your chest tightened. You stepped back and tossed the knife away. “Again?”

Natasha sat up. “No.” Your expression changed immediately. “You’re done for today.”

“Why?”

“Because you just did what I’ve spent nine days trying to teach you.”

“That was it?”

“No. You still overcommit when you’re angry, your left rotation loses strength under fatigue and you rely too much on your lead hand when someone closes distance.”

You rolled your eyes. “There she is.” Natasha stood. “But the knife didn’t make the decision.” Your irritation disappeared. “You did.” The words settled somewhere deep and you nodded once. That was all either of you needed.

Five days before deployment, medical called you in at 0600. You knew what the appointment meant and it did nothing to stop your hands from shaking. The final clearance evaluation lasted nearly four hours.

The psychological evaluation came last and was worse than the physical portion. The examiner asked about Maya, Reeves, your parents and Natasha. You hated that one.

“What is Agent Romanoff to you?” You sat very still. “My commanding officer.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.” You looked toward the wall. “Complicated.”

“Do you trust her?” The answer took longer. “In the field?”

“Yes.”

“Personally?” Your throat tightened. “Not completely.” The examiner wrote something and you hated that too.

“Do you love her?” Your eyes snapped toward him. “That has nothing to do with my clearance.”

“It has everything to do with your clearance if she’s commanding the operation.” You stared at him. “Maybe.”

“Does that affect your ability to follow her orders?”

“No.”

“Does anger toward her affect it?” You considered. “No.”

“That’s a quick answer.”

“Because I’ve been angry with her during training for weeks.”

“And?”

“I still followed instructions when they were correct.”

“When they weren’t?”

“I challenged them.” The examiner’s expression stayed unreadable. “As deputy, that’s your job.”

“Yes.”

“And Reeves?” Your body tightened slightly. “What about him?”

“If another hostile approaches you with a knife inside Vesper, can you guarantee you won’t be afraid?” You looked at him. “No.”

His pen stopped and you continued. “I can guarantee I know what the fear does now. I know what my body tries to protect, where my attention goes and which memories come first.” Your hands rested loosely in your lap. “I can’t promise the reaction won’t happen. I can promise I know how to work through it.”

The examiner watched you for several seconds and wrote something. An hour later, the surgeon entered with a tablet and you stood before he could ask. “Sit.” You sat. He reviewed the results with no respect for the fact that your entire future apparently existed inside whatever sentence he was about to say. Then he signed.

CLEARED — ACTIVE FIELD OPERATIONS.

You stared. “That’s it?” You barely heard his answer because the signature was right there. You had spent weeks imagining victory. Instead relief came first, followed immediately by fear. Now there was nothing between you and Vesper except five days. You thanked the physician, collected the clearance and knew exactly where you were going.

Natasha was in her office when the door opened without warning. She looked up just in time for a tablet to land flat on her desk. Natasha stared at it, then at you. You stood opposite with your arms folded. She read the clearance. Her face did absolutely nothing and you hated her. “Well?” Natasha read it again. “Apparently you learned how to knock and forgot.”

“Natasha.” Her eyes lifted. You hadn’t called her that in weeks and both of you noticed. “Say it.”

“What?”

“You were wrong.” Natasha leaned back slightly. “I was wrong.” That easy? You blinked and she almost smiled. “You look disappointed.”

“I prepared an argument.”

“I can disagree if it helps.”

“No.”

“Good.”

Her gaze returned to the clearance. Pride appeared first and you saw it because she didn’t hide it quickly enough. Fear followed and she hid that even worse. “I’m going.”

“Yes.”

“No speech?”

“Oh, there will be a speech.” You groaned and Natasha stood. “If you’re tired, you tell me.” You frowned. “I know.”

“No.” Her eyes hardened. “You tell me. If your side pulls during insertion, I know. If your strength changes, I know. If you feel dizzy, sick, short of breath, anything, I know.”

“I passed medical.”

“Those are my conditions for every field agent. If something feels wrong, you tell me. If you’re emotionally compromised, you tell me. If you think I’m making the wrong call, challenge it immediately.” Your gaze lifted because that mattered. Natasha continued. “I will not punish you for disagreeing with me in the field.”

“As long as I don’t scream at you?”

“A preference.” You almost laughed. “And if I tell you you’re compromised?”

“I explain why.”

“And if I disagree?”

“If there’s time, we decide together.”

“And if there isn’t?”

Her face became entirely command. “I make the call.” You nodded. Natasha looked at the clearance again. “Congratulations.” You smiled before you could stop yourself. “So that’s it.”

“No.” You frowned. “Tomorrow, full-team integration.”

“Right.”

“Then equipment issue, mission rehearsal and final intelligence briefing.” Your stomach tightened. Five days. “Still want the signature?” You looked at her. “Yes.”

Natasha nodded. “Then welcome back, Deputy.” Something warm and painful moved through your chest. You picked up the tablet. “Thank you, Commander.” You left before either of you could make those words mean more.

The final days changed everyone. The mission stopped being a schedule on a wall and became physical. Body armor was fitted individually and weapons assigned by serial number. The first time the quartermaster handed you a live extraction beacon, you stared at it longer than necessary. Maya should have had one.

The alternate medic joined the team after Maya’s death. Agent Ellis. Competent and quiet, kind enough not to try too hard, which helped. Nobody wanted a replacement Maya and Ellis never acted like one. During mission rehearsals, Natasha and Maria ran the facility again and again. Natasha looked at you. “Command transfers?”

“To me.”

“Immediately.”

“Yes.”

“If I contradict you while cognitively compromised?”

“I ignore you.” A few faces shifted. Natasha nodded. “Good.” The first time it sounded theoretical. By the tenth, it didn’t. Then suddenly only one day remained.

You tried to sleep. You checked your equipment only once after Natasha threatened to confiscate anyone’s kit if she caught them reopening it after twenty-two hundred. You drank water and ignored Lu reorganizing her bag for the fifth time.

You got into bed at 23:14 and closed your eyes. Nothing. At 23:26 you rolled onto your side and at 23:41 onto your back. At midnight, Lu finally spoke from the darkness. “Are you awake?”

“No.”

“Great.” Silence, then: “I’m terrified.” You stared at the ceiling. “Me too.”

That was all either of you needed. Lu eventually fell asleep. You didn’t. At 01:17, you gave up, pulled on a sweatshirt over your sleep shirt and slipped into your shoes without waking her. The compound at night felt almost peaceful. You wandered without a destination until your feet carried you to the observation terrace overlooking the eastern grounds and distant city lights. The air was cooler than expected and you pulled your sleeves over your hands.

Then you noticed someone near the railing. Natasha. For several seconds you considered leaving and even took one step backward. Then something inside you resisted and you were tired of leaving rooms simply because she was in them. So you walked toward the railing and Natasha spoke without turning. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You stopped beside her, leaving enough distance that neither of you could accidentally touch. “No.”

Natasha glanced at you and her eyes immediately moved downward. “You’re wearing a sweatshirt.” You stared at her. “That is generally how clothing works.”

“Is that my shirt?”

Fuck. You looked down and realized it was. An old black shirt you had apparently stolen during the weeks when sleeping in Natasha’s room had been normal. Somehow it had migrated into your clothes months ago without you noticing. Natasha looked away before you could read too much into her expression. “I forgot I had it.”

“That’s fine.” You frowned. “Do you want it back?”

“No.” The answer came too quickly. Both of you suddenly became very interested in the horizon. You leaned your forearms against the railing. “I thought getting cleared would help.”

“With what?”

“The fear.” Natasha looked at you. “It didn’t.”

“No.” You gave her a tired look. “I feel like I should be ready.”

“Ready isn’t a feeling.” You looked toward her while Natasha faced the grounds. “I’ve been doing this a long time.”

“I noticed the medals.” Her mouth tightened faintly. Both of you thought about Nightglass. “I’ve never felt ready the night before an operation that mattered.”

“Never?”

“No.”

“You’re Natasha Romanoff.”

“I’ve been informed.” You almost smiled. “You don’t get scared.” She looked at you then, humor gone. “Yes, I do.”

“Of tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“For the mission?”

“Yes.” You waited and Natasha stayed quiet for a long moment. “For you.”

There it was. You closed your eyes briefly. “Natasha…”

“I know.”

“No, I-“

“I know you don’t want me turning that fear into decisions for you.” Your eyes opened. Natasha looked directly at you. “I won’t.”

“You really mean that.”

“Yes.” You studied her. “And if I make a call you don’t like?”

“In your area of command?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll trust it.” The answer came immediately and you stared. Natasha’s voice remained steady. “I selected you as deputy because when plans fail, people follow you. You make decisions based on what is actually happening in front of you, not what you hoped would happen.”

You knew exactly what she meant. “I trust you in the field.” Something inside you hurt because once those words would have been everything you wanted from her. They still mattered. “In the field.”

Natasha understood the distinction. “Yes.”

You looked toward her. “Does that bother you?”

“What?”

“That I trust you there, but…”

You couldn’t finish it, so Natasha did. “Not everywhere else?” You nodded. Her expression barely changed. “I earned that.”

You stared at her. The Natasha you had fallen in love with had apologized before, but she had also explained, tried to make you understand why she had done what she did. This Natasha seemed to finally understand that explanation and repair were not the same thing. “I don’t know what happens after tomorrow.”

“Neither do I.”

“I don’t mean the mission.”

“I know.”

The silence deepened and your fingers tightened around the railing. “I meant what I said in the training hall.” Natasha went still. You both knew which part. I don’t hate you.

You breathed out slowly. “I wish I could put everything into one category. Either I trust you or I don’t. Either I’m angry or I’m not. Either I…” You stopped before the word could escape. Love you.

“People aren’t categories.” A tired laugh escaped you. “That sounds suspiciously emotionally healthy.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

You smiled despite yourself. Natasha looked at you and something in her face softened. The warmth that moved through you frightened you more than the mission for half a second because there it was again. You had thought anger would eventually kill it..It hadn’t. Maybe you weren’t falling for Natasha again at all. Maybe you had simply never stopped.

You were beginning to see the woman you loved underneath the woman who had hurt you, and you had no idea what to do with the fact that they were the same person. You looked away before Natasha could see too much. “You should sleep.” Her voice was gentle.

“So should you.”

“I will.”

You looked at her and Natasha’s mouth curved faintly. The silence between you felt quieter now. Eventually, you pushed away from the railing. “You’re right.” You took several steps toward the door, then stopped. Natasha was still watching you. For one second, the entire strange history of the last months seemed to exist between you. You gave her a small nod. “Good night, Commander.”

Natasha’s expression changed. “Good night, Deputy.” You went inside and Natasha remained at the railing after the door closed behind you, and when you returned to your room and lay down beside Lu’s sleeping form, you finally stopped trying to force yourself to feel ready.

You let yourself be afraid.

-

-

-

-

Ever since you agreed to move in, Wanda had started touching you more.

It wasn't like when she'd hold your hand at the park bench or her fingertips pressing against your lips. You were used to that by now even though those actions still made warmth bloom in your chest.

Her touches had started going far past that into places you'd never allowed anyone to venture before.

When she tilted your chin up to kiss you, her other hand would drift beneath your shirt, her thumb rubbing circles into your hipbone. But then her fingertips would slide lower, going past the waistband of your pants and nudge the lining of your panties.

It's what she's doing now as you stand in her and Natasha's bedroom.

Clothes that she had you try on are scattered around you. She told you about how she always wanted to buy you clothes and shoes when you were at the foster care facility, but she didn't have the means to at the time.

Her palm caresses your cheek gently, preciously, while she murmurs in between kisses about how you're her perfect baby. That sacred, almost maternal affection is absent from where her other hand wiggles beneath the band of your panties. She swipes her tongue against your lower lip. The warm, wet sensation kindles a fire in your lower tummy.

You tremble against her, turning your face away as the tips of your ears burn with shame from how you're reacting. Your heart stutters at the fact that you've never done anything like this before.

Your friends had told you about how much it hurt when they lost their virginity. Their stories had always scared you, not to mention the sex ed you learned in school that you hardly listened to between everyone joking around in the class.

"Does being with mommy feel good, baby?" Wanda whispers in your ear, her hot breath making you shiver.

Her hand slips lower, her fingertips nearing the sticky, aching part of your body that you've been trying to ignore.

"I-I don't know," you stutter shyly, your cheeks beginning to burn with heat. "I… I've never done this before. I only ever heard stories from my friends a-and my parents never sat down to talk to me about this stuff so…"

You hear Wanda let out a frustrated huff. "Those parents never deserved you," she mutters under her breath. She turns your face back to her. The frustration on her face morphs into something else, like she's realized something.

