lumi's page

When she closes her eyes, Wanda can still see it as if it’s happening all over again—you, reaching out for her, just as she pushes you into an oblivion of her own making. Into a place where she feels you’ll be safest, where you’ll be cocooned in warmth and love—a place she can never give you herself.

At least that’s what she wholeheartedly believes. That it’s mercy. That it’s love. That she’s sparing you from her, from the grief that clings to her like smoke. But the lie doesn’t hold for long. Because every time she blinks, she sees the look on your face just before the world folded in on itself.

She should’ve felt victorious. The spell worked and you’re safe. The Darkhold’s whispers have gone quiet for the first time in weeks. But Wanda feels nothing close to peace. Because if you ever wake from this—and she knows you will—you’ll never forgive her. Not this time. But if that’s the price for sparing you from the Darkhold’s alternatives, it’s one she’s willing to pay.

When it becomes evident that the pain of your existence will continue to haunt her, Wanda performs a curious spell. A spell she knew from the beginning but her heart fought against. 

A spell that would make her forget you. That would make her deaf to any mention of you. Of course, this curse will only be broken if she meets you again—

—which she doubts she ever will. 

—

With thoughts of you having left her, Wanda buries herself in the Darkhold. The multiverse is real. She can look into it in her sleep. Her boys are out there, in many worlds.

But she is still confined. She can’t cross. She can dreamwalk, yes, but riding a variant’s body has limits. She can move, speak, even hold them for a fleeting moment, but when her real body is ready to wake up, it all disappears. She becomes nothing more than a distant dream to the version of herself she’s borrowed.

For a time, it’s enough. It becomes her reason for waking and the only thing she looks forward to everyday. In the mornings, she keeps herself busy tending to a small garden, planting crops she doesn’t particularly care about, pulling weeds just to pass the hours. It’s not joy that drives her, but distraction. The slow, repetitive work dulls the noise in her head and carries her through the day until exhaustion finally claims her. Then she sleeps, and the cycle begins again.

Each time she drifts into another universe, she never knows where she’ll land—or which Wanda she’ll become. The Darkhold lets her be for a while, starving her of answers just long enough for desperation to take root. It waits until she’s too weary, too lonely, to care about the cost of whatever solution it will offer next.

America.

A single word. 

A name.

Wanda stills, dirt-streaked fingers tightening around the spine of the book. “A child?”

An answer. 

Wanda can feel that it’s not going to be a straightforward one. “Go on,” she urges.

A girl who walks between realities as easily as you breathe.

Wanda’s breath catches. “A traveler?”

It sounds impossible—yet so did Westview, so did resurrection. And she’s long past believing in the impossible as anything but another form of truth.

“What would you have me do?” she whispers.

Find her. 

It sounds easy enough, but then the Darkhold drops the other shoe. 

And take her power.

The taking of power isn’t as simple as it sounds. Taking someone’s power means draining their life—it’s no different from killing them. She argues with the voice, saying she doesn’t need to steal from a child to see her boys again. Maybe America could just help her find the way.

But the Darkhold insists it isn’t a one-way trip. Once Wanda has the power to move freely between worlds, she’ll never have to fear losing them again. No sickness, no danger—nothing will touch her or her sons. She’ll have an answer to every threat, a cure for every loss.

And if she doesn’t take it? It warns her how easily history could repeat itself. She could lose them all over again—and next time, the girl might refuse to help.

It doesn’t take long for that fear to fester into resolve. A few days. Maybe less.

When Wanda opens the book again, somewhere inside, the last quiet part of her that still knows better finally goes still.

—

There are a few moments in between, where Wanda fantasizes a different life. 

She grows up in Sokovia without powers. No Hydra, no Avengers. Just school, a cracked mirror, and a city theater that smells like dust and paint. She learns lines in a cold backstage, smiles when the house lights fade, bows to a small crowd that claps like they mean it. Maybe a bit part on television. Maybe a film that takes her to Prague one summer. Posters with her face. Interviews where she laughs and says she’s lucky. People know her name for simple reasons. She is seen. She is liked. She is loved, in the ordinary way.

She comes home late to a warm apartment. The radiator ticks. Soup steams on the stove. Someone’s at the table—a partner without a face—reading, one ankle hooked over the other. She looks up and her smile reaches her eyes before her mouth. Two small pairs of feet slap the hallway. The kids collide with her legs, arms tight around her waist. She kisses their foreheads, one and then the other.

“I missed you,” she tells them, and it isn’t a grand confession, just a trivial fact.

Her spouse hands her a mug. She slips off her shoes. A drawing waits on the fridge with crooked stars and her name spelled wrong. There is laundry on the chair, a note on the counter, a grocery list on the door. Nothing glows red. Nothing whispers in her head. The loudest thing in the world is a child’s laugh.

She lets the scene play out to the end. Bedtime, lights down, your head on her shoulder, your arm wrapped around her as you hum a lullaby right into her ear until she falls asleep.

Wanda knows that deep down, she’s never going to find a universe that fits this fantasy. 

—

Securing America is becoming an increasingly difficult endeavor, thanks in no small part to Stephen Strange.

He’s made it his personal crusade to protect the girl, moving her from one world to the next.

Every time Wanda draws close, he’s already there, undoing her spells, breaking her trail. It’s infuriating—especially after Kamar-Taj.

That massacre wasn’t supposed to happen. She hadn’t wanted it to. But Strange forced her hand, building an army of apprentices and sending them to die for a single child. Dozens of them, standing against her like they had any real choice. She can still feel it—their fear, their last desperate resistance before the walls came down. A waste. A sacrifice he could have spared.

All he had to do was give her the girl.

He made you do it, the Darkhold whispers almost comfortingly (if it were capable of comfort). He wanted to prove he could stop you. He killed them, not you.

He stood for something—she’ll give him that. In another life, she might have respected him for it.

Now, she just resents him for making her the villain again.

—

In the end, America learns to fight back. She’s nowhere near Wanda’s level of power, but she doesn’t need to be. She finds the one way to stop her that no spell could ever match.

She opens a portal—not to flee, but to show her.

Wanda braces for another trap, but what she sees through the star-shaped tear is no battlefield. 

It’s a home. 

Billy and Tommy are there, staring at her. But it isn’t the look she remembers. There’s no recognition, no warmth. Only fear. They pull away when she reaches for them, hurling whatever they can grab in desperation. Wanda tries to soothe them, her voice shaking as she begs them to stop, to look at her, to see her. But they don’t. They can’t.

Her patience fractures under the rejection. Pain twists into anger, and before she can stop herself, the room shudders with her outburst.

Then she sees their faces. Wide eyes. Trembling lips. Her boys, cowering from her presence.

And in that display of fear, Wanda finally understands. She sees—not what she’s lost—but what she’s become. 

The sound of her own breathing fills the space, shallow and uneven. She stands there, motionless, staring at the two small faces that once meant everything to her. This defeat, this moment, is unlike any she’s ever known. It hollows you out from the inside. The kind that kills without ever touching the body.

Turning to dust had been easier than this. Dying had been easier. That was pain you could surrender to. This is different. This is staying alive while her soul is being snuffed out. 

They don’t see her as a mother. Not as the woman who sang them lullabies or dreamed them into being. They see what the world now sees. What she’s refused to see.

A monster.

And for the first time, Wanda doesn’t fight it. She accepts it. 

The truth settles in her bones and she sinks to her knees. A sound breaks from her—a choked, ugly thing that doesn’t belong to the woman she once was. Her hands cover her face, but it doesn’t stop the tears. They come in violent waves, wracking sobs that leave her gasping between them. Shame burns through her chest and grief follows close behind. She hasn’t allowed herself to cry since the night she built that lie around you.

The room blurs through her tears. It doesn’t register right away when someone touches her. Fingertips, warm and steady, guiding her face upward.

She forces herself to open her eyes, and when her vision clears through her tears, she sees who’s had the courage to confront the Scarlet Witch.

It’s no other than her variant. Her face is soft, her eyes warm in a way Wanda forgot was possible. She looks like the Wanda who laughed once, who believed she could still be good.

Wanda’s surprised to see no disgust in her eyes, no judgment. Only empathy. Recognition.

“Know that they’ll be loved,” she whispers. 

And in that moment, Wanda—the Scarlet Witch—knows what she has to do.

—

A boy finds her.

At first, she doesn’t remember him.

In fact, she doesn’t remember much of anything—not even her own name. She wakes on a cold marble floor, far from the place where she supposedly died her second death, far from the grave the world must have built for her. 

A voice breaks through the ringing in her ears. “Mom—hey, can you hear me?”

She turns her head, not understanding his words, only aware of the sound he’s making. The boy kneels beside her, his hands shaking, his face streaked with tears. “You’re alive,” he says, half in disbelief. “You’re really alive.”

Her lips part, but the words won’t come. Her throat is dry. Everything feels distant, muffled. “Where… am I?”

“You’re safe,” he says, even though he doesn’t sound sure. “You were gone. For a long time. But I—I found you.”

She studies his face, trying to recognize him, but nothing comes. The harder she searches, the emptier her mind feels. “Do I know you?” she asks quietly.

He frowns, his thick dark brows coming together in a way that feels familiar somehow. Wanda can’t explain it, but she feels sad having upset him with her question.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly, without knowing what she’s apologizing for.

The boy shakes his head quickly, brushing at his eyes. “No, it’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He tries to smile, but it wavers. “It’s just… you really don’t remember?”

She hesitates, then shakes her head. “No.”

He swallows hard and forces out his name. “I’m Billy.”

Something about the way he says it feels important. Wanda repeats it under her breath, tasting the sound of it. “Billy.”

He nods. “Yeah. And you’re—” He cuts himself off, teeth pressing hard into his lower lip. If saying her name is what brings her memories back, it shouldn’t happen here. They need to leave this place first before anyone finds them. 

Wanda looks around the room distractedly. “W-Where are we? What’s happening?”

Billy follows her gaze, his shoulders tightening as he scans the dark corners of the lab. “I’ll explain everything, I promise,” he says. “This place isn’t safe. People are looking for you. We need to move before they figure out you’re awake.”

Wanda blinks, trying to make sense of his words, but the ringing in her head makes it hard to focus. “Looking for me?” she asks. “Why?”

Instead of answering, he reaches out a hand to her. “Later. For now, you just have to trust me,” he says quietly. “Can you do that?”