"Pretty baby, don't worry, mommy will teach you everything." There's a happy glimmer in her eyes as she walks you back to the bed and has you lie down.

"But I don't think—" your mouth snaps shut when Wanda pulls your pants down. You cover your face with your hands when she stares hard at the dark patch on your panties.

"You don't think what, bunny?" she asks, the lilt in her voice almost teasing. "Isn't it normal for mommies to teach their little girls about this stuff?" She reaches a hand up, pulling yours down from your face to look at her.

"B-but I don't think moms do it like this," you respond shakily.

She pulls your panties down easily, sliding them off your ankles and tossing them to the side. You feel her warm breath against your throbbing pussy, her proximity making your walls clench around nothing.

Her eyes drift up, looking at you with dilated pupils, a smirk curving her lips.

"But you and mommy have a special connection, right? Mommy will make sure it doesn't hurt too bad."

Your eyes widen as she presses a kiss to your aching clit.

"Mommy will teach you how to lose your virginity," she says with a hum, her tongue swiping up and gathering your slick.

And she does. With painstaking, embarrassing detail that makes your cheeks burn and your hands want to lift to cover your face but Wanda holds them down so she can always see you.

She coaxes you by rubbing your hand when the ache in your lower tummy begins to build and your head begins to feel all floaty. She tells you that you're about to feel really good soon when you tell her you're scared of how it feels like you're reaching a peak and you can't see down.

"That just means mommy is teaching you well," she murmurs while pressing her tongue hard against your clit.

She soothes you by letting her tongue brush against you gently as your entire body trembles from the high. She groans against your sticky, sensitive pussy about how sweet you taste. The vibrations make you squirm against her.

"Sorry, baby," she says, her voice far too happy for an apology, leaning her head back, her cheeks flushed like she's drunk. A string of your slick connects her lips to your lower ones. "You just taste so sweet." But then she makes her way back up to you, her wet lips brushing against your ear.

"Mommy needed to warm you up so she can teach her little girl even more."

Then she leaves the bed with you laying there, your breaths ragged, your body limp.

Even more? you think to yourself slowly, your brain full of syrup. You tilt your head slowly when you hear Wanda exit the closet.

Her pale, milky skin is in full view, her clothes having been stripped off. A strap-on hangs around her waist, the sight too much for your innocent eyes, making you look away in embarrassment.

She spreads your legs apart, your body completely pliable beneath her.

"Mommy chose the smallest one since it's your first time," she says brightly, rubbing the strap between your soaking folds. The obscene, sticky sounds that come from it makes you bite your lip, trying to distract yourself from how embarrassingly wet you are.

You release it when you feel the tip prod at your entrance. You look up at Wanda with wide eyes.

"I-I don't think it'll fit."

"It will." The way she says it makes it sound like there's no other choice but for it to.

Her eyes dance as it slowly enters you. She pauses when your face scrunches up in pain when it feels like she's broken past something. She kisses both your eyelids when tears begin to fall, stroking your tummy while she coos at you to relax.

You sniffle quietly as the pain goes away. Wanda swipes her thumb against your last tear, licking it away as she looks down at you with blown out pupils at your watery eyes.

"That was the hard part, baby. But now mommy's inside of you. Look." She looks down at where you're connected, your gaze following hers. She's already fully inside of you. "Now mommy can teach you the fun part."

She slides out an inch before thrusting into you gently. When the tip knocks against something inside, a jolt of pleasure rushes through you. You let out a whiny gasp at the sensation, your hands coming up to cover your mouth at the sound you've never heard yourself make before.

Wanda's hands suddenly encompass yours, moving them to each side of your head and holding them down. Her breaths are coming out quicker, her eyes full of hunger and possessiveness that make you bite your lip at the intensity.

"No no, baby girl. Mommy wants to hear all the little sounds you make." She slides out until only the tip remains inside of you before thrusting into you roughly, forcing you to cry out at the overwhelming feeling.

She rams into you harder when little, desperate moans slip past your lips. She whispers in your ear about how you're doing so well. That you're her precious baby. The slick, sticky sounds echo in your ear through it all.

That feeling from earlier starts to build again, but it's more intense, deeper, like the way Wanda is fucking you right now. You don't think she can go any harder, any faster, until the name you've never said on your own without Wanda prompting you, slip past your lips.

"M-mommy," you whimper out. You feel her hips stutter for a moment, her eyes widening. The strap stirs inside of you making you whine. "Too much."

Her lips curve into a wide smile, her eyes bright with joy. Then she slams into you harder than she has before, making your body shift up while she releases one of your hands to pull your body back down, keeping you impaled on her.

"My poor baby just doesn't know any better," she coos between ragged breaths. "Mommy wasn't there to teach you. But she's here now. Mommy will tell you when it's too much."

She continues sinking into you at her brutal pace as you whimper out "mommy" between thrusts like it's the only word you know. Her breasts sway heavily in front of you, your eyes tracking them blearily through tears, your reason fading into nothing when the knot in your tummy snaps and your vision loses its focus. The last thing you remember is crying out for your mommy.

—

You're laying on top of Wanda, tummy to tummy, your head resting between her breasts. Your head is all fuzzy, the thoughts slipping away before you can grasp them. You're just a sleepy puddle laying on top of Wanda as she strokes your hair gently.

"Da—Natasha isn't going to be happy to hear I was rough with her little princess," Wanda murmurs quietly to herself. She turns your head gently. Your lips graze against her nipple. "Suck, baby. Mommy wants to feel even closer to you."

Your lips wrap around it automatically, wanting to be her obedient baby. You suck gently while Wanda lets out a shaky breath.

"You should've gotten to do this when you were a baby. That wretched mother," she says, her voice tight. Her voice softens when she speaks next. "But now that we're reunited, mommy will give you everything. Even my milk," she hums.

You stop sucking for a moment. One thought slipping past the syrup in your head.

But she can't...

"Mommy can make anything happen. That's how much I love you." She pats your head softly, coaxing your lips around her nipple again. You suck gently again, your eyes closing on their own.

The idea of sweet, warm milk flowing through your mouth sends pleasant tingles through your body.

"Rest for a bit, bunny," she whispers soothingly. "We'll have to wash up in a bit, you're still so sticky down there. And…" she drawls. "Sometime soon mommy will teach you more." —

────────────────

The first thing you notice is that your spot is taken.

Not just any spot, your spot.

401, fourth floor, a single-occupancy level, two spaces from the elevator, the one you have parked in every weekday morning for the last three months because you clocked early on that it was the only spot on this level that didn't get a river of runoff dripping onto the windshield from the pipe junction above.

You have optimized your entire morning commute around that spot. Each morning, you leave for class twenty-two minutes earlier than you actually have to because you know it will be open. It has never once, in three months, not been open.

The garage runs on a system you have never had reason to question before today: single-occupancy levels for everyone driving alone on floors three and above, and down on the first and second floors, past a checkpoint with a little booth and a university-issued guard who checks every single car, every single day, with no exceptions—the carpool levels. Better spots, closer to the elevator, no runoff pipes to speak of. But only reserved for people who can prove that there are at least two human beings currently inside the vehicle.

You've never had a reason to care about any of this. You drive alone. You park in 401. That has always been the entire extent of your relationship to the garage's internal politics.

Your spot is not open.

Instead, there is a black car there. You sit in your own car for a full ten seconds just staring at it like it might apologize and move itself.

It does not.

There's a woman leaning against it when you roll up alongside it again after circling the levels, hazards blinking, blocking half the aisle in a way you don't really care about right now.

Red hair, arms crossed, unfairly attractive, scrolling on her phone with the calm of someone who has never once in her life had to circle a parking garage looking for a spot that doesn't exist.

You roll your window down. "That's my spot."

She looks up. Green eyes, mild interest, not even a little bit sorry. "Didn't see your name on it."

"Well, it's an unspoken agreement. Social contract of the garage."

"I'm new to this social contract."

She pushes off the car and walks over to your window, up close she's even more annoyingly attractive than she looked from a distance—sharp eyes, sharper cheekbones, the kind of face you'd notice even if she hadn't just stolen your parking spot and ruined your morning.

"Natasha," she says, like that's an answer to something.

"I don't care what your name is. I care that you're in my spot."

"Technically, I'm in a spot. First come, first served, same as every other level in this building. I got here first."

"You need to move your car."

"I would love to." Not even a hint of urgency behind it. "But it seems I've got the opposite problem you have right now. The only open spots left are in the carpool levels below. I would need a second body to get past the guy in the booth downstairs, and I don't have one yet, so until I solve that, I park wherever's open."

She gives you a shrug, like this is common sense and not a personal offense against you. "Seems like we're at an impasse."

"That's not my problem."

"No," she agrees easily. "But you have a car. And you're one person."

Something in her expression sharpens, delighted, like she's just watched an idea land somewhere behind her own eyes. "I could ride down with you. Two minutes, we clear the checkpoint together, and then you can have whatever's open down there instead of standing here arguing with me about a spot I've already parked in."

You stare at her. "You're offering to get in my car."

"I'm offering to solve both of our problems in the time it's taken you to be outraged by one of them."

"Absolutely not."

She blinks, the first genuine flicker of surprise you've gotten out of her all morning. "No?"

"No. I'm not driving a stranger around this garage so you can feel better about stealing my spot. Move your car, or don't. I don't actually care anymore. I'll find something else."

You roll your window back up before she can say anything else and pull away faster than the aisle really allows, only to catch her in the rearview mirror watching you go, arms crossed again and slightly amused.

You circle level four twice. Nothing. Level three, always full by 8:10, everyone knows that, that's why nobody even tries, and you are now, at 8:17, the person who tries anyway and finds exactly what you expected to find, which is nothing. Level five is full too. Of course it is. You circle back down, already late and irritated, and decide you're going to have to find somewhere else.

You end up back on four, crawling past 401 at the pace of someone hoping, against all evidence, that the situation has somehow fixed itself.

It has not.

The black car is still there. Natasha is still there, now sitting on the hood of it like she's got nowhere else in the world to be, which, apparently, she doesn't, because she hasn't moved an inch except to switch which leg is crossed over the other.

You pull up next to her for the second time this morning, and this time there's no outrage left in you, just the flat, exhausted expression of a person who has run out of options.

She looks over, smirks, and thankfully doesn't say I told you so, which you will give her credit for later but absolutely will not give her credit for now.

"So, here you are," she says instead.

You sit there a second. Then you roll the window down. "Would you like a ride down to the checkpoint?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You heard me."

"I did. I'd just like to hear it again, with slightly less hostility and more warmth, if that's possible for you."

"Natasha."

"That's the first time you've used my name." She hops down off the hood, entirely too pleased with herself, and you already regret every choice that has led to this moment. "Say please."

"I am not saying please."

"Then I guess I'll just keep sitting on my car." She hoists herself back up onto the hood with ease, settles in like she's got the whole morning to spare, which, apparently, she does. You, unfortunately, do not.

You rest your forehead against the steering wheel for a second, just to gather yourself, and then look back at her. "Please just get in my car so I can find parking today."

"See, that wasn't so hard." She's already off the hood, circling to your passenger side, opening the door and sliding in, like this was always going to happen and you're only now catching up to the plan. She buckles her seatbelt with the satisfaction of someone who has just won something, and doesn't bother hiding it. "Two levels down. You'll barely notice the detour."

"I hate this."

"You're doing great."

"I hate you."

The checkpoint guard barely looks up from his clipboard. He glances through the windshield, counts two heads, and waves you through with the practiced indifference of someone who has watched people pull this exact maneuver a hundred times and long since stopped caring about whether it's legitimate or not. To your annoyance, it works. Disturbingly easy.

"You're welcome," Natasha says, once you've pulled through, and there's an open spot right near the end of the row. You park there. She doesn't get out yet. "See how easy that was?"

"Get out of my car."

"In a second." She doesn't reach for the door. "You know he checks on the way out too, right? Same guy, same clipboard. If you roll back up to that booth solo in a few hours, he's going to want to know where your other head went."

"So I'll leave when you leave."

"Which would be a lot easier to coordinate if you had my number."

"I don't."

"That's the part I'm offering to fix."

"No."

She studies you for a second, like she's trying to decide whether you're serious, and apparently decides you are, because she just shrugs and reaches for the door. "Whatever, it's your funeral. Enjoy your lecture."

"Get out of my car."

"I'm going." She does, unhurried, one hand braced on the doorframe, and looks back at you before she shuts the door. "For what it's worth—I would've moved eventually. You just made it more interesting by being difficult about it."

"I wasn't being difficult. I was declining to be an accessory to parking fraud."

"Well, look at you now. Also, you can call it whatever you want but—"

"I'm thinking about how much I wish I could blow up your car using only my mind right now. Please leave me alone."

The door shuts.

She raps her knuckles twice against the roof of your car, a quick goodbye, and disappears without a backward glance, leaving you sitting in the wrong spot on the wrong level, twenty minutes late to your lecture, and weirdly less annoyed than you expected to be.

When Natasha climbs back into your car later that day, you do your best to ignore her the entire way up as you drive her to the fourth level.

"That was fun, we should do it again," she says as you stop beside her car.

"No thanks, I'm good," you mutter back. "Now get out."

"You're such a great conversationalist, has anyone ever told you that?"

You just roll your eyes in response.

────────────────

You see her again that evening. You come from the elevator to check your mailbox, and find her already standing there, checking hers like it's nothing, like the universe isn't just doing this to you on purpose.

"You live here," you say flatly, like it's an accusation.

"So do you, apparently." She's got a grocery bag in one hand, keys in the other, and looks unbearably pleased with herself. "Small world."

"This building has, like, a million units."

"And yet, here we are."

You just huff in response and unlock your own mailbox before grabbing whatever's inside without looking at it.

She steps into the elevator ahead of you and hits the button for eight. You freeze, hand halfway to the panel, because that is also your floor.

"Eight," you say, before she can ask.

She looks at the lit-up button, then at you, and you watch the exact moment it lands, delight spreading across her face in slow motion. "Eight."

"Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You're about to."

"I wasn't going to say anything." She pauses before she grins even wider at you. "Neighbor."

"Do not call me that."

"I could've walked past your door a hundred times. I could be walking past it right now in like five seconds, on my way to my apartment, which is apparently also on your floor."

The elevator hums upward, and she's watching you the whole way, clearly enjoying this far more than the information warrants. "I want you to know that I still haven't sorted out my checkpoint problem. Haven't found anyone reliable to ride down with." She pauses, just long enough to make it obvious she's waiting to see if you'll take the bait.

You don't. "Sounds like a you problem."

"It would be a lot less of a me problem if it were an us problem. Especially now that I know where you live. You did it today, you could do it tomorrow."

"It was a one-time thing. Also, if you could forget we live on the same floor or actually, even better, forget that we live in the same building, that would be great."

"Sure it was, and also, no." She pauses, then her expression goes somewhat almost pleasant and accommodating, the kind of look that makes you immediately suspicious. "Your spot, by the way. I won't park in it again."

"You will."

"I won't."

"You parked in it today."

"That's exactly why I'm saying it now. Grand gesture. Turning over a new leaf." She says it so lightly, so reasonably, that you almost believe her, right up until the corner of her mouth twitches.

"You don't mean that."

"I might."

"You don't." No real heat in it, just the tired certainty of someone who already knows exactly how much that promise is worth.

She smiles, completely unbothered at being caught before she's even technically broken it.

The elevator dings at eight. You both step out, and there's a beat where neither of you moves, because you genuinely don't know which direction her door is in and you're not about to ask.

"Which way?" she says, like she's reading your mind. It infuriates you.

"I'm not telling you which way my apartment is."

"I didn't ask which way your apartment is. I asked which way, because we're both getting off on the same floor and one of us has to pick a direction first." She tilts her head, waiting, entirely too pleased with how this is going. "Unless you'd rather stand in here all night to avoid revealing your door number."

You go left, knowing that it's entirely the wrong direction.

"Interesting," she calls, watching you go, still not moving from the elevator herself. "Sleep well, neighbor."

"I will."

You do not check to see which way she goes. You don't need to. You're sure you'll know soon enough given how this day has gone.

────────────────

The thing about your spot is that, despite Natasha's promise, you still don't have it back.

Natasha has not moved to a different spot. You've checked every time you've come into the garage, more than once, because maybe this time 401 will be empty.

It never is.

The black car is still there, as far as you can tell permanently hers now by the same logic she used to take it from you in the first place. She has no more of consistent way down to the carpool level than you do, given that she's still exactly one person short of qualifying for it. So 401 has become her solution instead, and she shows no sign of giving it back.

First come, first served works both ways, and she's simply never not come first since.

Every morning, she graciously accepts the ride down with you. She climbs into the passenger seat like this is an arrangement you both agreed to, buckles herself in, and lets you drive her to the carpool level without once acknowledging that she's the reason you're doing it.

You still haven't asked for her number. You could. It would be the practical thing to do. She offered, the first time, and you turned her down out of pure stubbornness, and you've been paying for that decision every evening since, sitting in your car on the carpool level, engine off, watching the stairwell door through the windshield for a flash of red hair, timing your exit around a guess.

You do not ask her for her number.

"This is genuinely the stupidest plan I've ever seen," Natasha says, days later, rapping her knuckles on your window and startling you badly enough that you actually jump. You'd been watching the stairwell door so hard you never even noticed her walking up on the driver's side. "You're just going to sit here every time until I come back?"

"I'm not sitting here for you. I'm parked."

"You're waiting for me to come back so you can leave." She looks at you through the window, visibly delighted by how ridiculous this is. "You had the easiest possible fix for this days ago and you said no to it out of spite. You could've texted me hey, heading down, you free? and saved yourself evenings of surveillance."

"I don't need your number."

"You need my number. You just have some personal objection to admitting that you need it," she says patiently. "Those are two very different things. This is the least efficient way I've ever watched someone get somewhere."

"I have a system."

"Your system is waiting and stalking me from a parking spot."

"My system is patience," you say, with as much dignity as you can manage from behind the wheel of a car you have been sitting in for fourteen minutes. "I'm not calling or texting you. You stole my spot. I'm not going to reward that behavior by asking for favors."

"It wouldn't really be a favor and definitely not a reward."

"So it's a principle."

Natasha studies you for a second, head tilted, like she's trying to understand how you've managed to make this so complicated. "You'd honestly rather sit in a parked car for however long waiting for me to come back so you can leave than send one text."

"Yes."

"That's—that's genuinely unwell behavior. I want you to know that."

"Noted."

"I'm serious. This is a new low."

"I heard you the first time."

She shakes her head, but there's a smile underneath it she's not quite bothering to hide, and she doesn't push it further. She just shrugs, like she's decided to let you have this one. "Well, I'm not ready to go home yet. Gym first. Enjoy the stakeout."

You do not enjoy the stakeout. But forty minutes later, when she finally reemerges, gym bag over one shoulder, hair damp, you're still there, engine still off, and she doesn't say a word about it. She just taps on your window and circles around to the passenger side like your stubborn, entirely avoidable forty-minute wait has simply been absorbed into the evening's schedule without comment.

"I'm surprised you didn't resort to kidnapping. Find someone in the garage, throw them in your passenger seat, and call it a day," she says.

"I considered it."

"I'm sure you did."

"I almost did."

"You were waiting for me."

"I don't know what you want me to say."

"I want you to admit that four seconds of texting would have saved you forty minutes of sitting in a parking garage alone like a sad little gremlin."

"I want you to admit that you stole my parking spot and none of this would be necessary if you hadn't."

She laughs in response to that, short and surprised, like she wasn't expecting to enjoy that as much as she clearly does, and doesn't argue, mostly because she knows you're right.

The checkpoint waves you through the same as always, bored and uninterested in the particulars of your arrangement. You pull into a spot near the end of the row, cut the engine, and Natasha doesn't get out right away, just sits there for a second, seatbelt still on.

"For the record," she says. "I'll stop parking in 401 eventually. You know that, right? I only ever took it because it was open."

"I remember you saying something similar to me once. And well, you're still parking in there."

"Well, maybe I'm telling the truth this time."

"You've had it for a week and a half."

"It's a good spot."

"It's my spot."

"It's whoever gets there first's spot. Those are the rules. I didn't make them." But she's testing you now, gauging how far she can push before you actually mean it. She knows you're not really angry about the parking spot anymore. You haven't been for a while. At this point, she just seems to enjoy having an excuse to keep arguing with you in an enclosed space every evening.

"Get out of my car," you tell her, but there's no real heat behind it.

"Bossy." But she goes, knocking twice on the roof on her way out, same as always.

────────────────

You wake up early on purpose the next morning. Twenty-two minutes earlier than your usual twenty-two minutes early, which you're aware is unhinged even as you're doing it. Coffee isn't even fully brewed before you're out the door, hair barely dealt with, driven by one petty goal.

401 is empty when you get there.

You sit in it for a full thirty seconds, letting yourself enjoy the particular smug satisfaction of a person who has won something no one else in the world would consider worth winning. You are, for the first time in eleven days, exactly where you're supposed to be.

The black car pulls up two minutes later.

You catch Natasha pulling into the aisle in your rearview mirror, heading straight for your spot without a hint that she expects anything to be different. Then she sees your car already sitting there. There's a beat where she just stares, and then she starts laughing, shoulders shaking behind the windshield. You can practically hear her from here.

You climb out of your car, cross your arms, and try to not look as proud as you feel. You fail.

She rolls her window down as she stops near your car. "Wipe that smile off your face. You got up early."

"I got up early," you confirm.

"This is kind of pathetic, don't you think?"

"Not at all."

"All this over a parking spot?"

"For my parking spot."

"That's insane. You're insane, do you know that?"

"You started it."

She grins, wide and completely unashamed. "I want you to know I respect this. This is a level of commitment I did not expect from you."

"I don't need your respect. I needed my spot back, and now I have it."

"You do." She pauses, and something shifts in her expression, calculating in a way you've now learned to be suspicious of. "So… since we're both here, and you don't currently have a passenger problem, but I do—"

"No."

"You haven't even heard my question."

"I know what your question is."

She gives you a pointed glare.

"Say please," you say innocently, mostly out of spite, and something flickers across her face, surprise followed by amusement, like she wasn't expecting you to tease her.

"Please," she says, without missing a beat, "would you be so gracious as to ride down with me to the checkpoint, so I can get onto the first level, given that I have absolutely nothing to offer you in return except my company, which I'm told is a mixed bag."

"It's a very mixed bag."

"Is that a yes?"

You look at her for a second, then at the spot you fought so hard to get back. You're standing in it now, exactly where you wanted to be, and yet, annoyingly, the satisfaction is already wearing thin. You'd been looking forward to this exact ridiculous exchange more than you were looking forward to the parking spot itself.

"Fine," you say. "By the graciousness of my own good heart, I'll help you. Now unlock the door."

"Your very reluctant, very gracious heart."

"Shut up, Natasha."

She unlocks the car, and doesn't stop smiling the whole way down.

────────────────

It's a Wednesday, a few weeks and some change into whatever this has become, when Natasha pulls in and parks directly beside you at the apartment.

Not near you. Directly beside you, engine cutting off at almost the exact same second yours does, both of you sitting there for a moment before either of you registers what's happened.

She looks over. You look over. Neither of you says anything for a second, and then she starts laughing, head tipping back against the headrest, the kind of laugh that takes her a second to get under control, while you sit there in your own car wondering how this has somehow become your life.

She rolls down her window, and you do the same on the passenger side. "No," you say across the space between you. "Absolutely not. Go away, park somewhere else. This is the second time you've parked next to me here. I forgave you the first time because there weren't any other spaces. Now there are. This is supposed to be my happy place."

"This is the overflow lot. I don't even have an assigned spot down here. I just park wherever there's room, and somehow, lately, that's been next to you."

"That's not somehow. That's you developing a pattern."

"I don't have a pattern."

"You have parked next to me twice this month."

"Twice is a coincidence," she corrects, grinning. "Three times is a pattern. We are, currently, at two." The correction does absolutely nothing to make her seem less delighted by this, and you find yourself fighting, and mostly losing, the urge to find it funny too. It is, objectively, an absurd amount of coincidence for two people who started this whole thing by hating each other over three months of unbroken parking loyalty.

You both roll your windows back up, and she gets out of her car, still smiling as she leans against it and watches you gather your bag from the passenger seat. "This changes things," she says, with the patience of someone building toward a pitch.

"It changes nothing."

"We park within ten feet of each other at home. We ride down together every morning in the garage anyway. We have classes close enough that we park in the same garage." She spreads her hands, like the conclusion is obvious. "We should just drive together. From here. One car, whole trip, no garage detour necessary."

"No."

"You haven't thought about it."

"I've thought about it for exactly as long as it took you to suggest it, and the answer is no."

"Think about it for longer than that, then. Genuinely. Give it five seconds." She counts them out on her fingers, unhurried, like you're a jury she's confident of swaying. "Gas money, split. Wear on two cars instead of one. You get to sit in a passenger seat and stare out a window instead of driving in traffic, twice a day, every day, forever."

"I like driving."

"Nobody likes driving. You've just never been offered the alternative."

"I've been offered the alternative. Repeatedly, by some annoying woman. I keep telling her no."