Trust.

It feels too big for someone she doesn’t remember, but something about the way he’s looking at her—the urgency, the care—makes it hard not to believe him.

Wanda gives him a small smile and takes his hand. 

—

Wanda Maximoff. 

That’s her name—she learns it later, when Billy brings her to a small house miles from anywhere. It’s colder here than the lab she woke up in, but more homely too. She doesn’t know what day it is, or even what year, but having a name feels like a start.

Billy looks at her expectantly, as if the name should jog her memory and reveal everything else she’s supposed to know.

“I still don’t understand what’s happening,” Wanda murmurs, staring down at her hands. “Billy, right? Who are you to me?”

Billy hesitates. His mouth opens, then closes again. He wasn’t rehearsing this—he never thought he’d need to. In his mind, the moment she woke up, she would just… remember. She would know him. She would say his name first.

But she doesn’t. She’s looking at him like he’s a stranger.

“I’m…” He tries again, carefully. “I’m someone who’s been trying to find you for a long time.”

Wanda frowns, confused. “Why?”

“Because you matter,” Billy says, wincing at the vagueness of his own words.

She watches him closely. “You talk like you know me.”

“I do.” His voice tightens, just slightly. “You just… don’t remember.”

“Why don’t I remember?”

“I don’t know.” (This he means complete. Painfully.)

Wanda grows quiet. Billy can sense her trust in him faltering. “Look, I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I know you want answers. I just… can’t give you everything right now. Maybe you need a little time. You’re awake now—maybe your memories will start coming back on their own.”

Wanda watches him move around the room, fiddling with tools just to keep his hands occupied. She can tell he’s scared—not of her, but of something else entirely, something she can’t quite put her finger on.

“Thank you,” Wanda murmurs, realizing only then that she hasn’t said it yet. From the look of the place she woke up in, it was nowhere near safe, and he’d gone there anyway.

Billy freezes, and it takes a long second before he looks over his shoulder and acknowledges her gratitude with a smile and a pair of wet eyes.

—

A day passes. Then two. Three. A week. A month.

Three months. And nothing. Not a single memory returns.

It should bother her—how is someone supposed to live without knowing who they are? But it doesn’t. There’s none of that dissatisfaction of not knowing about her past. 

She surmises because Billy has been nothing but a great host, a great companion. A friend. 

He is patient. Kind. He cooks with her, checks on her, teaches her things she doesn’t remember knowing. He sleeps on the couch so she can have the only bed. He never complains. He never leaves her alone for too long.

So in the absence of a past, Wanda starts building a present with him. And being the only person she’s known since “waking up,” he’s the closest thing to family she has.

But routine wears thin after a while. Billy works long hours at a grocery store in the nearest town, leaving Wanda at home with nothing to do but sweep the floor, wash dishes, and water the plants he insisted would “make the place less depressing.”

Eventually, even that stops being enough.

One morning, she decides she’s had enough of waiting for a life to return to her. She wants to go find one. She leaves a note, walks into town, and spends the whole day searching for anything she might be good at. Turns out, she’s surprisingly good at answering phones and organizing schedules. The small salon on Main Street is desperate for help; they hire her on the spot.

Wanda is proud—genuinely proud—when she walks home with bags of groceries and the news tumbling on her tongue. She doesn’t realize how late it is until she sees the sun dropping low behind the trees.

The moment she steps inside, she freezes.

Billy is pacing the living room, running both hands through his hair, muttering under his breath like he’s seconds from falling apart. When he sees her at the door, he absolutely loses it.

“Where were you?” he snaps—louder than he means to. “Mo—Wanda, you can’t just disappear like that!”

She blinks, surprised. “I—I left a note—”

“I didn’t see a damn note!” he shoots back. “I thought—God, I thought something happened to you.”

Wanda takes a small, uneasy step further into the room, confused and a little hurt. That’s when she notices the table behind him.

A small cake sits in the center, candles melted into crooked stubs. Wax has puddled on the frosting. The candles burned themselves out hours ago.

“What’s all this?” she asks softly, pointing. “What’s the occasion?”

Billy stops pacing. His chest rises sharply as he follows her gaze. “I-It’s your birthday.”

Wanda blinks at him. “My… birthday?” she repeats, almost testing the word.

She doesn’t know why it surprises her so much. Birthdays are normal. Ordinary. Everyone has one. But it hits her strangely—like learning she’s human in a way she didn’t realize she needed to hear.

“I have a birthday?” she murmurs, almost in awe.

And it breaks Billy’s heart a little—seeing his mother, stripped of every wound and every piece of her painful history, standing there so open and unguarded. So painfully, beautifully human.

“How did you even know that?” Wanda asks.

Billy doesn’t answer right away.

Wanda tilts her head, studying him. “Billy?”

He shakes his head, more to himself than to her. “I didn’t want to do this today,” he murmurs. “I wanted this to be good. I wanted it to be… normal.” A bitter laugh slips out. “Stupid, right?”

Wanda’s confusion deepens though softened by concern. “What are you talking about?”

He lifts his eyes to hers, and there’s so much fear there she thinks for a moment something dangerous is coming for them.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” he says, voice barely holding together. “I kept waiting for you to remember on your own. I thought maybe one morning you’d look at me and just… know.”

“Know what?”

“You asked me who I was to you,” he says.

She nods slowly, heart thudding.

His lips press into a trembling line. “I’ve been scared to tell you. Because if I said it and you didn’t remember, or didn’t feel anything… I didn’t know what I’d do.” His voice cracks. “I didn’t want you to look at me like a stranger.”

Wanda’s brows pull together, but she stays silent, letting him speak.

“I was afraid you’d force yourself to care,” Billy continues, wiping his cheek with the heel of his hand. “Afraid you’d pretend for my sake. Or worse—that you wouldn’t feel anything at all.”

She steps closer, close enough to see the way his eyes shine despite how hard he’s trying not to cry.

“Billy,” she whispers, “whatever it is—just tell me.”

He takes a breath that stutters on the way out, then meets her eyes fully, courage and fear warring in his expression.

“What kind of son,” he says softly, voice breaking, “wouldn’t know his mother’s birthday?”

The room goes completely still.

Wanda feels her breath catch—not because anything suddenly comes back, but because something settles hard in her chest and refuses to move. A warmth she can’t explain, spreading slow and deep until it’s too much to hold in. Her eyes sting, and before she can stop it, tears slip out on their own.

She looks at him again, slower this time, really taking him in. The way his eyebrows dip when he’s worried. The shape of his mouth when he tries not to cry. There’s something familiar in all of it, something she can’t name but can’t ignore either.

“You’re…” Her throat tightens. “You’re my son?”

Billy gives one quick nod, head hung low, his jaw trembling as he tries not to fall apart. “Yeah. I am.”

Wanda moves toward him quietly, her steps so light they barely make a sound. Then she lifts a hand—carefully, like she’s approaching a wild animal—and lets her fingertips brush his cheek. He leans into it without thinking, eyes closing for a second.

A tiny, unsure smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Happy birthday to me, I guess,” she says softly.

Billy huffs out a laugh that’s half a sob, and before she can overthink it, Wanda pulls him into a hug. He circles his own arms around her waist carefully, like he’s afraid to scare her off—but it’s desperate in a way she feels all the way down to her ribs.

He’s trembling. She feels it through his jacket. She rests her forehead against his temple and breathes in. She doesn’t remember him. Not his first word, or his favorite food, or the sound of his laugh when he was younger. There are questions swirling in her head like the fact that she has a teenager. She must have gotten pregnant young.

But those questions can wait. Right now, something inside her finally clicks into place. All this time, without even knowing it, she’s been home.

–

After Billy’s revelation, the stories come slowly. She wasn’t ordinary. She was an Avenger. One of the most powerful. That means Billy and his twin brother aren’t ordinary either. Wanda listens, but none of it feels familiar. Nothing stirs, nothing clicks into place. It all sounds like someone else’s life.

They visit a few doctors, hoping for some overlooked explanation or a treatment that might help her remember. Every test comes back the same: there’s no physical reason for the memory loss. No drug that can fix it, and no guarantee it will ever return. 

Billy suggests reaching out to one of Wanda’s former teammates—someone who might know more than any doctor. Maybe the answer isn’t medical at all.

Wanda shakes her head before he even finishes. “No,” she says evenly. “Maybe my old life is not meant to be remembered. I like my life now. I’m… happy.”

Billy doesn’t argue. He just nods, even if she can see the worry behind his eyes.

The only regret Wanda feels is the one neither of them speaks aloud:

They still haven’t found Tommy.

Billy told her about Tommy almost right away, once the shock between them settled. He told her that they were originally born in Westview, New Jersey. About how they were born with abilities just like Wanda. That Wanda wasn’t their only parent. That there was you.

And it was your name that she couldn’t hear at all.

The first time Billy said it, Wanda saw his mouth form the word—but the sound didn't reach her. It’s like someone muted the room for a second. 

“What was that?” she asked.

Billy repeated it.

“I can’t hear you,” she said. “Why can’t I hear that? Why can’t I read your lips?”

Billy looked startled. Concerned. He tried again, slower. Again, she heard nothing.

“That’s not possible…” Wanda murmured, touching her ears, then her temples. “I can hear everything else. Why not that?”

“I don’t know,” Billy admitted.

“Is it medical?” she asked.

“No. Your tests were clear.”

Wanda sat back, unsettled. “Then what is it?”

Billy took a breath, hesitating. “If I had to guess…it’s a spell. It’s similar to a spell that was cast on me—where I’m barred from saying my own name and people from hearing it.”

“Who would cast something like that on me?” she asked.

He shook his head, helpless. “I don’t know. I don’t even know when it happened. Or why.”

“Are you absolutely sure she’s your other parents?”

Billy nodded. “And if I’m out here, then maybe Tommy and mom are out there, too.”

–

It takes a couple of years for them to find Tommy, and when they finally do, something settles in Wanda that she didn’t realize was still missing.

She’s been happy—truly happy—ever since Billy found her. Even without her memories or a past to lean on. She didn’t need anything else to feel whole; she had her son, and that was enough.

Or at least, she thought it was.

Because the moment Tommy comes back into their lives, an empty space she didn’t know she had been carrying fills instantly.

This is mine too. He’s mine too.