"That's not a counterargument, that's just a description of what you're doing wrong."

"I think it's a good counterargument."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to."

"That's not a good reason."

"It's my reason, and it doesn't need your approval." You sling your bag over your shoulder and head for the apartment entrance, and she falls into step beside you, unbothered, apparently willing to let this go for tonight, though something in the set of her shoulders tells you it's not actually going anywhere.

"You know what this is, right?" she says, keeping pace easily, hands in her pockets like she's got nowhere better to be. "This is the parking spot again. This is you deciding that giving me something makes you the loser of some contest only you're keeping score of."

"This is not the parking spot again."

"It's exactly the parking spot again. You held out on that for days out of pure stubbornness and then got up at an unholy hour to win it back on principle. I watched you do this."

"That was different. That was a spot. This is my car."

"Your car that I have been in every single morning for weeks."

"Inside a parking garage. For two levels."

"And yet you still haven't managed to keep your spot." She grins. "You got up early once to beat me there, I started beating you there again, and now you're driving down to the carpool level with me every morning. That's not exactly the victory you think it is."

"No, it's a controlled environment, it seems."

"A controlled environment," she repeats, like she can't quite believe the phrase came out of your mouth. "So two levels in a parking garage is fine, but driving anywhere with me is suddenly too much?"

"That's different."

"How?"

"It just is."

"Right. You're going to change your mind, you know," she says at the elevator.

"I'm not."

"You will. You're just going to be extremely petty about the timeline."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't."

The doors open at eight. You both step out, and she peels off toward her own door without pushing it further, but not before glancing back at you over her shoulder, clearly convinced she's going to win this one. You're starting to realize you don't actually mind it nearly as much as you pretend to. 

────────────────

You are, it turns out, extremely petty about the timeline.

You keep driving separately. The garage carpool has become routine enough that you barely think about it anymore. Some mornings you don't even discuss it. You just end up in her passenger seat, or she ends up in yours, depending on whose car gets the spot.

But driving together from the apartment is different. That's the one she keeps suggesting, more often now, with increasingly obvious persistence, and the one you keep refusing.

"This is still insane," she tells you, a week later, both of you walking to your respective cars at the same time, same lot, just feet apart, about to drive the exact same route to the exact same garage. "We are about to drive two separate cars to the same place."

"Yes."

"For no reason."

"For my reasons, which are none of your business."

"You are burning gas out of spite."

"I am exercising my right to independent transportation."

"That's not a real principle you're following." She's got her keys in hand, watching you with the weary disbelief of someone who has run out of logical arguments and is now just documenting the absurdity. "You let me ride in your car every morning in the garage. We do this every day. We've established, beyond any reasonable doubt, that riding in a car together does not offend you. And yet somehow, driving from the apartment is where you draw the line."

"And yet."

"I genuinely don't understand you."

"You don't need to understand me. You need to get in your car."

"I'm getting in my car." She does, shaking her head the whole way, and you watch her pull out ahead of you in the mirror. You follow her the entire route to the garage, two cars, same destination, an incredibly inefficient version of something you already do together twice a day. You feel extremely justified the whole drive and also, somewhere underneath it, a little ridiculous.

It goes on like this for the better part of two weeks. She asks periodically, without much hope behind it anymore, more out of habit than expectation. Still not ready to share a car from the apartment? And you say no. She shrugs. You both drive your separate cars to the garage, whoever gets there first taking the spot while the other waits in the aisle. Then one of you gets into the other's car, and you drive down to the first level together.

It's a Thursday, raining hard enough that everyone on the sidewalk is moving faster than usual, heads down and shoulders hunched against it, when you spot Natasha half a block ahead of you. She's walking toward campus with one hand holding her bag against her side and the other shielding her face from the worst of the rain, already thoroughly soaked. 

"You walking?" you ask, pulling up alongside, window down despite the rain, getting your sleeve soaked.

"My car wouldn't start. Great timing, I know." She's shivering slightly, arms crossed against the cold, hair plastered down in a way that would be almost funny if she didn't look so thoroughly miserable about it. "I was going to call a cab. Figured you'd already left."

You look at her for a second, soaked and cold, all her usual smug composure stripped away by weather she clearly hadn't planned for. And something in you gives. You've spent two weeks holding onto this one last bit of stubbornness, defending a boundary you can barely remember why you drew in the first place. Suddenly, it doesn't seem worth defending.

"Get in," you say.

She blinks. "What?"

"Get in the car. Before you catch pneumonia standing there being dramatic about it."

"I'm not being dramatic, it's genuinely freezing—"

"Natasha."

She gets in, dripping rainwater onto the passenger seat, apologizes without sounding particularly sorry, and settles back into the warmth of the heater. For a second, she just sits there, damp hair clinging to her shoulders, looking at you with a smile she's clearly trying and failing to keep from becoming smug. 

"So," she says.

"Don't even start, drippy."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was going to say thank you, but now that you mention it, this is exactly the thing I've been asking you to do for two weeks." 

"This is an emergency situation."

"Sure it is."

"Your car wouldn't start. It's pouring down rain. That's an emergency."

"And tomorrow, when my car starts, there's no rain, and there's no emergency at all?" She's got that look again, like she already knows the answer and is just waiting for you to arrive at it yourself. "Are we back to two cars?"

You pull out of the lot, wipers going, the question hanging between you for a moment longer than it needs to.

"No," you say finally. "No, I think—probably not."

Natasha doesn't gloat. You brace for it, actually turning to check, ready to defend yourself the second she opens her mouth, but she just leans her head back against the seat, eyes closing as a small, genuine smile settles across her face instead of the smug one you expected.

"Good," she says. "That's good."

"Don't make this a whole thing."

"I'm not making it a thing."

"You're smiling like it's a thing."

"I'm smiling," Natasha says, eyes still closed, rain drumming steady on the roof, "because I've been getting in your car for weeks now, one way or another, and it took a dead battery and a rainstorm to get you to admit you don't actually mind."

You don't have a good answer for that, so you don't give her one. You just drive. When you pull into the garage, you head for the checkpoint automatically.

The guard barely looks up. Counts two heads. Waves you through.

"So home tomorrow," Natasha says as you pull into a space. "One car."

"Fine."

"Say it like you mean it."

"Fine," you repeat, and this time, when she smiles at you, still completely soaked but victorious and entirely too pleased with herself, you let yourself smile back. 

────────────────

From home tomorrow, it becomes home every day after that, no more discussion required. The two-car standoff quietly becomes a thing neither of you bothers revisiting.

It becomes routine faster than you expect. Her knock, or yours. Whoever's turn it technically is, except you stopped counting somewhere along the way. The drive down together, the checkpoint, the guard who has started recognizing your cars and waves you through before either of you has to stop for him to count heads. 

Parting at the garage. Finding each other again later in the day. The ride home.

It's a Friday, weeks later, when she pulls into the apartment lot, parks, and neither of you moves to get out.

"You're doing the thing," you say, watching her hands stay on the wheel a beat too long, her gaze fixed through the windshield instead of on you.

"What thing?"

"The thing where you're about to say something and you're stalling."

"I don't stall."

"You're stalling right now."

She huffs something that's almost a laugh and finally turns to look at you properly. There's none of her usual teasing in it, something more careful instead, something that looks, on her, almost like nerves. It's such an unfamiliar expression on her face that it stops you from saying anything else.

"I've been doing the math," she says.

"On what?"

"On how long I've been getting in your car, or vice versa. Two months, give or take. That's including a stolen parking spot, all the times you sat in your car waiting for me instead of just asking for my number and texting me, and a rainstorm I did not actually need saving from, for the record. I could've called a cab or—"

"You looked like a drowned raccoon. You needed saving."

"I looked fine—" She stops herself, exhales, and starts again. "My point is, I've spent two months finding increasingly elaborate reasons to be in a car with you. The parking spot wasn't really about the parking spot. You know that, right? I could've moved my car that first morning. I didn't want to."

You sit very still, aware of the quiet of the lot, the engine ticking as it cools, the particular stillness of a conversation that stopped being about carpooling several sentences ago.

"I know," you say quietly. "I think I've known for a while."

"So why didn't you say anything?"

"Because you never did either. I figured we were both just going to keep doing this—the arguing and the spite-driving—indefinitely. Forever, I guess."

That gets the laugh out of her, real and a little unsteady, and something in her shoulders loosens, the same held line of tension finally letting go like it did a couple weeks ago on that rainy day.

"I don't want to do forever like this," she says. "I want—" She stops, tries again, more direct this time. "I like you. I've liked you since you rolled your window down and told me that was your spot like I'd personally wronged you. I want to stop pretending this is about parking spots."

"It was never about parking spots."

"I know that. I'm asking if you know that."

"I know that," you say, and it comes out steadier than you expect, steadier than two months of disagreements and stolen spots and all the mornings you spent pretending you didn't look forward to seeing her would suggest you're capable of.

Natasha doesn't say anything to that. She reaches over with her left hand and touches your jaw, her thumb brushing once along your cheek.

"Can I—" she starts.

"Yes," you say, before she finishes asking, and she kisses you like she's been waiting two months to do it, unhurried despite how long she's clearly been wanting to, one hand still at your jaw, the other finding yours on the console between you like it belongs there.

When she pulls back, she's smiling. Not the smug one you've gotten used to seeing, but something softer.

"For the record," she says, "I would've made a move eventually. Even without the parking spot."

"I know."

"You knew?"

"You weren't exactly subtle about it."

She gives you a flat look. "You're lying. But you weren't exactly subtle either."

"No," you agree. "I guess we were both just waiting for the other one to say it first."

"So say it," she says, that familiar challenge back in her voice, only gentler this time. "Properly. Out loud. It's only fair, I've already said it."

"I like you," you say. "There. Official."

"That wasn't so hard."

"It was, actually. You have no idea."

She just smiles at that, and you lean in and kiss her again.

"Come upstairs," you say. "I'll make dinner. We can argue about whose turn it is to drive tomorrow."

"It's my turn."

"It's not, actually, I have it written down."

"You do not have it written down."

“How could you forget the coordinates? We’re going to miss our extraction.”

“You’re the one who tripped the security system at the base. If we didn’t have to take off in a fucking random direction to get away, maybe we wouldn’t be lost.”

“No, maybe we ‘wouldn’t be lost’ if you remembered how to get to the extraction point.”

“I do remember,” you lie, fumbling with some excuse, shifting the blame back to Natasha, “Just not from this direction. You took us in the wrong direction.”

The bickering persists, seeming to be never-ending, retorts getting thrown back and forth with no end to the dispute in sight. This is typical. You and Natasha have never gotten along; arguments and squabbling are constants whenever you’re in close proximity. Of course, Fury sends the two least compatible agents on a mission together.

It’s winter, in Austria, and it’s getting late, getting colder. Snow is starting to fall, and darkness is starting to set in, and you two shouldn’t be trudging through the forest at this hour or in this weather. You need to find the extraction point, and soon.

As the trudging continues, the bickering eventually dies off, replaced by a tense quiet. You’ve grown angry and tired, and Natasha’s now silently seething. The cold is soaking into the both of you, neither of you dressed to combat these snowy conditions, having assumed the extraction was going to be quick and efficient after completing the mission.

“I can’t believe you’re so incompetent to get us into this mess,” Natasha mutters.

Well, that one hurts.

It only takes singular moment of not watching where you’re going, your gaze sharply flicking up to Natasha at her remark, singular moment of not picking your foot up high enough, for everything to go wrong. Your toe catches on a tree root hidden by the snow, you miss your step, stumbling, and then you’re careening down a small bank onto ice.

When you gain the beginning of your bearings, you slowly push yourself onto your knees, slipping slightly on the smooth surface, glancing around. Evening is surrounding you, and so it takes a second for you to realize that the ice isn’t just ice. It’s a frozen over lake. You stiffen immediately, every muscle going completely still as you instinctively try to move as little as possible while you assess the situation. This isn’t good.

But okay, okay, you can’t exactly stay here.

You let out a shaky, nervous exhale and steel your nerves before shifting one leg out from underneath you, setting your foot flat on the ice and attempting to slowly pick yourself up, your movements as steady as possible as you test your luck and try to stand.

Immediately, a sharp crack echoes across the lake.

Your eyes widen, your breathing speeds, and you chance a glance up the bank to look at Natasha. Her reaction isn’t particularly reassuring.

She’s visibly alarmed—one might even argue she’s scared, which you’d think interesting considering Natasha seems to despise you if not for the situation you’ve found yourself in. Her expression mirrors your own as she tries to remain calm with you.

“Don’t move,” Natasha orders, soft and quiet as if even simple talking will cause the ground beneath you to fracture further. Her eyes search across the ice, flicking between you and the slowly growing crack, as she tries to come up with a plan to get you back to safety.