Tommy stumbles when he first sees her. He tries to act unaffected—even cool about it, but once she’s managed to reel him into her arms, what happened to Billy happened to him.

She doesn’t remember him, not the way she wishes she could. But she knows him the way she knows Billy—from the heart. Deep within her soul. Watching the twins together feels like watching two pieces of herself become whole. 

Wanda still wonders about you though. She doesn’t know why—she can’t even hear your name—but the twins mention you often enough that the silence around you becomes impossible to ignore. Tommy mentions you too, but her ears go blank just the same. She asks them why, asks if they know who could’ve done that to her. They don’t. It’s the one question neither of them can answer.

So she asks for details instead. What you looked like. How you were with them in Westview. Billy gives her small pieces—your eyes, your laugh, the way you held their little hands when they crossed the street—but he always seems to hold something back. And Wanda can never tell what exactly it is.

It’s Tommy, distracted and unfiltered, who finally says it out loud: there were two versions of you. The one inside the Hex… and the real one outside it. They still don’t know if those two versions were the same person in any meaningful way.

And neither twin has been able to find you.

For a moment, Wanda considers looking for you herself. But each time she even imagines it, she’s overwhelmed with an instinctive guilt she can’t explain. A weight she doesn’t understand, but can’t push past. It keeps her rooted where she is, unsure if she even deserves to know whoever you were to her.

Whoever you still are.

—

You hear the door chime, but you don’t bother looking up. It’s probably one of the neighborhood kids coming in to read for free again. They smudge your shelves with sticky fingers and never buy anything.

You keep sorting through a box of new arrivals until someone clears their throat in front of the counter. You glance up and see a young man—mid-twenties, polite smile, a book already in his hand. 

You ring it up, make a comment about it being a good choice, but he shakes his head lightly.

“It’s not for me,” he says. “It’s for my mom.”

You smile. “She must like to read.”

“You could say that. She, uh… she used to read this one to me when I was a kid. Well—before I died once.”

You pause, thinking you misheard him. “Before you…?”

“Drowned,” he says casually, as if he’s telling you about a sprained ankle. “Pool accident. I was out for maybe three minutes? They said it was closer to four. But I came back. Got lucky, I guess.”

You’re caught off guard by how calmly he says it.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” you reply softly.

He gives a small grin, almost sheepish. “Me too.”

He taps the counter lightly. “I was hoping to get her another book too. Something specific. Do you happen to have Griffin & Sabine?”

You check your system, scan your shelves in your head, then wince. “I’m afraid I’m out. My supplier’s been slow lately. I won’t have copies until next week.”

He deflates a little, trying (and failing) not to show it. “That’s too bad. Her birthday’s in two weeks, and she’s been wanting that book for ages. I was hoping to give it to her before I leave, but I’m flying out for a work trip on Monday. I’ll be gone for about a month, so… I’ll miss her birthday, too.”

You lean against the counter, considering him. There’s something familiar in the shape of his smile, something that tugs faintly at a place inside you that rarely stirs anymore. You’ve learned not to chase the feeling—middle age has a way of making nostalgia feel like déjà vu—but something about this boy makes you want to be extra helpful.

“If you want,” you say slowly, “I can put your name on a copy. When the shipment comes in, I’ll set one aside.”

He hesitates, then shakes his head. “I won’t be here to pick it up.”

“Who said anything about picking it up?” you say, giving him a small, reassuring smile. “Give me your mom’s address. I’ll deliver it myself. Make sure it reaches her on time.”

His eyes brighten—surprised, grateful. “You’d do that?”

“I run a bookstore,” you shrug. In this small town, every sale counts.

“Thank you,” he says. “Really.”

You tear a small sheet from your notepad. “Write her name for me too. So I don’t forget.”

He takes the pen. His handwriting is loopy but neat. When he pushes the note back toward you, you glance down—and feel your breath snag at the name written in even strokes.

Wanda Maximoff.

—

You whisper the name every night before bed, just to make sure it’s real—not a dream or a cruel trick. You rehearse what you might say when you deliver the gift. You rehearse a polite greeting, a smile, a nod. You rehearse what you won’t say, too.

The book arrives two days before her birthday. A pristine hardbound copy, wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine—just the way your shop wraps gifts. Her address is scrawled neatly on the order form: the next town over, a charming place you’ve driven past a hundred times without ever stopping.

It’s only an hour and a half away.

And still, you take one look at that address and have to sit down. You tell yourself it’s fine. It’s just a delivery. You’ve done hundreds.

You set it aside, ready to drive to the neighboring town tomorrow morning.

But she comes to you first.

—

You usually get fewer than ten customers on a good day—and with school closed today, even the kids who treat your shop like a free library are home. You’re not expecting anyone.

So when the door chime rings at exactly 5:23 in the afternoon, your heart nearly jumps out of your chest.

You lift your head.

And there she is.

She’s older—you are too—but the sight still knocks the air clean out of you. Fine lines at the corners of her eyes. Silver at the roots of her dark hair, though you can tell she tries to hide it with boxed dye. You’ve never seen her carry herself this light, like the world’s actually been kind to her for once. And that thought alone makes the smile on your face reach your eyes.

She’s holding her phone to her ear.

“Yes, Tommy, I found it. I think I’m at the right place,” she says. The rasp in her voice is a sound you recognize all too well. “I’m picking it up now… Yes, sweetheart. I’ll call you after.”

She pauses, listening, her gaze sweeping the shop, pausing briefly on the shelves, the counter, the windows.

“Yes. I love you too,” she says. She thanks him and ends the call.

Then she steps up to the counter.

You stand very still. You have no idea if you’re breathing.

“I’m here to pick up a book,” she says, offering a polite smile. “My son said he ordered it two weeks ago?”

You open your mouth.

This is the woman you loved before the world fell apart.

This is the woman who held your heart and broke it and rebuilt it and burned it down again.

This is the woman you’ve lived decades without.

And she’s standing in your bookstore, waiting for a gift you promised her son.

You’re not sure what to make of all those truths when there’s recognition in her eyes as she regards you.

You swallow around the knot in your throat. “Yes,” you manage. “You must be—”

But the name catches somewhere between your chest and your tongue.

Wanda tilts her head gently, waiting.

You clear your throat, gather yourself, and try again.

“You must be Wanda Maximoff.”

“Yes,” she says. “That’s me.”

“Let me… just get your package,” you say, already stepping back. “It’s in the storage room.”

It isn’t. The truth is, the book is sitting right under the counter—wrapped neatly, addressed, ready. But panic sweeps through you so fast you can’t breathe. You need a wall at your back before your knees give out.

You duck into the back room and close the door behind you. The moment you’re alone, your breath stutters out in uneven bursts.

Decades. You’ve lived decades without her—built a life, a home, a routine. You have friends, good neighbors, people who check on you, people who care. This town has become a family in all the ways that count.

But none of it prepared you for the reality of Wanda Maximoff standing five feet away, alive and older and beautiful in a way that hurts to look at. She clearly doesn’t remember you. What surprises you is how little it hurts compared to what you expected. Maybe because some part of you knows she’s better off this way. 

You press a hand to your chest, willing your heart to slow long enough for you to walk back out there without falling apart.

When you finally return to the counter, you’ve smoothed your expression into something that won’t betray the absolute chaos inside you.

You hold out the package. “Here you go.”

She takes it gently, turning the wrapped book over in her hands. Her smile is thoughtful now, almost shy.

“Would it be alright if I open it here?” she asks. “I just want to make sure it’s the right title. Not that I think you’d make a mistake—I just…” She trails off, cheeks coloring. “I mean, I’m sure it’s correct. I just like to check.”

You can only nod.

She smiles in thanks, slipping a finger under the twine. The paper falls away, and when she sees the cover, her whole face lights up.

“Oh, perfect,” she murmurs. “This is the one.”

You should look away—give her privacy, space, anything—but you can’t. You stand there, memorizing the lines of her face as if you haven’t spent the last thirty years trying to forget them.

You want to hold, to stretch this moment out just a little longer. You scramble for something to say, anything to keep her here, but every thought you reach for slips away before it forms. You can feel the seconds ticking down. She’s almost done. She’ll thank you, leave, and this moment—a miracle you didn’t ask for and aren’t sure you deserve—will be gone.

“Thank you,” she says softly, looking up again. “Really. This place is… lovely.” Her gaze drifts around your shelves, taking in the warm lights. “It feels cozy. Peaceful. Do you own it?”

“Yeah. Been running it for a while now.”

She smiles at that—small, approving. “Is it open on Sundays? That’s usually my only free day. I work at the town council during the week, and my weekends…” She chuckles lightly. “Well, my boys keep me busy.”

Boys? Does she have more children? Did Wanda marry? It’s not bad news—of course not, you want what’s best for Wanda. But it’s not exactly thrilling either.

“Oh—I didn’t know you had little ones. I’ve got a whole children’s section—”

“No, no,” Wanda says quickly, waving a hand. “My boys are grown. I just…” She trails off with a faint, sheepish smile.

Oh. You sneak a glance at her hands to confirm that she’s not married. She’s not.

“Right,” you say, clearing your throat and willing the awkwardness to loosen its grip. “Well, yes—we’re open. Sundays are my favorite day to read.”

Her eyes brighten and they light up the entire room. “You’ve always been a bookworm then?”

You shrug, fighting the urge to fidget. “Pretty much. I used to live in New York—had an apartment with more books than furniture.”

“More books than furniture?” she echoes, lightly teasing.

“Yeah,” you say with a small laugh. “Books make great friends.”

“They do,” Wanda murmurs, something wistful passing over her face.

She shifts the wrapped book under her arm, ready to leave. Your pulse spikes, a quiet panic rising in your chest. This is it. This is all you get. Just a moment. Just a transaction. Just a hello and goodbye stretched over thirty years.

But then—

“Oh,” she says gently, turning back to you. “I never asked… what’s your name?”

You swallow, suddenly aware of how loud your heartbeat sounds in your ears. “It’s… Y/N.”

And unlike every other time, Wanda hears it. She doesn’t realize that it’s the very name her boys have told her countless times. A name she’s wondered so many nights about. But something about hearing it feels like coming up for air after being underwater for so long.

Confusion follows, quick and quiet, but she offers a polite smile anyway.

“It was nice meeting you, Y/N,” she says. “Goodbye.”

The bell over the door chimes as she leaves. You stand there long after she’s gone, staring at the empty space she walked through.