“Natasha,” you murmur her name nervously.

She doesn’t respond, too busy calculating a solution.

Her silence does nothing to ease your anxiety, and you don’t see another option—you can’t exactly stay here—so you chance another step forward. The sound of another loud crack settles between you and her.

“I said don’t move,” she repeats, practically a desperate hiss, “Stay still.”

You’re definitely listening to her demand now as it’s obvious you made a clear mistake, almost paralyzed with fear. You remain frozen—how ironic—in place. You feel your body wanting to rebel against her words, you want to make a run for it, but your mind clings to the one hope you have of her, a senior agent, your superior who is significantly more versed in emergency situations than you, saving you.

Visible lines begin to fan out from your position, the ice breaking beneath you despite you remaining as motionless as you can.

Things are precarious, and you both know you’re running out of time.

“I need you to very slowly and very carefully lean back and sit down… understand?” Natasha asks, voice still low with forced calmness.

You can’t speak. You just nod.

You do your best. You try to keep every motion as gentle as possible; you’re deliberate with every shift of your weight.

It doesn’t matter. The ice gives out.

And you’re sucked under, the cold setting in instantly. All your SHIELD training, all the lessons and preparation regarding circumstances such as this, leaves you when the freezing water comes into contact with your body. It’s instinctual, you can’t stop it, your breathing picks up, your heart rate skyrockets, you start sucking in ragged breaths, spluttering as you inhale gulps of icy water, flailing under the surface as your wet clothes begin to weigh you down.

Natasha’s reacting without hesitation, immediately sliding across the ice on her knees, trying to distribute her weight evenly, but that’s only secondarily on her mind, her first goal being to get to you, to pull you out, to save you.

Her hand reaches down frantically into the break in the ice, desperate to grab any part of you in the murky water, pitch black with no visibility. She’s reaching in blind.

Eventually, entirely luckily, her fingers graze what she thinks is your shoulder, and she’s grabbing hold of what she can and pulling. You’re practically deadweight, unable to help her, your limbs hardly functional. You’re already exhausted from just the short amount of time spent in the water, body overwhelmed and drained.

It’s only by Natasha’s strength do you make it out of the water as she drags your limp form onto the ice. You’re shivering, teeth chattering, your body freezing to the touch.

“Fuck, fuck, okay,” Natasha mutters to herself, now trying to access her own memory on how to respond to medical situations like this, on how to handle hypothermia cases.

She quickly begins working to remove your clothing, to rid you of the garments that are currently still seeping cold into your body. She strips you of your shirt and pants, leaving you in only your underwear, and then she sheds her own jacket to drape it over you.

She could freeze—she knows that—but you need the cover more than she does right now. At least her body is still generating heat on its own. You look seconds away from losing consciousness.

“I’m going to pick you up now, okay?” she informs you.

“N-N-Natasha,” you try, your ability to speak greatly reduced.

“I’m here, I’m right here,” she says back, her voice urgent, her brows furrowed with worry. Your eyes are barely open; you can’t feel your limbs.

“C-c-cold,” you stutter.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I know. Please just hold on,” she murmurs, reaching out to lift you into her arms. She needs to find shelter. She needs to get you out of here. She needs to warm you up. But she knows that managing all three isn’t likely in these conditions. She refuses to let herself believe that.

Natasha doesn’t know how, doesn’t know what higher power there is to thank, but through the thickening darkness cloaking her vision, she manages to make out a cave. Her legs which had been quickly tiring from pushing her way through the snow, her arms which had been rapidly wearying from carrying you for so long, burst with renewed strength, and she pushes forward.

Once she arrives, the small cave offering little respite from the biting cold but at least sheltering you two from the falling snow, at least blocking the wind, she gently sets you down.

She watches as your eyes flutter, as you begin to become even more unresponsive, and quickly begins removing her own clothes. Once in only her underwear as well, she settles next to you on the ground and pulls you into her lap, curling you into her, attempting to share what little is left of her body heat with yours. The cold immediately begins to affect her, but despite the constant shivering, she doesn’t let go.

You whimper in pain when she brings you up to her chest, when she tucks your head into the crook of her neck, the movement creating an agonizing burning feeling within your skin.

“I’m sorry,” Natasha breathes out, “I’m so sorry. Try talking, you need to stay awake.”

Your head lolls against her shoulder, your eyes closing and then reopening slowly as you try to focus on her, to answer her, but you don’t manage, and you don’t respond.

“Come on. Please talk to me.”

You attempt again to get your mouth to work, but your lips are tinging blue, and you can barely see through your lashes, and you just feel so, so tired.

“Please,” Natasha begs again, and for a brief moment, it registers in your head that she’s never sounded scared like this with you before, scared like this for you before. You’ve never heard her beg.

So, you say the first thing that comes to mind at the sight of her.

“S-so p-p-pretty,” you struggle to get out. It’s barely audible. It’s just a mumble, your words slurring.

And it’s not what Natasha expects you to say at all, her breath catching. Because… that’s new. But her surprise is short-lived as she realizes just how quickly this situation is evolving into something that may be irreversible. Those two words mean you’re delirious, disoriented, clearly out of it, admitting something you never would if not for the cold running through your veins. You’re shutting down.

You mumble something again, but this time it’s incoherent, and your eyes finally close and stay closed.

Her concern morphs into pure panic at your drowsiness, at you beginning to pass out, fear taking over. “Hey, eyes open. You need to stay awake,” she repeats again, “I need you to keep talking to me. Just say something, anything.”

She only receives a barely there hum, your eyes remaining shut.

“No, no, hey, come on! Eyes open. Look at me.” It’s a desperate order, her voice cracking on the words, but you still don’t reply, remaining slack against her.

Her arms wrap tighter around you, tugging you even closer as she does the only thing she can to shield you from cold. She hates that she knows that it might not be enough.

Soon, your shivering stops, your body going fully numb, too cold to even keep up the trembling, too weak to even try to generate heat on your own.

Natasha racks her brain, trying to recollect any more first aid that may help her. She knows she shouldn’t rub at your extremities because the cold blood will move quicker to your heart; she knows she shouldn’t shake or jar you because your heart rate may become irregular, may even stop. But none of that’s going to help her keep you warm right now. She doesn’t have the materials to start a fire; she doesn’t have any blankets or additional clothing to wrap around you. There’s nothing more she can do.

You’re pale, too pale, your lips turning further blue, cyanosis taking over.

“Just stay with me. You’re going to be okay; I promise you’re going to be okay.” She doesn’t know if she’s saying it more for your benefit or hers.

Natasha’s own teeth start to chatter, her own core temperature dropping to dangerous levels, but still she pushes through, all focus on you, all self-preservation gone in favor of keeping you warm, keeping you alive.

Your breathing is shallow. She puts two fingers to your pulse point. Your pulse is weak.

But it’s beating, and she holds onto that.

She keeps talking to you even though she knows you can’t hear her.

“Come on, you can do this,” she murmurs. “You have to. We-” she cuts herself off, taking in an uneven breath, “We still have so much to fight about.” She tries to joke. It falls flat.

Her mind flits back to your two words, to your admission. She knows it’s just some delirium-induced confession, but she can’t help but fixate on it. So pretty, so pretty, so pretty. Do you really think that? Have you really thought that all of this time?

In the past, the only thing you’d ever shown her, ever responded to her with, was disdain. Is it possible that you don’t truly feel that way? Natasha can’t claim that she hasn’t only ever treated you the same. Were you simply defensively mimicking her own behavior?

“God, I’m sorry,” she says for what seems like the millionth time, but now she’s apologizing for something else, guilt clawing at her for her offending comment, for her comment that distracted you, for her comment that she wholly believes caused the situation the two of you are in. You didn’t deserve it; you don’t deserve this.

You need to pull through. You need to survive. She needs to apologize.

Natasha doesn’t know how much time has passed, but it feels like hours. She thinks it must be.

She checks your pulse constantly, needing the physical reassurance that you’re still here, that you haven’t left her yet.

And she doesn’t know how SHIELD even finds you two. But since you didn’t arrive at extraction point when scheduled, a search team was sent out, and eventually, the search team succeeds.

Natasha’s ears pick up on shouts from nearby first, her eyes moving up from where they were fixed on your face to look out the mouth of the cave. It’s too dark, black all she can see, but she hears them.

Then lights appear, pointed toward the cave.

“Over here! We found them!”

Hope flares within her, warm and dangerous because she knows that, in your condition, the rescue may not be enough at this point.

Agents swarm around; paramedics arrive on the scene.

And Natasha has to let you go, her arms reluctantly falling away from you as she allows the paramedics to take you into their care.

“I-is she g-going to b-b-be okay?” Natasha stutters out as additional paramedics assist her with walking to the Quinjet, needing to know, needing someone to reassure her that you have a chance, that you’re going to make it.

“We’re doing everything we can. We’re going to take care of her,” is all she receives back. It isn’t good enough.

The paramedics change the subject before she can ask again, before she can plead with them like she wants to. They can’t have her spiraling. She needs medical attention as well. “You’re in bad shape too. We need to get you both to a medical facility ASAP.”

“I-I-I’m fine. Take c-care of her f-f-first.”

“We will; we are. But we need to take care of you too.”

“Just m-make sure she’s o-o-okay. P-please just make s-sure she’s okay.”

It’s a quick flight to the hospital, and it passes by Natasha in a blur, with you unconscious and her fading in and out. Now, with the adrenaline gone, with the sheer determination she had to keep you alive no longer as critical, exhaustion is weighing her down.

She was cold… but you were colder, and at the time, that’s what mattered more.

Upon landing, two gurneys are brought to the Quinjet. You’re settled into one, while Natasha is settled into another. They’re pushed through the hospital doors, and doctors and nurses immediately surround the two of you, attempting to take vitals and assess your conditions.

At a certain point, you’re dragged away, and although she’s tired and weary, although her body can barely support the worry that’s beginning to grow again within her at your distance, she protests the separation.

“W-where are you t-t-taking her?” she stammers quickly, weakly trying to sit herself up in her gurney, intending on trying to follow you.

She’s pushed back into the bed instantly, hands holding her down. “We’re taking her to the ICU for treatment. We need to get her core temperature up slowly. She’s going to need an IV and fluids at the least.”

“I n-n-need to go with h-her. Please, c-c-can I go with her?”

“I’m afraid not. You require treatment as well, but I promise she’s in good hands.”

Natasha’s face twists with concern, with desperation, and the nurse notices, letting out a sympathetic breath and taking pity on the redhead.

“As soon as you’re both stable, you can see her again.”

Natasha improves much quicker than you do, her body eventually warming, and she spends the next two days desperately waiting for any updates on your condition. Every time a nurse or doctor walk into her room to check up on her and make sure she’s still recovering well, she asks about you.

The medical team refuses to let her out of bed, insisting that she needs to address her own health first.

But how is Natasha to focus on anything but you right now? With you out of sight? With uncertainty surrounding your condition? With the word “pretty”, spoken out when you weren’t in your right mind, still running through her head?

She’s getting impatient, more and more worried every day that she’s not allowed to see you healing for herself.

She does feel better these days, stronger after the weakness the cold night and everything that transpired brought upon her, and she can only hope that you’re beginning to feel the same.

The next time the door to her room opens and a doctor steps in, like usual, she wastes no time. “How is she?” Natasha asks, the question the same as always, the pattern now well-known by the medical staff as she always forgoes information about herself to request information about you.

“We’ve succeeded in stabilizing her. She needs to stay for observation, but we think she’ll make a full recovery.”

Her entire form slumps with relief as she hears that. You’re alive; you’re going to be okay.

“You need to remain here for observation as well,” the doctor continues, “At least for another day. Although your hypothermia was less severe, we still need to make sure there are no complications.”

Natasha ignores that. Anything related to her can wait right now. “Can I see her?”

The doctor pauses, his hesitation obvious.

“Please.”

He sighs and finally gives her a nod. “Once she’s transferred out of the ICU, I can try to get you moved into the same room as her. Keyword: try.”

But true to his word, once you’re relocated into a less intensive ward, Natasha finds herself in a hospital bed next to yours. You’re unconscious—you have been since you arrived according to the nurses—but the fact that your chest is rising and falling with every breath, confirming that you’re alive, is enough to ease the worries that have been plaguing her these past couple of days

“You’re okay,” she breathes out softly when she sees you, needing to say it to believe it, “You’re okay.”

Another day passes before you stir, your eyes opening blearily. The first thing you notice through your slightly blurry vision is Natasha beside you, sitting in an uncomfortable looking chair pulled up next to your bedside. The second thing you notice is the feeling of your hand being held by hers.