You should’ve said something.

You should’ve stopped her.

You should’ve—

The bell jingles sharply.

She’s back.

Wanda rushes inside so fast she nearly knocks the door into the display shelf. Her eyes are wide and wild and wet, her breaths quick and uneven.

“Y/N,” she says—your name falling from her lips exactly the way it used to—like she’s said it a thousand times before.

“I remember.”

Your heart stops—

“W-What do you remember?” 

“That you loved me,” Wanda says tearily.

“And that you loved me too?” you ask hopefully in a whisper.

Wanda nods.

—and then it starts again, harder than ever.

Wanda doesn’t mean to linger.

But you’re lying there in her bed, utterly spent, barely covered by the sheets she hastily pulled over your hips after you passed out, limbs boneless and trembling from how hard you came. There’s a sheen of sweat on your skin that she tasted moments ago. Your lips are parted slightly, and your face, though flushed and worn, is peaceful in a way that makes it hard for her to look away.

She should move you and return you to your room, pretend none of this happened. But she doesn’t. Instead, she stays seated at the edge of the mattress, hands still shaking from what she let herself take.

Her eyes trace the shape of your body, the curves and planes she’s memorized a thousand times over, now aged by time, by life. You’ve changed, but you’re still you. Maybe more than ever.

How could you think she couldn’t love you now as much as she did then? As much as she always has? It’s impossible not to love you—she’s learned that the hard way. Impossible no matter what you’ve done in the years she was gone, no matter how many hard choices pulled you away from her, or her from you.

She’s spent weeks chasing fragments of you across the multiverse, haunting the dreams of Wandas who weren’t hers. And every single time she found you—even if it was only for an hour, a passing moment—she fell a little bit in love all over again.

But none of them compared to you. You are the real thing. 

And yet she knows how it ends. The Darkhold showed her. To see it through, only to watch it collapse again, would be to break her heart twice over. That kind of love isn’t sustainable. It’s going to destroy her. And if she’s gone—what about her boys? They need her. Perhaps more than she needs them.

Her real chance at happiness isn’t here, in this bed, clinging to what was never meant to last. It’s with her children—with Billy and Tommy, who look at her as though she is their whole world. They are the only hope she could embrace wholeheartedly without reservations. 

The sheet slips lower as you shift, revealing the faint, silvery lines stretched across your side. Wanda’s eyes harden at the sight of them. Her hand lifts, almost without thought, and she lets her fingers drift lightly over one of the scars. Your body twitches under her touch, but you don’t wake. You just breathe, slow and unaware.

Other scars appear in the shadows of your collarbone, in your torso and along your thigh. She could ask. Or she could press into your mind and uncover every detail. She could know exactly how you got each one, who hurt you, where you bled.

But Wanda chooses not to.

Because something inside her is afraid to know. The idea of you charging headfirst into danger and getting hurt is something she never wants to witness. And from the way you treat pain so casually, she can only imagine how much you’ve endured to become that way.

Still pretending to check for any lingering wounds, her palm settles over your ribs, measuring the rise and fall of your breath. You sigh in your sleep and roll closer to her. 

You are real—here, and impossibly precious. Not hers to keep, but still the only person who has ever made the vast universe feel small enough to bear. Until, of course, she learned about what it means to be a mother, and that universe stretched wide enough to hold every heartache she had ever known.

She doesn’t move when you roll even closer. Just sits there, spine straight, hands back in her lap, trying to steady her breathing. But it’s no use.

When her eyes close, she can still feel you.

Your thighs squeezing around her cheeks. Your voice, broken and pleading, whispering her name like a secret you’ve kept all these years. The taste of you is still on her tongue, salt and something sweet she’s never been able to name, never been able to get enough of. Her jaw clenches, and her hands curl into fists as she wills the sensation away.

This is what weakness feels like.

Enough, the Darkhold murmurs, its voice sliding into her thoughts. You’ve had your fill.

It tells her she’s taken what she needs, and that the moment for clarity is here. Surprisingly, Wanda agrees. She stands abruptly, though her knees threaten to betray her. Your breath slips into a gentle snore, soft and trusting, tempting her to get back into bed and wrap her arms around you til the sun rises. She won’t give in this time. 

Wanda already knows you won’t willingly take the life she’s offered you. By week’s end you will refuse, and she will sentence you to a fate against your will. You’ll try to convince her again. You’ll ask her to stop. And she knows, no matter how she touches you, no matter how deeply you still care, you won’t say yes in the end.

You won’t take her gift. Not willingly. 

Worse, you nearly slipped back into her heart, into her mind.

So she settles on the only way to end it.

She gathers the torn pieces of your clothing and sets them aside, almost tender, then steps away from the bed. Her palm meets the doorframe. 

She knows what she has to do, and she won’t hesitate this time.

—

When you wake up, you're still bound, back in your own bed, with a few days left until Wanda decides to rewrite your reality—her gift, as she calls it.

Your phone is dead, leaving you completely in the dark about what’s happening beyond these walls. Even so, you trust Jimmy. If he hasn’t heard from you in 72 hours, you know he’ll act. If anyone is going to sound the alarm, it’s him.

But whatever’s waiting in five days, or whether Jimmy has reached out to the remaining Avengers, is the least of your concerns right now. What fills your thoughts instead is the sticky warmth between your thighs and the ghostly memory of Wanda’s mouth. 

You used to love unhurried mornings; early hours in Scotland on a Saturday, after a week of minimum-wage shifts. Or those long mornings in Iceland, where the sun seemed in no rush to rise. This isn’t one of them, even if all you can hear is the sound of nature waking up with you. 

Last night—you still can’t make sense of it. What happened was something you thought impossible. Every part of you had ached for Wanda the moment you saw her again, yet the distance between you felt too wide, too final. You never believed it could happen again—not after everything she’d said, not after all the times she swore she could never forgive you.

So what did it all mean? Was it Wanda finally letting go of everything she’s kept buried? It didn’t feel like the way you used to make love to her—if you could even call it that. Last night was all about control and punishment. And as much as you wanted her, as much as you craved her touch, something about it felt off. Something didn’t sit right.

You lie still for a moment, eyes fixed on the wooden beams above, waiting for the sound of Wanda’s footsteps as she returns. But the house is silent, which suggests she’s probably gone again.

You sigh and move to roll onto your side, forgetting—just for a moment—about the cuffs.

Only this time, you can.

The resistance that’s always met you is gone. You blink and glance at your wrists, but there’s nothing there. You move slowly, wary of a trap, but when you swing your legs over the side of the bed, nothing stops you.

Your feet meet the floor.

And then, from somewhere down the hall, a voice calls out to you.

“Breakfast is ready.”

You freeze.

No.

No, it can’t be.

“Y/N?” the voice calls again, lighter now, almost teasing. “Did you oversleep again?”

Your pulse stutters.

It’s not Wanda.

It’s Kia. And your blood runs cold.

—

She’s exactly as you left her in Reykjavik: wearing a sweater, bare feet on the wooden floorboards, cooking bacon and eggs. Toasts pop up beside her.

You stand frozen at the corner where the hallway meets the kitchen, silently watching her move.

What the fuck is this?

Wanda said you had seven days. Did your new life begin without you knowing?

Kia flips the bacon, wipes her hands on a dish towel, and finally turns. The sizzle fades behind her.

“You’re staring,” she says, lifting one brow. A teasing grin pulls at her mouth. “Too early for that look, Y/N. I’ve been waiting on you to wake up. I’m starving.”

You force a smile, but your mind races. Is this a dream? A projection? Some new spell Wanda cast while you slept? 

Is Kia real? Is she really here?

Kia’s grin softens when she sees you haven’t moved. “Hey. Everything okay?”

You clear your throat, pushing words past the lump there. “Yeah. Just… morning brain.” You manage a step, then another, until you slip into the chair closest to the window.

The cabin looks exactly as it did last night. The same kettle, still shrieking on the stove. The same chairs. The same bare walls, stripped of anything resembling comfort. Nothing has changed. You’re certain you woke up this morning in the very same place.

Kia sets a plate of bacon and eggs in front of you, then slides toast from the toaster with practiced ease. “Coffee?” she asks.

“Please,” you answer automatically, studying her. Her hair is a little shorter than you remember from before, but her smile could have walked straight out of your memories. And she moves through this kitchen like she’s done it a hundred times.

She pours two mugs, sets one beside your plate, and settles in across from you. “You must have crashed hard,” she says. “I didn’t even hear you get up last night.”

Your pulse hammers. “Last night?”

“Yeah,” she laughs. “Went out like a light the second your head hit the pillow. Lucky you, I had to wrestle with the woodstove when the temperature dropped.”

You pick at the corner of the toast. Nothing about what Kia’s saying is making any sense. This has Wanda written all over it. 

Kia leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. “You’re still giving me that look.” Her eyes narrow with playful suspicion. “What, did I grow an extra head overnight?”

“No,” you say quietly. “You’re perfect.”

Kia blushes lightly at the compliment and gives you a wink, but you’re already somewhere else in your mind.

You test out a theory. Just a small thing, something simple to start.

“Hey,” you say slowly. “Where are we right now?”

Kia pauses, a piece of toast halfway to her mouth. “What do you mean?”

“Like…where are we? Where is this place?”

She tilts her head at you like you’ve just asked her what year it is. “Where we’ve always lived, silly.”

You press gently. “Right, but… where exactly?”

Kia’s smile falters. For a split second—barely longer than a blink—her bright blue eyes glisten like she’s about to cry. Her lips part, and her voice wavers as she forces out, “V-Vermont?”

She blinks once and then the easy-going expression returns to her features.  

“Drink up before it gets cold,” she says, nudging your mug closer. “You know how grumpy you get without caffeine.”

You lift the mug and sip. It’s too sweet, the way Kia usually makes them. Kia watches until you swallow, then smiles, as if that single swallow proves everything is perfectly ordinary. She takes a bite of toast and, with her free hand, reaches across the small table to rest her fingers on your forearm, her thumb stroking a small circle against your skin.

You glance down at where she touches you. It's real. She's real.

And that means Wanda did something terrible.

Because you just knew Kia wouldn’t be here on her own accord. 

—

You wait for Kia to fall asleep before making your move.

The day dragged in the worst way, suffocating in its ordinariness. She made lunch, you stacked firewood, and together you walked the edge of the clearing, neither of you willing to take a step beyond it.

You held yourself together and chose not to say anything.

Because how do you look someone in the eye and say, You’re not supposed to be here. This life isn’t real. Someone took you from yours and dropped you into mine.

You didn’t want to scare her. If there’s even the smallest chance you can undo this quietly, without her ever knowing what Wanda did, you’ll take it.

So now, long after she’s drifted off with her head on your shoulder and your fingers still laced with hers, you ease out of bed. You pull the blanket back over her, linger just long enough to hear the steady rhythm of her breathing.

Then you slip into the hallway, every step drawing a protest from the floorboards. You grab a coat from the rack, pulling it on fast, your body already angling toward the door—until you stop short. There, calmly drinking tea, sits Wanda.

“Going somewhere?” she asks, as casually as if you’d only been reaching for a glass of water.

You bristle, tugging the coat tighter around you. So—she hasn’t abandoned you to this new life after all.

“I needed air.”

A slow smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “So you’re not running away?”

“I’m not running,” you reply, though you’re not sure it’s true. “We need to talk.”

Her fingers tap once against the mug. “About Kia.”

You nod. No point pretending otherwise.

Wanda sets her cup aside, a smug curve pulling at her lips that makes your teeth clench.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” you tell her, your voice trembling with barely contained fury. 

“A game?” she echoes, tilting her head. “If you say so. I’m playing to win, if that’s what we’re calling it.”

“Real people aren’t pieces on a board, Wanda.”

“Real is overrated.”

“Is it?”

Wanda says nothing.

“Tell me, was last night—any of it—real?”

That draws a reaction, however slight.

“Last night was…” Wanda’s eyes fall to the floor. “…getting you out of my system.”

“Out of your system,” you repeat, the words bitter on your tongue. “That’s convenient.”

“It is.”

God, you’ve forgotten how infuriating Wanda can be. You bark a humorless laugh. “Christ. You really are something else.”

“I gave you a choice—”

“No,” you interrupt her, moving closer until you're both trading ragged breaths. “You gave me a deadline. A week. Then when that wasn’t enough, you dragged someone else into this twisted mess—”

“You needed to see what it could be like.” 

“No, you brought her here so you can torture yourself and feed off that pain to bury me into some fantasy I don’t even want.”

She looks away, and you’re glad. Let her. Let her sit in it.

Her mouth starts to open—

But there’s nothing she can say now that could ever justify Kia being here. And you both know it.

“I hope getting me out of your system was worth it,” you spit, stepping back for some space. “Because it’s the last damn thing you’ll ever take from me without my consent.”

As soon as the last word leaves your mouth, the floor shudders under your feet.

The cabin walls shimmer, bending like heat over asphalt, then melt away. In a blink, the windows, the table, the stove and everything else falls away, as if dragged into deep water.

You’re left standing on nothing, wrapped in a dark half-light. Wanda hovers a few paces away, the crown back on her head. It feels like a symbol, a warning of how much the Wanda you knew has faded—and how fully the Wanda of Westview now stands in her place.

You try your best not to be affected by the sudden change in your surroundings. “Where are we?” 

“Somewhere we can talk without waking Kia,” Wanda says casually. A narrow smile ghosts across her mouth. “She’s still sleeping. You were getting loud.”

You stare at her, stunned. She’s still sleeping. You were getting loud. The casualness of it, the absurdity. She’s nearly unrecognizable. 

“I’m done with this,” you say, your voice flat, shaking. “I’m tired, Wanda. Tired of pretending this back-and-forth is anything but you pulling the strings and hoping I’ll just fall back in line.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“I know it is. Is this how it’s going to be from now on? You control everything? Where we go, what we remember, how we feel?”

Instead of answering, Wanda cocks her head and asks, softly, “How was your day?”

For a moment, you wonder if you misheard her. Then you laugh sharply, disbelieving. “You’re serious.”

Wanda recounts your day for you, seeing you won’t be cooperating in this interrogation. “You had breakfast together. She made eggs exactly the way you like them—the way she remembers you like them. Then you and Kia read for hours by the fire.”

You’re too blinded by rage to follow where she’s leading. “What?”

“You looked content,” she says softly. “You laughed. You kissed her on the cheek. You almost kissed her for real. On the couch.”

“I was playing the part. If I acted off, she would’ve known something was wrong,” you say.

“She didn’t.”

“Of course she didn’t. You built this whole world for her. You built it so perfectly she doesn’t even know she’s halfway across the goddamn ocean. Her family has no idea where she is. Do you understand how insane that is?”

Wanda flinches, but the movement is gone before you can tell if it was real.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt her,” she says, quieter now.

“But you did. And you will. You’re using her.”

“I gave you what you wanted.”

“No, you gave me what you thought I needed. And it wasn’t yours to give.”

Wanda stares at you, her patience stretched thin, ready to snap.

“And the worst part?” You take a breath, hating the way it trembles in your chest. “You know she didn’t choose me. You brought her here knowing she’d already made her choice. She’s with her family now. She’s not mine.”

“She could have been,” Wanda murmurs.

“But she wasn’t,” you say—and it comes out softer than you intended. “She was never mine to begin with. Just a girl I loved, who loved me back for a while—and then moved on. That’s life, Wanda. That’s real. This?” You gesture to the void around you. “This is you refusing to let go.”

Her magic sparks at her fingertips, wild and red, but she doesn’t strike.

“She’s not a puppet you can shove into a happy ending.”

“No, she’s not,” Wanda says, almost gently. “Which means she’ll have to choose, too.”

—

It all happens too fast. One moment you’re standing in that strange, empty place, arguing with Wanda, and the next, Kia’s bolting from the bedroom in a panic. Barefoot, eyes wide and glassy, she stumbles into a world that makes no sense to her.

“Kia!” you shout, already moving.

She whirls at the sound of your voice, chest heaving. For a moment, her gaze skitters past you before recognition sets in.

“Y/N?” she says, voice breaking on your name.

You nod, and that’s all it takes for her to run to you.

She nearly knocks you over with how tightly she wraps her arms around your waist. You hold her just as fiercely, grounding her, feeling her heartbeat racing against your chest.

“Where am I? What’s happening?” she gasps. “I was—I don’t know—I was in bed, reading my daughter a bedtime story, and then I wasn’t, and I thought I was dreaming, but I can’t wake up.”

Her words tumble over each other. She’s shaking, terrified.

You press your lips to her temple, aware of how it must look to Wanda, but you have nothing else to give Kia except assurance. “It’s okay. I’m here. You’re safe. We’ll get you home. I promise.” You don’t know how yet. But you swear you will.

Wanda stands only a few feet away, silent.

You can feel her eyes on you, heavy and unrelenting, but you don’t look at her. You focus on Kia, the way her fingers grip the back of your shirt, the tears gathering in her lashes.

Wanda watches, her eyes tracing the way Kia fits so easily in your arms, how instinctively you move to protect her. You’ve always been more noble than you liked to admit. She remembers how fiercely you tried to protect her, even when your strength never quite matched hers. You didn’t have to win. You just had to try. That was the part of you she loved most and still does. She remembers the missions, the countless times you put yourself between her and a threat you couldn’t possibly stop. You’re doing it again now—only this time, Wanda is the danger, and it’s Kia you’re protecting from her.

She can’t decide whether to be angry at the sight or grateful you still have that instinct.

And it’s not the first time she’s seen this. The Darkhold has shown her dozens of versions of this moment. Worlds upon worlds, cut from the same cloth of you and Kia cherishing each other. Happy endings that never include her, regardless if she exists in that reality or not.

The Darkhold whispers that love is a resource, finite and fragile, something to seize before someone else takes it. She’s believed that for so long it feels like the hard truth. It feels like the only way to live, the only path that makes sense when Wanda’s experienced loss in ever-incrementing means.

Kia gently pulls back from your embrace, her eyes red-rimmed and still shining with confusion.

“I'm sorry,” she starts. “I should've stayed with you. When you left—I should've chased after you, but—” Her chin dips in shame. “My family needed me, my daughter needed me and her dad. I couldn't just leave.”

You shake your head softly, squeezing her hand. “You don't owe me any apologies. You did the right thing.”

“It killed me, when you didn’t return that night. I kept thinking that if I had known—”

Wanda picks this moment to announce herself.

“I can help with that.”

Both you and Kia turn, startled. Instinct kicks in, and you move her behind you without thinking, a protective reflex you don’t have time to question. Wanda sees it, and the hurt flashes across her face. You hate that it’s come to this. But the Wanda standing before you is unpredictable, and after what she showed last night—how reckless she can be when consumed by emotion—you can’t take any chances. Not with Kia here.

“You don’t have to feel torn, Kia,” Wanda says. “All you have to do is choose.”

You can feel Kia’s questioning gaze on you. You’ve told her about Wanda—on the hardest nights, when the past refused to let you sleep. She knows the stories, or at least the pieces you could bring yourself to share. And now she’s just as bewildered as you are, staring at this Wanda who seems so far removed from the woman she’d heard about—the strongest Avenger, the one who fought for orphans and gave them hope.

“C-Choose?” Kia repeats. “What are you saying?”

“What if you didn’t have to go back?” Wanda suggests, low and coaxing. “What if I could promise your family would be cared for—that they’d be just as happy without you—while you stayed here, with Y/N. Isn’t that what you really want?”

Kia’s hands fall away the instant Wanda bares the truth of what she feels. Her husband came back, yes, but she was in love with you, too. If she could have both lives, she'd choose you without hesitation.

You feel Kia step out from behind you, just enough to face Wanda directly, her brows furrowed, lips parted in wonder.

“Don’t listen to her,” you whisper, meant only for Kia—but Wanda hears it.

She flinches as if struck.

Kia, however, doesn’t seem to hear you at all.

“You won’t even remember the people you’re leaving behind,” Wanda murmurs, as if that’s a kindness. “Your daughter will be safe. Your husband will find another love, one whose heart isn’t cut in two. That ache in your chest, the one you try to ignore every time you look at Y/N? It’ll be gone.”

Kia swallows hard. “Gone how?”

“Gone like a fever,” Wanda says. “You get it, don’t you? I know you do. If anyone understands what that kind of ache feels like, it’s you.”

“Kia!” you snap, sharper this time.

Her lip trembles.

“And you’ll be happy,” Wanda continues, soothing, her voice like velvet. “Everyone will be happy.”