She’s already awake, staring at you hopefully, nervously, as if disbelieving that you’re really here in front of her. She’s been at your bedside almost the entire time you’ve been asleep, refusing to leave, disregarding the doctor’s orders of her needing to remain in her own bed.

“Welcome back,” she murmurs, unable to stop a small smile from appearing on her face, her hand gently squeezing yours.

“Natasha?” you mumble, still disoriented from your coma.

“Yeah, it’s me. It’s me.”

Your eyes slowly close again, and you can’t bring yourself to respond, still tired, your body still demanding rest, but a comfort spreads within you at the fact that she’s near, You don’t quite know why. It doesn’t make sense given your history of an unfriendly relationship with Natasha, but you don’t have it in you to think about it anymore.

“Go back to sleep. I’ll be right here,” she reassures, her thumb swiping back and forth over your knuckles.

She’s beyond relieved that you’ve finally woken up, and despite you not being fully lucid, the absolute torment that has been waiting for you to finally come to can be considered officially over.

You listen to her soft words, gradually drifting off again with your hand still in hers.

When you wake up next, it’s dark, the sun having just set, evening falling upon you, the lights in the room off. You’re a lot more coherent, although your memories of earlier are fuzzy; your memories of everything are fuzzy. Confusion immediately creases your brow as you find Natasha so close to you, as you find your hands entangled.

The redhead is asleep in the chair that’s still pulled up to your bedside, her expression relaxed, calm, finally untroubled in sleep by everything has been worrying her since your fall in the lake.

You can’t prevent your hand from twitching. You want to grasp hers more firmly, want to let yourself revel in the feel of her skin against yours. You try to tell yourself that it’s just the confusion, the surprise; there’s no way it’s from the dangerous feeling of desire. But Natasha looks beautiful. You shove away that thought.

You slowly try to extricate your hand from where your fingers are interlocked with hers, the woman still grasping at you even while resting.

And that gets Natasha to rouse immediately, the small movement disturbing her slumber, always fine-tuned to her surroundings. When her own eyes flutter open, she practically jumps up at finding you awake once again.

“You’re awake,” she says, and don’t quite understand the undertone of happiness.

You just watch her at first, unsure what to make of what you’ve woken up to, and then you mentally shake yourself out of your stupor, release her hand, and roughly, despite your still weak state, attempt to push yourself up into a sitting position.

Natasha is standing and reaching out to assist you immediately.

“Hey, careful. Sit up carefully. Let me help you,” she says quickly, hovering, even going as far as to make sure the pillow behind your back is fluffed as she gets you resettled.

Your confusion only grows.

“Let me get you another blanket,” she then offers without prompting, walking over to grab the thin cover from her own bed and then gently placing it over you before tucking you in.

More confusion.

“Are you thirsty? They left some water here for you. Drink slowly,” she murmurs, pouring you a glass from the pitcher on the table next to your bed and handing it to you.

The confusion peaks.

She’s trying to apologize through her actions, not sure how to broach the subject of what happened but needing you to understand how sorry she is, how guilty she is, how much she regrets everything that happened and takes full blame for the danger and suffering and harm that she believes she caused you to go through.

You cautiously—almost suspiciously—thank her and take the glass, all the while still looking at the redhead with open bewilderment. Your fingers brush. It’s gentle; it’s startling.

Natasha, as if finally realizing how unusual her behavior, her helicoptering, her concern is, opens her mouth to say something, but she doesn’t exactly know what that something is.

You’re still staring at her, gaze unwavering, brows knit as you regard her, when the doctor walks in, rescuing Natasha from what would’ve been a most likely extremely awkward conversation that involved explaining what occurred that night in the snow to change everything between you two.

 “I’m glad to see you’re awake,” the doctor greets, smiling, “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” is what you give him, stare finally leaving Natasha in order to meet his instead.

“The fatigue may last for a little while longer given how serious your hypothermia was, but we do expect you to make a full recovery.” The smile doesn’t leave his face, and he if he’s aware of the building tension in the room, he does nothing to alleviate it with his next words. “You’re lucky. If it wasn’t for her…” he nods toward Natasha, “…things could’ve gone very differently for you.”

You glance back over at Natasha, bafflement at the situation only mounting, brows now fully furrowed as you try to puzzle out just what has transpired since passing out that night.

You remember the mission, the stumble, the sound of the ice cracking, the cold, and then it’s just… black.

“When can I be discharged?” you ask abruptly.

“We’d like you to stay for a couple more days. Just to make sure your core body temperature remains stable,” he replies smoothly.

“You’d ‘like’ me to stay? So, I don’t have to?” you begin to try before Natasha cuts in.

“That sounds great. She’ll stay. Thank you,” the redhead speaks up before you can continue to challenge the doctor’s recommendations.

The doctor nods, his smile turning less genuine and more forced when you began to indirectly protest his medical advice, but he exits the room without pushing further, leaving the two of you alone.

“You sure you’re feeling okay?” Natasha asks.

“I want to be discharged already,” you say in lieu of answering.

“The doctor said just a couple more days.”

“It could’ve been today if you hadn’t butt in.”

Natasha gives you an exasperated look.

You huff in annoyance. “Have you been discharged yet?” you question.

“Yeah, this morning.”

That gets your attention, your irritation dissipating, replaced with the confusion that’s becoming a constant since waking up. “What are you still doing here?”

Natasha hesitates to say something honest. She heavily considers lying but eventually lands on a half-truth. “I just wanted to stick around until I was sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine, Natasha. Honestly. You don’t have to wait for me. You can head back to base.”

“I don’t mind waiting.”

You narrow your eyes at her, wary, wondering just what’s warranted this new niceness and care. You change the subject, uncomfortable with the shift. “Have you talked to Fury yet? Wait, where even are we?”

“We’re in Innsbruck. They flew us to the nearest large hospital. And no, I haven’t spoken to him yet, but I imagine he’ll be calling any minute.”

You nod as you take in the information, remaining silent.

“You should get some more rest,” Natasha says softly.

“I said I was fine,” you repeat, firmer this time, voice hardening in response to her gentleness, not sure how to proceed when you’re not receiving animosity from her.

“I know you did… I’m just worried about you,” she murmurs.

“You? Worried about me? Did the hypothermia fuck with your head that much?”

“Is it really that hard to believe that I care about your well-being?”

It’s your turn to give her a look.

“You truly think I’m heartless, don’t you?” It’s not a question.

“Aren’t you? Isn’t that sort of your thing?”

Natasha’s face twists with something that can’t be interpreted as anything but hurt, and you don’t understand why.

“No, that isn’t ‘sort of my thing’. I may keep my emotions in check, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care for my teammates.”

“I wouldn’t call myself your teammate. I’m more like a bug, and you want to step on me.”

Despite how her hurt only increases, she manages to hide it this time. Her voice comes out quiet and not accusatory. “Maybe I’ve been harsh, but you have to admit that you’re frustrating to work with.”

“You’re frustrating to work with, and I don’t need this fake caring act from you.”

“Would I have stayed at your bedside the whole time if I didn’t care?”

That gets you to falter. “The whole time?” you ask slowly.

Natasha is about to respond, but whether it’s to confirm or backtrack and deny, she doesn’t know, when harsh coughs begin to shake your frame. You instinctively bring your elbow up to cover your mouth.

All the hurt, anger, and discouragement in response to your confrontational behavior immediately transition into concern as she sees splashes of blood coat your sleeve, red painting your lips. Her hand moves to your back, trailing up and down in what she hopes is a comforting motion.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” she murmurs, “It’ll be over soon. You’re okay.”

Your coughing eventually eases, your chest heaving as you attempt to regain your breath, your eyes closed, exhausted after the small fit, and you let out an annoyed groan. “If I have fucking pneumonia and have to stay here any longer, I swear to god, I’m going to be so pissed.”

Natasha huffs out the smallest of laughs as she continues to look at you with worry on her face. “God forbid you stay an extra day.”

“I hate hospitals.”

“Everyone hates hospitals, but you’ll live.”

Unconsciously, you lean into the hand that’s still sweeping across your back, your body simply moving toward the softness being offered, not realizing what you’re doing or who it is you’re shifting closer to.

There’s a moment of pause when Natasha feels you pushing into her, and she chances a risky movement, her hand on your back traveling up to begin carding her fingers through your hair, still trying her best to soothe, her gaze flicking to your stained elbow. If you pick up on the change to the more intimate gesture, you don’t say anything, and you tilt your head to provide her with easier access, encouraging her to continue without noticing.

“Someone likes this,” she says, unable to resist teasing, but it’s a murmur, said through a soft breath. It’s disbelieving; it’s affectionate.

“Feels nice,” you reply defensively, but your prickly tone is belied by you still pressing yourself into her hand like a cat seeking attention.

“Yeah, it does feel nice,” Natasha agrees. She isn’t talking about the feeling of your strands slipping through her fingertips. “You know, you’re not so bad when you’re not being a pain in my ass.”

“So, you found my weakness. Don’t get used to it.”

“Oh, I won’t. I’m sure your stubborn and insufferable self will be back in full force soon enough.”

Natasha’s phone ringing interrupts the fragility that neither of you two found yourselves willing to break. She lets out a frustrated breath, but when she sees it’s Fury on the other end of the line, she knows she can’t just ignore it like she wants to.

“It’s Fury,” she informs you, and if you hear the regret in her voice at having to end the moment, you don’t make it known. She stands up from the chair, her hand dropping away from your head. “I’ll be right back.”

Then she exits the room to answer the call, Fury getting right into it, direct as usual after she says her ‘hello’.

“Agent Romanoff, status update. When are you two being discharged?”

“I was discharged this morning, but she has a couple more days at least. She’s recovering well, but most likely has secondary pneumonia.”

“Alright, you’re on the next flight out, and we’ll remain in contact with the hospital until her release.”

“Sir, I’d like to stay, if that’s possible.”

Silence meets her statement. “You just said you were confirmed okay to leave this morning.”

“That’s true, sir, but I’m just… I’m worried about her, is all.” It’s a lie. She’s not just worried; she’s still terrified. “I’d like to personally monitor her recovery.” She can’t leave you, she can’t bear to not see you, she can’t not know every little update on your condition, not after what happened, not after the fear and desperation she felt that night, not after watching you almost slip away in her arms.

“You two have the least amicable relationship of all my agents… and you’re saying that you want to stay.”

“We do, but…” Natasha hesitates before continuing, voice turning quieter, weaker, pleading, “Sir, she almost died. I can’t just leave her after that.”

“You’re aware that your presence there isn’t strictly necessary, right?”

“I’m fully aware, but I’m making the decision to stay anyway.”

Fury sighs, and Natasha can practically see the way he’s most likely rubbing at his face in mild displeasure at her request. “Fine, you can stay until she’s also discharged, but I want you both on a plane immediately upon her release and a report on my desk the second you’re back at HQ.”

“Thank you, sir,” Natasha breathes out appreciatively.

She hangs up the phone after his agreement and makes her way back into your hospital room, reclaiming her seat by your bedside.

“What’d he say?” you ask.

“We’re both expected to be on the earliest flight back to base when you’re discharged.”

“You’re staying?”

Natasha nods, hoping you won’t question her decision.

“Why?”

Damnit.

“I just don't want you to be alone.”

Even though your confusion is running rampant, even though you don’t understand, even though you try not to, you soften.

Luckily, your pneumonia is deemed mild, so you’re allowed to leave after only one extra day at the hospital, antibiotics and instructions to rest—no strenuous activity until medically cleared—going with you.

Obeying Fury’s orders, you and Natasha head straight to the airport after your discharge, and she is glued to you the entire way. Her hand hovers near the small of your back as you two walk through the airport, she gently helps you onto the plane and into your seat, making sure you’re comfortable, and during the flight, she is constantly checking in.

You’re baffled by the weird behavior, you can’t comprehend why there’s been such a significant change, but you also can’t deny that you’re enjoying this new dynamic between you two that involves less hostility and more camaraderie.

When you arrive back to base, Natasha reluctantly pries herself away from your side to debrief with Fury, and you make your way back to your quarters to rest.

It doesn’t take long for the debrief and mission report to be completed, Natasha rushing through the work, wanting to get back to you and make sure that you’re still okay even though you’ve only been apart for a couple of hours.

She knows you are. You’ve been fine for days, discharged and allowed to return home, but the concern that’s been ever-overwhelming since the accident hasn’t left her just yet.

“You miss me or something?” you ask when open your door after a few knocks and discover Natasha outside. You’re uncertain why she’s here… checking in on you again… after you just spent 18 hours of travel together.

“You wish.”

“Why are you here then?” you return.