You want to scream. You want to shake Kia out of Wanda’s seduction.

Wanda smiles. “Wouldn’t you like that?” she asks, tilting her head. 

Instead of answering, Kia finally turns to you, her expression open and uncertain. Wanda’s getting to her.

“And what about you?” she asks quietly. “What do you want?”

You grimace. “It’s not going to be real.”

“But if it was?” Kia presses. “What if it was real?”

Your answer doesn’t come just as fast because it can’t. Because if you answer too quickly, it’ll be a lie. And if you let the truth breathe, it hurts. 

So, you close your eyes and take a deep breath. And you listen to the silence inside you. To the absence of chaos. To the part of you that once believed that love could fix anything.

And it brings you back.

Back to the night you left.

You’d made peace with it, hadn’t you? With Kia’s original family being back, it was everything you would’ve given her yourself, if the world had allowed it.

And so you walked away.

Because you loved her.

Because you wanted her to have that.

And yeah, it hurt like hell, at first. Yeah, the part of you that remembered her laugh, her touch, her stability. But in time, you told yourself, that fire would cool. It would burn down into something else. Something golden, and warm.

You picture the night you left that home you built with Kia—the tiny apartment light blinking, Clint’s message, the impossible news that Wanda had taken an entire town hostage. You remember the way your whole body jolted, how every other responsibility blurred behind that single, blazing need: help Wanda, and then free the town. And when that was over, you went after Wanda. You knew what you were walking into. You knew she would be in pain. You knew she'd be angry. You knew she wouldn’t recognize herself, let alone you.

But you went anyway.

You went for her.

Because even when she didn’t want saving, even when she pushed and hurt and broke you open, you stayed. Not because you liked the suffering, but because she needed someone who wouldn’t leave again.

And so, when Kia asks what you want...

You open your eyes.

And you give her the truth.

“I want you to be okay,” you whisper. “To go home to the life you rebuilt. I want your daughter to know that her mother never stopped fighting to come back. I want your husband to never question whether he was enough.

“And I want this to end,” you finish, turning to Wanda.

Wanda stiffens.

“I don’t want this with Kia. Not because it’s wrong. But because you’re still out here. Hurting. Alone. And I won’t trade away any happiness this world—or the Darkhold—can offer if it means abandoning you to it.”

Silence falls.

And for once, even the Darkhold says nothing. 

But before her own doubts can take hold, Wanda flicks her wrist. 

Kia lunges for you. “Y/N—!”

You lunge for Wanda.

Discovering the secrets of the Darkhold for the first time was the only source of excitement and reprieve Wanda could grasp in the weeks that followed the anomaly she had wrought in Westview.

The thrill is almost small enough to hide inside her palms. Almost.

She pretends, at first, that the book is only a necessary evil—an encyclopedia she’ll consult and then close, a door she’ll likely won’t have to walk through again. She tells herself she’ll read it the way she used to read whatever you pressed into her hands when you lived together—not because every title reached her, but because they mattered to you and she wanted every corner of your mind. She’d hunt for your notes in the margins and underlines, page after page, collecting little clues until the shape of you made sense. She’ll do the same with this: read, learn what she needs, then close it. 

But grief is a solvent. It thins resolve until it runs like water, and the Darkhold knows exactly how every drop will fall.

When she found the cabin in the middle of the woods, it was already abandoned. At first, she waited on the front steps, nose buried in her new book, to see if anyone would return at night. Time slipped by, and she was still on the first page when she realized no one was coming back. After that, she let herself in.

The door stuck halfway, then yielded with a sigh like old lungs. The entry smelled faintly of cedar and something sweeter beneath it; lanolin and stale coffee, or the ghost of habit. 

The living room was just a plain square. A rocking chair sat turned toward the window, angled to catch the morning light. A half-knit gray sweater lay draped over one arm, the needles still caught mid-row. She touched the cuff and felt it warm from her skin. Beside the chair sat two mugs, rings brown at the lip, their coffee gone to a skin.

She glanced toward the hall. The main bedroom door was half-closed in a way people leave a door when they think they’ll be right back. Sun pooled in a long rectangle across the floorboards. Dust hung there like a slow snowfall. Abandoned places have a way of looking serene, almost beautiful.

Inside the main bedroom, the bed was surprisingly neatly made—corners tucked, coverlet smoothed, two pillows stacked. On the dresser, black-and-white photos leaned against the mirror in mismatched frames. Wanda studied them one by one: a woman in a housedress standing in front of a truck with a dog at her ankles; a lake, with a weathered dock that looked like it might collapse if you jumped on them repeatedly; a boy at six, strapped into a cardboard rocket, grin missing two teeth. Beside the bed, a more modern frame was on display. It was glossy, color, and with the corners intact. An elderly woman in a wool coat and a middle-aged man in a thinner version of the same face leaned their heads together. 

Mother and son, she thought. A soft ache pressed behind Wanda’s sternum. It did not feel like envy, exactly. It felt like a fact that arrived late and took up too much room. This cabin once housed a family. And now, it housed an orphan. 

In another year, or five, she might have sat and picked up the needles and finished the last sleeve. She could have added four inches, woven in ends, washed and blocked it over a towel. She could have left it folded on the rocker as a small, respectful joke to whatever part of the house was listening. Another woman’s doing, finished by her.

But she wasn’t living in those years. She was living in this one, and the Darkhold warmed in her hands like an animal pleased to be chosen.

She told herself she would be gentle. She told herself she would be fast.

It took some twenty seconds.

With a small motion of her hand, the cabin emptied itself of its history. Wanda didn’t touch a box or fold a single item. The cabin was no longer anyone’s home. It wasn’t hers either. A home is where you find peace, where you rest. She hadn’t come here for that.

This was only a place to study. A place to use. She came here looking for her sons. For answers.

—

In the days that followed, Wanda barely slept.

When she did, the book followed her into her dreams. At first, she thought she was hallucinating—the residue of Westview weighing down her mind. Yet each time she awoke, the book lay open to a page that seemed to offer an explanation for the visions that had haunted her sleep.

And from that point onward, the lesson would continue.

The first lessons were simple, and they were all about history. The Darkhold told her the truth of her own magic. Chaos magic, older than language, older than the first myth scratched onto stone. Power that did not come from learning but from being, woven into her at birth. She had not been chosen, it was simply what she was. The book made her see it, not as a blessing, not as a curse, but as a law of nature. Wanda Maximoff was not created by accident. Wanda Maximoff was inevitable. It introduced her to Chthon, where all of its powers came from. Chthon, the god who breathed life into desires. 

The Darkhold proved far more talkative than Wanda had anticipated. In time, it disclosed everything she might learn—both through study and by other, less natural means—about Agatha Harkness, including how the book had once come into her possession. Wanda saw her life not as Agatha might have told it, but as the Darkhold remembered it: the Salem witch who had thought herself a master of secrets, yet she had been nothing more than another in a long line of temporary bearers.

Because that was the truth the Darkhold pressed into Wanda’s mind again and again: no one owns it. It does not belong to witches, to covens, to mortals at all. It belongs only to Chthon. It is Chthon—or at least, the imprint he left behind, preserved in ink and blood and something fouler than both. The book was not a tool. It was a vessel. And each page she turned was another breath from his mouth in her ear.

Her next lessons were easy enough. Nothing she had already done before, yet the Darkhold insisted that her technique lacked refinement. Nearly a month had passed since her first encounter with it, and Wanda’s patience was wearing thin. Almost a month, and her obsession had stalled; the book still refused to answer the questions that consumed her. Were Billy and Tommy real? And if they were, where were they? Gradually, she began to spend less time with it, her thoughts drifting instead to you—where you might be, what you might be doing. The more she lingered on the idea of your deception, the angrier she became, and the Darkhold recoiled at it. It despised the way she thought of you, even when those thoughts were rooted in pain and betrayal. Because it knew that pain could just as easily turn back into love.

Sensing her waning devotion, the book finally shifted its tactics. It decided it would give her a taste of its true power.

And so, one night while Wanda slept, the Darkhold parted its pages and invited her deeper.

When she opened them again, she was looking through someone else’s window.

—

In this universe, her variant is your neighbor.

At first Wanda doesn’t recognize it for what it is. Wanda thought she was still dreaming. She had to be. The house is neat, suburban, trimmed hedges, curtains pulled back to let in all the morning sunlight. She blinked, glancing down at her own hands. A plate of cookies sat balanced there, warm, the smell of chocolate and butter curling into her nose. She frowned. Cookies? Strangely, for a dream, nothing about it was absurd—just random.

“Billy? Tommy?” she calls out. No one answers. She hastily looks around, scanning the living room for photos or evidence of their existence. But the walls are blank, covered only by a boring grey wallpaper. The silence is its own answer. Here, she lives alone.

When she returns to the kitchen and her eyes drifts to the window, she realizes why the Darkhold has brought her here.

Across the street, through a narrow bedroom window, she sees you, wrapped in nothing but a towel, your hair dripping, clinging to your face in dark strands. Wanda doesn’t take her eyes off you. You’re unlike anything from her memories, nor the version she conjured in Westview. No—you are a stranger wearing your skin, uncanny in the way a twin might be, or like someone who only almost looks like you.

Wanda lets herself indulge in the scene. It’s only a dream, isn’t it? Which means anything she does here is inconsequential.

She watches shamelessly as you let the towel fall to the floor, slipping into each piece of clothing with deliberate, almost painful slowness. Wanda’s gaze follows, hungry, unwilling to let you leave her sight. And only when you finally move to step out of the room does she remember the cookies cooling at her side. A neighborly gesture, perhaps? Something harmless.

She crosses the street before she can think better of it. It’s only a dream, she tells herself again as she knocks on your door.

But when it swings open, it isn’t you standing there.

It’s that woman—Kia. 

“Honey, who is it?” you ask, stepping into Wanda’s view. Her vision had blurred at the edges the moment she caught sight of the wedding ring on Kia’s finger.

But when your eyes land on her, they brighten. “Miss Maximoff!” you say warmly, like she’s been your neighbor for years. “How nice of you to come by.” You notice the plate in her hands, inhale, and grin. “Oh, is that a cookie? It smells delicious.”

Wanda doesn’t trust her voice, so she only nods, extending the tray.

You pluck one from the pile and take a generous bite. “God, Kia, you should learn from her—this is incredible. Way better than your—”

Kia smacks the back of your head before you can finish, playful but with enough force to make you wince. “Rude,” she mutters, though she’s smiling.

You laugh and lift your hands in surrender. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Yours are good too.” You lean back to kiss her quickly on the lips, still with Wanda’s cookie in your mouth. Kia rolls her eyes but doesn’t push you away.

Wanda’s grip on the tray tightens until she thinks it might crack.

“Oh—thank you so much, Miss Maximoff,” you say hurriedly, brushing crumbs off your shirt as you duck for your coat. “Really, these are amazing. You’ll spoil us if you keep this up.”

You’re already halfway out the door, mouth still full of Wanda’s baking, on your way to work, when she blinks, and the scene before her dissolves. She is back where she truly belongs—alone, in an abandoned cabin.

—

It’s called Dreamwalking.

And as the Darkhold lays out the mechanics of the spell, Wanda realizes none of it is her mind’s invention. They are real. Somewhere, in another universe, you live just across the street, and Wanda can do nothing but watch as you and Kia grow old together. 

She doesn’t move for a long time after the vision fades. The Darkhold patiently waits for her on the mattress, but Wanda turns her face toward the wall and lets it go unread. She pulls the blanket over her head, curling in on herself as though she could hide from the image of you leaning across Kia’s shoulder, from the sound of your laugh still echoing in her ears.

Her eyes sting, but no tears come, only the dull press of disappointment, confusion, and anger. She doesn’t understand why it hurts this much, why her heart refuses to let go of a world that was never hers. Why it should matter at all, when this Wanda has no Billy, no Tommy—when they were the reason she opened the book in the first place.

And yet, it does matter. It matters enough that she cannot sleep, cannot breathe, without recalling the glint of a wedding band on another woman’s hand. 

The Darkhold leaves her be, satisfied with the outcome of her first taste of dreamwalking. It knows Wanda Maximoff will lie there, still as stone, until desperation wins out and she opens it again.

And when she does, the lesson will continue.

—

It varies from one universe to the next, whether she has her powers or not. When she does, Wanda often uses them—it’s faster that way, when she’s searching for Billy and Tommy. Yet she never ends a dreamwalk without yielding to her curiosity about you, in whatever form you exist there.

It’s pathetic, she knows, but it’s become second nature. She peers into bedrooms, alleyways, hospital corridors, office halls—any place you might be. And every time, she braces for disappointment, still hoping, against reason, that she might stumble on the one universe that gives her everything. Billy. Tommy. You. All together, bound to her, belonging to her.

But the search is endless. The Darkhold opens door after door, world after world, and none of them deliver what she craves. The irony needles her each time she wakes. For all the infinite branches of fate, the one constellation she aches for most refuses to exist.

Each time she returns to herself, Wanda feels emptier, like the book has carved out another piece of her and left only want in its place. It’s as draining as watching the same film again and again, already knowing how it ends.

—

After dreamwalking through hundreds of universes, Wanda begins to notice a pattern. 

In the rare instances where she has no powers—two in a hundred, if that—she ends up with someone insignificant, a stranger she barely registers. Those dreams are always short, fading quickly, as if even the multiverse itself finds them unworthy of her attention.

But when she does have her powers, the outcomes narrow to two. Either she is with Vision, or she is not. More often than not, Billy and Tommy are theirs—three times out of five, by her rough count. Not a bad statistic, she tells herself. A comfort, if she chooses to see it that way.

What unsettles her is not what she finds, but what she doesn’t. Across all those worlds, all those versions of herself, she has never seen even one where you are with her. Not a single Earth.

It’s not that she believes everything the Darkhold feeds her—she isn’t naïve. She knows the book has its own designs, just as she does. She studies it willingly because it has what she needs, but she doesn’t fool herself into thinking it shows her the whole truth. It never does. Not yet anyway.

And so, when she wakes in the body of another Wanda married to Vision, she doesn’t bother to linger or pretend it’s just another day for them. She clears this Wanda’s schedule and goes looking for you instead. By now, she’s learned that not every Wanda carries the same power she does, and it has taken time for her to learn how to bend her Earth-616 abilities into these other worlds. When she does find you, it happens in the most trivial place.

Like this moment now—you’re knocking on Wanda’s car window at a gas station. You’re younger here, nearly a decade younger, your face flushed with nerves. You look so different in this universe—like you actually lived a normal, happy childhood, instead of the unbearable memories she once heard you mumble on the hardest nights you shared together. 

Words tumble out of you as you wave your hands, explaining how your mom canceled your cards and you lost your wallet somewhere. You insist this isn’t a scam, even flashing your IDs and social security number just in case she doubts you.

All you’re asking for is thirty bucks.

Wanda studies you in silence, her fingers resting loosely on the steering wheel. You shift under her gaze, scratching the back of your neck.

“I know this is insane. I know.” You’re talking faster now, eyes darting everywhere but hers. “It’s just—if you say no, I get it. I do. But I’m stuck here, and I can’t think of anything else to do. I just need gas money to get somewhere…”

Wanda’s eyes narrow just slightly. “Somewhere?” she asks. “Where exactly are you trying to get to?”

Your face heats even more, and you laugh awkwardly. “Uh. That’s—god, this is embarrassing.” You rub at your cheek, stalling. “It’s… it’s my girlfriend. We’re long-distance. Haven’t seen each other in months. I wanted to surprise her.”

Of course, you’re in love with someone else. It should be immaterial—after all, she’s meant to be in love with Vision here. And yet, what a pity. Her eyes soften, though she says nothing, letting you flounder.

“It’s like—two hours from here,” you admit finally, lowering your gaze. “I’m trying to get to Hartford. Which is why I just need enough for gas. I can figure out the rest when I get there.”

Wanda’s hands drum lightly against the steering wheel, a slow, deliberate rhythm. Then she looks at you, decisive. “I’ll drive you.”

You blink. “What?”

“I said, I’ll drive you. Two hours isn’t far.” She shrugs like it’s nothing, as though offering a stranger a ride across counties is an everyday thing. “It’s along the way.”

Your mouth falls open. Wanda doesn’t need to work her powers to know what you’re thinking.

“Why would you—? That’s insane. You don’t even know me,” you say.

“No,” Wanda agrees calmly. “But you’ll just have to risk it, won’t you? That I’m not some psycho who’ll run us off the road.” Her eyes narrow faintly, and there’s something like a dare in her tone. “Just like I’ll risk that you won’t pull a knife on me while I’m behind the wheel.”

You stare at her, stunned into silence.

The corner of her mouth lifts. “Well? Do we have a deal?”

You let out a groan as you fumble with your phone, dialing for a tow. “Yeah, it’s parked at the Sunoco off exit twelve,” you mutter into the receiver. “Impound it. My mom’s gonna kill me, but…whatever.” You hang up with a heavy sigh, shaking your head. “She’s gonna have a field day with this one.”

Wanda just watches, patient, not offering sympathy but not mocking either. It makes your stomach twist.

You sling your backpack over one shoulder, then glance at her. “Guess I’m hitching a ride with you. I’m Y/N.”

“Wanda,” she replies evenly. 

You nod, still wary, but open the passenger door and slip inside. 

The first twenty minutes crawl by. You try the radio, desperate for a distraction, but her hand snaps out quickly, turning the dial back off. “It’s broken,” she says. 

“Sorry,” you murmur, shrinking a little in your seat. You try to scroll through your phone instead, but the screen makes your stomach flip. You’ve always been bad at reading in moving cars, so you give up and stare out the window.

Minutes later, you attempt small talk. “So, uh… do you make this drive a lot, or—”

“I don’t care for small talk,” she tells you plainly, though her tone isn’t unkind.

“Okay…” you murmur, unable to think of anything else to respond with. 

“This girlfriend of yours—what’s she like? How long have you been together?”

You stare at her, incredulous, your eyes fixed on the side of her face. “That’s… a little personal, don’t you think?” 

Her lips twitch in amusement. “We’re strangers. We’ll never see each other again. Small talk’s a stupid waste of time for people like us. That’s for acquaintances.”

It sounds ridiculous—but the longer you sit in her car, the more you start to believe her.

So you decide to throw one back, having noticed earlier the simple white gold band on her left ring finger that signifies one thing. You clear your throat. “Alright then. What about you?”

Her brow lifts.

“Your husband,” you say, a little too pointedly. “What’s he like? How long have you been married?”

A slow smile curves her lips, teasing. “Why do you assume my partner is a man?”

Your mouth falls open, gaping like a fish. A very dumb fish, you think. “Oh—I didn’t mean—sorry, I just saw—”

She laughs, enjoying the way you trip over yourself. “Relax,” she says, eyes back on the road. “His name’s Vision. We’ve been together… long enough that I’ve lost count of the years.”

Something in her tone makes you sit back, chastened. She’s an odd woman—that much is obvious. And it’s always the hot ones, they say, who are a little off in the head. The thought slips out before you can stop it. Wait, “hot”? No—beautiful. She’s beautiful. And you’re allowed to notice that, aren’t you? It’s just an observation. Objective, even. Maybe that’s why you agreed to get in her car in the first place. It’s hard to say no to gorgeous people. 

And maybe, when you tell your girlfriend the story of how you somehow made it all the way to her town without your car, you’ll leave this part out.

“I answered,” Wanda reminds you. “Your turn.”

You glance out the window, chewing your lip. She can almost see you debating whether to say anything at all. 

Finally, you exhale, before sheepishly mentioning your girlfriend’s name. “Her name’s… Emma. We’ve been together for two years.”

Wanda doesn’t realize she’s been holding her breath until that moment. So, it’s not Kia. It shouldn’t make a difference but it does.

“Two years. That’s something. Long enough to know it’s real,” she says.

“And you? Vision. What’s he like?”

Wanda smiles at the thought of Vision. “He’s… steady. Precise. Always thinking three steps ahead, and always too careful with the way he speaks. He frustrates me sometimes,” she admits, lips quirking wryly, “but he makes me laugh. And he never lets me doubt that I’m loved.”

In reality, Wanda doesn’t know if this Vision is all those things, but she can’t help but speak of the Vision she knew. The car goes quiet for a beat. You gaze out the window again, but not before Wanda catches the little lift in your expression, the way your features turn dreamy when you think of your girlfriend.