“Just making sure you didn’t get lost on the way back to your room. You did forget the coordinates to the extraction, after all,” she replies playfully, shooting you a small smile.

You grumble as that’s thrown back in your face, but your reaction is good-natured this time. The levity and friendliness that’s becoming familiar continues between the two of you.

“You still feeling okay?” Natasha questions, gaze moving up and down your form as she blatantly inspects you, as if trying to discern your condition from visuals alone.

You eye her, confused again. “I mean, I’m not happy to not be approved for missions until the pneumonia passes, but the doc did say most everyday things are fine.”

“Good…” There's a break in the conversation before she turns teasing once more. “That means I can start making fun of you again.”

“So looking forward to it.”

“I figured you’d be ecstatic.”

“Gotta love the animosity between us.”

“Nothing says ‘healthy workplace environment’ like a couple of agents constantly bickering.”

You purse your lips, the reminder of how things are supposed to be dampening your mood.

It’s been good… better. So, you’re not particularly excited to return to your usual dynamic with the redhead. You’d found yourself hoping that whatever had evolved could remain, but wishful thinking is just wishful thinking.

“Well, this has been a fun exchange, but…” You trail off as you move to close your door with Natasha still on the other side, intending on ending the conversation.

Her hand shoots out to stop you, an almost nervous expression on her face.

She keeps thinking about “pretty”, and complicated emotions make themselves known as the past moment of honesty from you circles through her mind on repeat.

It can’t be true, can it? You were delirious, not cognizant. There’s no way you meant what you said.

But… what if you did? There’s a flutter in her chest that she can’t identify—or maybe she doesn’t want to identify it—at the thought that maybe you were telling the truth. That maybe there’s some deep suppressed attraction hidden beneath the layers of snark and rivalry.

And maybe she didn’t realize it until now, but maybe she feels it too.

You stare at her, one eyebrow raised as she only gives you silence at first.

“Natasha?” you prompt.

“Do you remember anything from that night?” she finally asks. The question seemingly comes out of nowhere, but she needs to know.

You frown. Clearly, you don’t.

“While we were in the snow, while you were… out of it. You said…”

Anxiety flashes on your face as Natasha doesn’t finish her sentence. Shit, what did you say?

“I said what?”

You’re met with another bout of quiet.

“Natasha, I said what?” you press, more demanding this time.

“You called me pretty,” she murmurs softly, tentatively, shyly.

You go rigid at her words, your entire body running cold as you learn that you confessed something that was never supposed to be said out loud, that was never supposed to make it to Natasha. You immediately reject her words, providing the first excuse you can think of.

“I was delirious,” you counter firmly.

“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t true,” she argues, more desperate than she anticipated for you to admit that you were telling the truth.

“I was literally dying. I didn’t know what I was saying.”

“Was it true?”

You don’t answer.

“Was it true?” Natasha asks again.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter.”

“Why?”

“NO!” You shout, only for your Mother to arch a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. 

“No? Oh.” Mother’s unhappy now.

You step back just enough for a twig to snap. 

You’re so close to freedom, to being with Flynn, but just to the right is your tower.

Two lives split, in this moment - a moment you’ll never be able to go back to. 

You choose a life without…without your Mother. 

Dark curls are wild as Mother brings her chin up, you feel a chill go over your body. 

“You think he loves you? Sweetheart, that’s demented.” She laughs at you; it’s calculated and cruel. You don’t have any life experience, so you only pick up on the cruel part. 

“He loves me!” You say, and like a snake, your Mother snaps forward, pinching your chin in her sharp red fingernails. 

“No, I love you.”

You feel tears ready to well. 

“I cannot stay in that tower.” You say simply, trying to make her understand. 

“Was I not company enough?” Mother’s eyes flick with something else, hurt?

“I want someone to love me…” You say simply, sounding like a child now. You may be of age, but you’ve not really gotten to live. Only dream, draw, and read up in your tower. 

Mother Gothel blows air out of her nose like she finds this whole thing just so adolescent. Dropping her hold of your chin she shakes her head condescendingly at you. 

“Don’t be a dummy, come with Mommy.” She tells you, looking up tired at you. 

Only to see a bit of redness in your cheeks. 

A new realization dawns on her. 

“You wish to be loved, why didn’t you just say so?” She tells you, and you’re further confused. But in three strides, she’s in your face. 

“Mother!” You yelp just as she grabs your jaw and shoves you against a tall, thick tree. Your back collides with it, then her body pushes against yours. 

You lose your breath and balance, but Mother is holding you tight, no room for moving. 

“No, you used to call me Mommy, don’t you remember? Why did you ever stop my sweet flower? Hmm, let me hear you say it.” She instructs, then her dark red lips are mere inches away from your lips, but she moves to kiss your cheek. Smearing red lipstick onto your skin, it’s as though she’s marking you.

“Mother-no this is-” Your guilt swoons, and you’re sure you are a terrible person. Because your blush now covers your body. 

Mother wraps your long locks in her fist like a rope and then she roughly tugs, making your face wrench up in surprise.

“Every time I climbed up your hair, I heard those little whimpers. Now call me Mommy, and I’ll teach you how to be a woman. I’ll love you in ways the thief has never dreamed of.” Mother’s lips ghost over your ear, and you shiver. 

“Flynn-Flynn is a good man, he-” But you're cut off as your hair once again is whipped in your Mommy’s palm like you’re some kind of horse. 

You gasped and moaned like a common whore. 

“Your Mommy’s got more than this shell. I can bend the comic to my will, child. I can make you feel things-” Mother made her first point by letting one hand move down to cup your privates. 

You don’t know why, but they’re wet, but Mother seems to know, because this time she lets out a moan. 

“I knew my little girl still needed Mommy. Shhhh, no more silly boys. I can have you with child faster than he could blink. I can give you everything.” Mother promises and your mouth opens, lips quivering in the light of the forest. 

You don’t know when you went limp, but Mother reaches to grab the end of your dress, and she reaches inside of your intimate area.

Your eyes widen in horror at what you’ve allowed and you go to push her arm away. 

“Mother n-”

But she’s just sunk two fingers into your wet hot heat, you yell in the burning pain of it. 

“And just like that, Mommy’s home.” Mother Gothel said, as your thighs shook and your head rolled to the side, your long hair tangling with the vines in the tree. 

Mother removed her hand to hold it up to the sunlight, your blood streaked. You don’t have long to panic as she engulfs it into her mouth. 

You’re internally horrified, but physically unable to fight, the sensation foreign and uncomfortable, you're still shaking. 

“Mommy no,” you whimper pathetically, and now Mother gives you a gentle look. 

“Flower, you belong to me, don’t you see that now?” She asks, her jealousy and possessive behavior seem undeterred. 

You reach out but your dress is being flipped up to your stomach again.

“Hold this for Mommy,” she instructs and you’re so disappointed in yoursllf, because you can’t stop listening to your Mother now.

You hold the dress, the fabric crinkling in your clammy palms. 

Mother makes a show of wiping all the blood until she’s licked it all clean. 

Then she moves back into your opening. 

You wince and try to move away, but Mother slaps your wet cunt. 

It echoes in the forest, and you shout out in surprise.

“Behave Flower, or I’ll come up with more painful ways to bring myself pleasure.” Her threat is real.

Your bottom lip pouts just like when you were young, and Mother Gothel likes that, no, she loves that. 

She reaches forward and steals your first kiss just as brutally as she’d stolen your virginity. 

Her kiss is harsh, and her teeth bite that succulent, plump lip like she’s biting into a wild berry. 

You hiss in pain and her tongue invades your mouth, your knees buckle, all this blood exchange is doing things to you.

But what you don’t understand is the things it’s doing to Mother Gothel. 

Because she’s smearing that blood under her own dress, right over her pubic mound. 

She pulls back as your eyes dilate further than possible. Mother whispers some Latin you don’t understand. 

The next thing you see is Mother moving her own dress, you pull back, what was that? So veiny, dark and angry, it was a snake? No, no, it was fleshy and leaking?

“What is that Mother?” You ask but she slaps you across the face. 

You grab your cheek at surprise of the sting. 

“Now look, I’m the bad guy. You never disrespect what I give you. Do you, dear?” Mother said, disappointed, and you felt a tear fall this time. 

“No, Mommy,” you say correctly and see as the older woman at least drops her shoulders in a little bit of ease. 

“That’s better. Why don’t you apologize to Mommy? Remember how I told you to always apologize when you do something wrong? Don’t be petulant, Rapunzel. I am giving you a gift, you must be grateful.” Mother tells you and you hiccup just a little but nod. 

“Yes, Mommy, I’m sorry, h-how can I apologize?” You ask and she’ pretends to think for a moment before roughly shoving you to the forest floor. 

You fall for a moment, but her hand falls back on your hair, and she pulls you up from the locks on your scalp. 

Your mouth opens to moan, and that's when the fleshy meat at the apex of her thighs pushes into your mouth. 

You gag, but Mother slaps your cheek where her dick is, not as rough but enough that you open your mouth in shock again. 

“No teeth, or I’ll have to spank you with the hairbrush, again.” She tells you and your thighs try to close, because something in you is….achey?

Mothers special part is a little salty, but it tastes familiar, so you relax your throat and work on breathing through your nose. 

Your tears run freely and even a bit of snot, but Mother doesn’t mind. 

She pushes her hips forwards and back, one hand in your hair so you can’t run away. Holding painfully tight, making your head tight with pain. 

The other holds up her dress, she sighs like when Flynn would urinate on a tree.

It was similiar you realized, but Mommy was so….. Intense? The veins in her hand, arm, neck and forehead were all protruding. Face a sort of crimson you’d only found in your paint set. 

Your jaw ached, your gagging was uncomfortable, and eventually, you were sure you would choke. As Mommy’s dark hair just above the meat in your throat met your nose. 

You inhaled the calming scent of your Mommy. 

“My good girl, I knew you could behave, I just needed to make you stop thinking-” she grunted as she pushed out and back in, making you drool. “Just needed to take away your silly talking.”

The way Mother talked down to you had you burning with the need for praise again. 

“Now look, you’ve ruined the dress I made you.” Mother said as he cock twitched at the sight of you. 

The drool now in big strands down your chin and into the cleavage of your dress. 

Soaking down your neck and breasts. 

Mother Gothel yanks her dick out of your mouth, and you cough and struggle, wheezing and folding your body over. 

But Mother simply pulls a dagger out, the light glints on the meta,l and you see it. 

You stagger backwards further to the tree, but you don’t have a moment to scream for help or run. 

 Mother takes the blade at the top of your clevage and tears down, the tip of it pierces your breast just enough, like a pin prick. The tear in your dress ruins it, and your corset is demolished. 

The fabric ends rough as Mother finishes down your waist. 

Once you’re entirely nude, she see’s the tiny cut.

“Mama will fix it,” she tells you and then her ruby lips are on your breasts and you flex up into her mouth. 

Your eyes roll back and your hips lift. 

You don’t know who you are. 

But Mommy does, and she’s going to take care of everything. 

You don’t hear a twig break in the forest, but Mother does, her eyes move as her mouth doesn’t leave your breast.

But instead moves down to your nipple, where she sucks and bites with roughness, making you writhe under her body. 

Blue eyes lock eyes with Flynn Rider, but he isn’t moving to save you. 

His jaw is slack and open; he’s not coming to save you, just as Mother thought. 

He’s watching, though, oh, is he watching. 

Mommy doesn’t mind that one bit, in fact she hopes all of the fuzzy duckling boys would come and watch. 

Not another soul would ever wonder who owned the maiden in the tower. 

Mother Gothel made eye contact with Flynn and moved her hand into your cunt. 

Making a show of pushing her fingers in. 

The wet noises, the embarrassing squelch of your desire filled the forest. 

Flynns hand dropped to his trousers, as he watched Mother Gothel take his princess. 

Mother didn’t care to watch more; the boy was keeping his distance, she didn’t care what else he did. 

But as her own cock leaked, she knew it was time to make you into her perfect flower. 

“Mother-I” You moaned out, not sure of what you needed, but positive who needed to give it to you. 

Gothel released your breast with a wet pop, her saliva all over your chest, as hickies began to bloom purple on your skin.

“Mommy’s got you, Oh, Rapunzle do you hear yourself? You are nothing more than a common whore. Begging for me to take you in the woods. What if someone were to see us?” She asks you, and you bite your bottom lip, trapping it in your teeth and you open your thighs to answer. 

“Now you understand why Mother knows best, don’t you, Pet?” Mother Gothel needs to hear it. Have Flynn hear it, to understand that you were forever hers, and hers only. 

“I love you Mommy,” you say with a hazey look in your eye.

Mother smiles and lines her cock up with your entrance. She isn’t kind, why be kind now? 

With one thrust she pushes roughly into you, it burns and your body spasms and your eyes roll back. 

But no scream can come out of your throat, just a silent burst of agony. 

“I love you most.” She answers just as her balls slap against you.

Your toes curl, it’s embarrassing but the pain is the only love you’ve ever known anyway. 

Why wouldn’t pain be how you understood pleasure?

Mother wanted it that way from the beginning. 

Mommy pulls out only to jackhammer back in, you lose control of your bladder. Or was that ejaculation? You didn’t know, had never heard of it, all you knew it that you’d soiled both your ruined fabric and Mother's dress. 

But she only cackled in delight. Through her own moans of taking you brutally you hear her say;

“As fragile as a flower,” and you shudder at the sensation. 

Then Mother whispers to you. “Shall I urinate on my little sapling as well? Is this how the world will know who owns you? Such a little baby, not even a grown woman, could not hold it in, could you?” She says then her meaty member pushes so far inside of you that you feel you might break. 

“You need Mommy.” She tells you like it’s a spell. 

Your nails dig into the rough forest dirt to hold onto something, anything. 

“You will not last, oh Rapunzle really, how adorable!” Mother laughed feeling your walls close tighter around her than even before. 

But Mother grabs your chin again and twists it to the side, she wants you to see your knight in shining armor. 

“Tell the thief how only Mommy can touch you? Tell him how you wet yourself in pleasure, tell him who will be using you in the tower, tell him.” She thrusts more erratically, losing her rhythm to the ideas.

On what she’d do with you, the bondage with your hair, the humiliation, the way she’d break you down. 

Mommy was never more excited. 

Your watery eyes fix on Flynn as his hand is in his trousers, pumping his meat wildly. He’s going to cum in his pants, just as you’d receive your mother's first load to your womb.

You hate how your body was begging for it.

But how could you deny it?

You look at him sadly. Because in that moment, you both knew, you couldn’t pick him, not anymore. 

Not when Mother loved you most…. 

Mother leaned in and whispered just as she lost control.

“Don’t be such a Dummy, Cum with Mommy.” 

Just couldn't wait anymore!!!!

Read More MultiFandom Fanfics Here | Mother Gothel MasterList |Darkfic +DeadDove List | Requested Stories | My Stories MasterList | AO3

You don't usually go to Kate when you're hurt. It's not that she isn't good at taking care of you. She's annoyingly good at it, actually. She knows which antiseptic you hate, how tightly to wrap your ribs, and exactly how much complaining you'll tolerate before you threaten to kick her out of the room.

The problem lies in Kate caring too much. That and noticing everything; from your bruises to your limping, to you being quieter than usual when you come home. And sometimes, when you look at her and realize just how scared she is, you feel guilty for making her that way.

Six days ago, that guilt had turned into an argument. Neither of you had handled it particularly well. You'd come from a mission with a dislocated shoulder and a concussion. Kate had spent six hours sitting beside your hospital bed, furious and terrified in equal measure.

When you'd finally woken up, she'd asked what the hell you'd been thinking. You'd told her you'd been doing your job. She'd said that wasn't good enough. You'd told her she couldn't keep trying to decide which risks you were allowed to take. She'd said she couldn't keep watching you throw yourself into situations that might kill you.

Then, somewhere in the middle of it, Kate had gone quiet. "I don't know how to keep doing this," she'd said no louder than a murmur.

You'd stared at her. "Then don't."

You'd regretted it almost immediately, but you’d still left things there. Neither of you had called since.

And now, after a mission that had left a shallow cut above your eyebrow, a bruise darkening your cheek, and a knife wound along your ribs that was thankfully more dramatic than dangerous, you're standing outside Kate's apartment at two in the morning.

You could have gone anywhere, but your feet brought you here. You knock before you can change your mind.

It takes a minute, then the locks turn. Kate opens the door wearing an oversized sweatshirt and gray sweatpants, her hair sticking up in several directions. She looks half asleep until she sees you.

Her entire expression changes. "What happened?"

You lean against the doorframe. "Hi to you too."

Her eyes sweep over you again. The blood. Your split lip. The way you're holding your side.

"You're hurt."

"It's nothing serious."

"Yeah, my partner showing up at my door bleeding at 2 AM? There’s never been less sense of urgency than there is now.” Kate deadpans.

You almost smile, however wearily. Six days, and she hasn’t lost a bit of cheek. That was comforting.

"Classic case of a mission gone bad,” You say, offering more of an answer this time.

Kate's jaw tightens. "Come inside."

You hesitate, and Kate noticed the hesitation. Something flashes across her face before she schools it away. "Please."

That does it. You step through the doorway, and the apartment is exactly as you remember it. A lamp on in the corner, a blanket thrown over the back of the couch. You spot an empty mug next to the sink in the kitchen, one that’s unmistakably one of yours, and your stomach twists.

Kate closes the door after you. "Sit." She commands.

"I'm fine."

"You're bleeding on my floor."

You look down. A small drop of blood has landed on the hardwood. Kate points toward the couch. "Sit."

You sigh and obey. She disappears into the bathroom. You hear the cabinet open, followed by the familiar rattle of the first-aid kit. For one pitiful second, you consider leaving. Then Kate returns and drops the kit onto the coffee table.

She kneels in front of you. Neither of is speaking. It feels strange. Ordinarily, the pair of you wouldn’t be able to shut up. It wasn’t like you to run out of things to talk about with Kate. Or to have awkward silences to fill.

Kate has patched you up more times than you can count. Usually there's music playing in the background, or some stupid argument about what movie you're going to watch afterward. Usually she's teasing you for being reckless and you're teasing her for worrying too much.

Usually, when she reaches for your face, you lean into her without thinking. Tonight, you sit perfectly still. Kate notices this. "Can I?" she asks, as if the two of you really are strangers and she needs permission to touch you. Your stomach twists again, but you nod.

Her fingers settle carefully beneath your chin. The touch is so familiar it almost hurts. She angles your face toward the light and studies the cut above your eyebrow.

"How bad?" You ask.

"Not bad." Kate’s reply is a little too swift. “Well, it’s certainly bad enough that you get to play nurse,”

The corner of Kate’s mouth twitches. “Just figuring out my path,”

You almost laugh. Kate cleans the blood from your face. Though her touch is gentle, her jaw remains tight."Does this hurt?"

"No."

She presses the gauze a little harder, making you wince.

Kate gives you a look. "You've always been a terrible liar."

"You've known that for years. Don’t act surprised now,” You say.

One corner of Kate’s mouth lifts, just barely. “I’m not. Nothing you do surprises me anymore.

The words settle between you, but you’re not quite sure how to take them.

Kate looks at your side. "Let me see."

"It's fine."

“Would you stop saying that? You’re literally clutching your ribs,” Kate huffs.

"I'm aware."

"Then let me see."

You hesitate again. Kate's eyes lift to yours. There's no anger in them now, just worry and a silent plea, and that somehow makes it worse.

You pull your shirt up enough for her to inspect the wound. Her expression immediately changes. It's not terrible. The knife caught you along the side rather than going deep, but the skin around it is swollen and angry.

Kate swallows. "Jesus,”

She reaches for the antiseptic and the silence returns. You watch her hands. She manages to keep them steady, you know she has to, but the look you keep seeing in those blue eyes tells you she feels anything but steady right now.

After a few minutes, Kate breaks the silence. "Why didn't you call someone?"

You stare at the wall and don’t respond immediately. Kate watches your face. “Baby, I’m talking to you. Why didn’t you call someone? Why didn’t you call me? I know I was asleep and everything, and I know we’ve been fighting for nearly a week, but if you were in danger—“

"Kate."

She stops rambling.

You look at her. "I wasn’t going to call you. I wasn’t going to make my mess your mess. I just wasn’t.”

Her hands still. “Your mess already is my mess,” she says.

There's something in the way she says it that makes your chest tighten. She tapes fresh gauze over the wound, then she sits back. "Okay."

You watch Kate admire her handiwork, those eyes climbing the length of your body until her gaze locks with yours, unreadable. You don’t know what to do with that expression on her face, so you look away. Kate starts packing the medical supplies back into the kit.

“So…do you have anywhere to stay tonight?” Kate asks.

You look at her. “Is that your way of saying you don’t want me to stay here?”

Kate’s staring down at the box, fiddling with a roll of medical tape.

“Kate.”

“No,” Kate sighs. “The opposite. I…want you here, but if you made other arrangements, I understand.”

“I haven’t. If you want me here, I’m here,” You say.

“Okay,” Kate says, meeting your eyes.

“Okay,” you parrot.

You and Kate begin to move around the apartment getting ready for bed (or in Kate’s case, getting ready to go back to bed) A framed photograph from a trip you took together two years ago sits crooked on the shelf because Kate never hangs anything straight the first time. And once you glimpse one photo on the wall, you’re glimpsing them all. All the memories, all the laughs, all the love. Six days the two of you spent apart. It wasn’t long, but it had definitely felt that way.

"I thought you wouldn’t want me to come back,” you say quietly. “After what I said to you in my hospital room.”

Kate's expression shifts. “Why would I want that? I could never want that.”

"Well, you said you couldn't do this anymore." You point out.

"I also said I couldn't keep watching you get hurt. It was tearing me apart. But when I tried to talk to you about it, it’s like you never took me seriously,” Kate explains.

“Because it was the way you were saying it,” You hadn't meant to say this so sharply, but now that you’d started, you couldn’t stop. "I didn't need you to tell me I was reckless. I already knew."

"I wasn't trying to lecture you."

You scoff. “It sure felt like one.”

"I was terrified."

“So was I, Kate!”

Kate's eyes meet yours, and you can see the argument from six days ago sitting there between you, still alive.

"I know," she says. “I just…didn’t know what else to do.”

That takes some of the fight out of you. Because that's the problem, isn't it? Neither of you had known. You'd both been scared, and somehow you'd turned that fear into anger because anger was easier.

Kate looks at you again. "I thought if I made you angry enough, maybe you'd understand how serious it was."

"And I thought if I pushed back hard enough, you'd understand that I wasn't going to stop being who I am."

"I know."

You sigh. "I don't want you to stop worrying about me."

Kate's brows lift slightly. "Really?"

"No."

A tiny smile pulls at her mouth. “So you like that I worry about you?”

You shake your head. "Don't."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You are."

"I missed this."

"What?"

"Making you annoyed."

You can't help it. You laugh. It's quiet, but real.

Kate smiles. And for the first time since you walked through her door, something in your chest loosens. Then she reaches for your hand. You let her take it. Her thumb moves slowly across your knuckles.

"I just don't want to lose you," she says.

Your smile disappears. You look at your joined hands. "You won't."

"You don't know that."

"I do,” You respond with certainty. “Because nothing is going to come between me and you. I won’t let it.”

Kate's eyes shine and she finally leans into you. You let her, meeting her halfway as the two of you lean back against the couch.

The apartment is quiet again, but this silence is different, less like a wall, more like a pause. You can feel the warmth of Kate’s thigh against yours. Kate's thumb is still moving over your knuckles.

After a moment, she says, "I'm sorry."

You look at her. "For what?"

"For saying I couldn't do this."

Your chest aches."I'm sorry too."

"You don't have to apologize for getting hurt."

"I’m not apologizing for that,” You squeeze her hand. “I’m apologizing because I shouldn’t have walked out.”

Kate’s eyes lower. “I shouldn’t have let you,”

"You couldn't exactly stop me."

"I definitely could’ve tried,” Kate says. “Could’ve done something besides sitting there feeling helpless,”

You smile faintly, gesturing to the closed first aid kit in front of you. “I think we both know the last thing you are is helpless, Kate,”

Kate looks from the coffee table to you. "I love you."

It shouldn't surprise you after almost three years, but it does anyway. Especially after your heart had get so tender, so battered and bruised for nearly a week. You don’t say it back immediately. Instead, your hand darts out, cupping the back of Kate’s head and pulling her towards you.

The kiss is immediate. Nothing like the careful, tentative kisses you'd shared when you first started dating. This one feels like six days of frustration finally finding somewhere to go. Kate freezes for half a second before her hands land on your waist. Then she's kissing you back. Hard.

You tug her closer. She makes a quiet sound against your mouth, and the sound sends something warm through your chest. You kiss her again. And again. Until the frustration starts to dissolve into something softer. Something you've missed.

Kate's hands slide up your sides, stopping carefully at your ribs when you flinch. She pulls back immediately. "Sorry."

You shake your head. "Don't be,”

Her forehead rests against yours. You're both breathing harder than you should be.

Kate's eyes flick between yours. “So…please tell me that was your way of making up with me. Are we good now?”

"Maybe." You flash her a cheeky smile that you know will make her melt.