“Emma’s brilliant,” you say at last. “Funny without even trying, and disciplined in all the ways I’m not. We fight, sometimes. Over stupid things, long-distance things…but she makes it feel worth it. Like no matter how tired I am, I’ll still get in the car and drive two hours just to see her face.”

Wanda swallows. For the first time since waking in this body, she thinks she understands the appeal of this universe. This Wanda—married to Vision, loved in return—seems happy. And you, with Emma, seem happy too.

And yet.

Even as she drives, even as she tells herself she should take comfort in seeing you content, her pulse quickens with the thought of tomorrow, of closing her eyes and surfacing somewhere else. 

Another world means another chance.

—

This time, it is a hospital room. To be fair, it looks more like a suite—furnished with a comfortable sofa bed, a small fridge, a kitchenette, decorative paintings, a television set, everything designed to make a sick person feel at ease, to distract them from the truth of their dying predicament.

Because that is what this Wanda is—dying. The bed, despite the staging, is still a hospital bed. An IV trails into her arm. Her brunette hair is thinner than it should be. 

What stands out, however, is that you are there beside her. In her previous visits, she is almost always searching for you, never waking in her variant’s body to find you within arm’s reach.

A book is open in your hand, the other wrapped securely around hers. You’re reading aloud, your voice low and warm. Every now and then, your thumb rubs unconsciously against her knuckles, as if to check if Wanda’s still with you. She wants to speak, but her voice feels strange in her throat. Still, she squeezes your hand.

You pause, only for a moment, finishing the sentence first before you glance at her. “What’s up?” you murmur, closing the book on your thumb to keep your place.

She swallows, searching for the right words. Not too obvious, not enough to give her away. “Just… wondering,” she says softly, “about… us. About this life.”

Your smile is fond, as though the question isn’t strange at all. “Us?” You shift, propping the book on your knee. “Well, we’ve barely started, haven’t we? Married a year and a half.” You squeeze her fingers back. “Sometimes it feels like I’m still learning you every day.”

Wanda breathes out carefully, trying not to betray the way the answer rattles her. A year and a half. Married. This version of her had what she wanted most—you. And yet, it’s all on the verge of falling apart because she’s not well. There’s nothing crueler than fate.

Moments later, a knock sounds at the door. You barely glance at the interruption, as if you’re already expecting this arrival. Without waiting for either your acknowledgment or Wanda’s, a woman steps in, white coat on, hair tucked neatly behind her ears, stethoscope draped around her neck. She’s your doctor, here to check on the Wanda of this world.

She’s also Kia, and she’s stunning. Kia draws you aside after she does the routine check on Wanda, her voice lowering as she opens the folder in her hands. You ask about the counts. The scan. Whether the new regimen is doing anything at all. Your brows are furrowed, the lines of worry settling deep between your eyes. Wanda watches from her vantage point in the bed, her body still, her ears straining to catch every word.

Kia meets your eyes as she gives the bad news. The markers are sliding the wrong way. The mass hasn’t responded. Harder days are coming. 

But she threads hope through every word. Options to adjust. A trial she’s already reached out to. Pain she can manage before it hits. A plan for the next forty-eight hours. “We’re not out of room,” she says, soft but certain. “Don’t give up on her. I’m not.”

Something in you loosens. Your mouth tips into a small smile. Grateful. Too grateful. You thank her—once, then again—your hand closing over her forearm before you remember to let go.

You don’t see it yet. Wanda does. The future falling into shape. Kindness becoming routine. Routine turning into need. And after she dies in this world, you will meet Kia at the edge of your grief and follow the same path you did back home. 

Wanda’s learning one thing though–-

That in every universe, even the ones where she holds you first, it’s only a matter of time before Kia arrives.

—

When Wanda wakes again, her cheeks are wet.

The Darkhold sits open, waiting for her to turn the page.

And she does.

Because grief is greedy, and love gives until there’s nothing left, and Wanda Maximoff has never known how to be anything less than both. She drags her palms down her face, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes until stars burst behind them. She has to believe there’s another truth, somewhere. That there must be a world where it isn’t always her.

And so she keeps turning pages. 

Wanda stares at the spot where you stood moments ago. You’ve rushed outside, maybe to confront her physical form waiting on the steps. She’s been studying the Darkhold for weeks now, and in that short time, she’s gained more knowledge and undergone more transformation than most do in a lifetime.

That’s why rescuing you from that cannibalistic mutant has thrown her off balance. Maybe it’s why today’s lesson won’t settle easily the way it usually does. The Darkhold ruled against your survival—and Wanda ignored it. Now, it’s punishing her for her disobedience.

When she left Westview in the middle of the night, it wasn’t a split-second decision. She stood there for a long while, alone in the empty lot where you once bought a home for the two of you to “grow old together.” 

When the Westview version of you tore out of her, willed into existence from her pain and desperation, it was the only thing she could still believe in.

The real you were gone. That's what they told her. That while she dusted in the snap, you didn’t survive the five years that followed. She didn’t get a body to grieve nor a funeral to attend. That pain became the town. The illusion. The lie. And from that lie came you. Or at least, what remained of your memory that will forever live on in her. 

That Y/N had loved her without hesitation, had kissed away her nightmares, had stood in a sunlit kitchen teaching the twins how to make pancakes. That Y/N was how she remembered you. And when the unthinkable happened, when you arrived to wake her up from the fantasy she created—

All her careful stitches splitted open at once. 

Wanda left because she didn’t believe you truly came for her. If you had, you’d be right where she left you, waiting. She never stopped to consider the reasons behind your actions. She hasn’t had the space to. Her mind’s been elsewhere, tangled up in more urgent things. The boys, most of all.

Where could they have gone? The Darkhold has revealed to her that they live. Maybe not in this universe but there are a thousand others. Wanda only has to choose which. Choose and have them back. Maybe you’ll be there too. And maybe that version of you will love her better—infinitely better—than the one who walked away.

So why did she save you from the edge of death?

Was it the Avenger in her?

Or was it because if anyone was going to tear you down, it would be her?

The Darkhold growls at the thought.

It approves.

—

“Wanda!”

It’s still unsettling, the way her consciousness slips back into her body like an afterthought. It moves—brewing tea, cooking breakfast, eating—but only on autopilot. The Darkhold isn’t just a curiosity anymore; it’s become a kind of escape. 

Every moment since Westview has felt hollow. She tried normalcy, relocating to an even more secluded Vermont town, hiding in its autumn forests. Peaceful enough, yet even a cemetery would have been quieter than her own mind.

That’s when she remembered the book she’d seized from Agatha.

The instant she opened it, the clamor stilled, and a new purpose took hold. 

Oh, the possibilities are endless. But Wanda can’t seize them all at once. The book insists she learn them first. The Darkhold never judges her grief. Only demands her focus.

But you? You ruin everything. And, well—you’ve just thrown a wrench into her lesson streak.

“Wanda!”

You hobble from the kitchen into the living room, your uneven steps setting the floorboards groaning underfoot.

Wanda’s eyes snap open in her body a second before you reach her. She’s standing at the porch now, a steaming mug halfway to her lips. Her fingers spasm; hot tea sloshes over the rim. She doesn’t drop it, of course. Even rattled, her control is surgical. She inhales once, lets it out slowly through her nose, and the tremor vanishes.

But she still doesn’t look at you. Even though she sat at your bedside for hours, even though she memorized every crease of your bandages and every flutter of your lashes, she’s still not prepared to see your eyes open and looking back at her. 

As you get closer, the panic rising in your chest begins to ease. Whatever you saw in the other room—was it even real?

It takes another second for Wanda to turn, slow as a door swollen by rain. Your breath sticks.

It’s her, and it isn’t. 

You remember Wanda’s eyes as a soft green shot through with gold. Even back in Westview when you first gazed into them after five long years. It’s different now. Clouded by something else that’s utterly foreign. You’re looking at a woman who came back from the blip just weeks ago, but it feels like she’s lived a lifetime since.

You realize you’re staring, despite knowing you’re no different. She braces both hands around her mug. It looks too small for how tightly she holds it.

“I—I opened the door down the hall,” you stammer, still catching your breath. “You were in there… floating, reading that…book. What was that, Wanda?”

She feels the Darkhold’s leftover pulse under her skin, but her face remains unapologetically stoic. She lifts the mug again, lets the steam veil her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You shake your head. It looked all too real. “No. I’m not hallucinating—”

“You’ve been out for nearly forty-eight hours, Y/N,” she mutters coldly. “You lost a lot of blood. Half that time you were burning so hot I put snow on your wrists. People see things.”

It comes back to you slowly. The creature who attacked you. The sharp bite of its teeth and claws. If it weren’t for Wanda—

“I should’ve been dead,” you whisper. 

A sardonic curve tugs at her mouth. “Yeah, I keep hearing.”

You stare at her, struck still. Not by the cruelty of it, but by the guilt that surges back the moment you recall the lie you let her believe.

“Wanda, about that—”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

Your throat dries out. But you try. “You thought I was dead. And I—”

“You are. I buried you in Westview,” Wanda says.

The blade in your chest turns cruelly. You’d braced for pain, but not for her to twist it herself, not to make it hurt like this.

“Wanda,” you exhale softly. “Please, just let me explain—”

She snorts, bitter and humorless. “Too late.”

“I—”

“This,” she says, gesturing vaguely between you, “is the last time we talk. I need you to understand that.”

She turns, her sweater catching on the breeze, and for a split second you see her back the way she was in Westview, the relief in her gaze when she looked up at you as you cradled her in your arms.

You almost call out. You almost beg.

Instead, you say, “No.”

Wanda’s hands curl into fists at her sides. The last of the tea’s warmth burns harmlessly against the pads of her fingers; the real heat now lives in her blood.

“No?” she repeats, barely in control.

“I’m not leaving,” you say. “You can shut me out, scream at me, make me sleep on this porch for a week—but I’m staying.”

Deep in the house, the Darkhold lies where she left it. Its pages do what they always do in moments of hesitation: they conjure possibility. They suggest that your stubborn devotion could serve as a lesson, that your pain might yet be an ingredient in her greater purpose. 

You’ll never reclaim the twins while you’re anchored to this, it warns Wanda. 

You take a breath, unaware of the conversation Wanda’s having on the other side. “I’m not going to force you to talk. I just want to stay.” To be near you. 

Wanda’s arms cross tightly over her chest. She is calculating something now. What you’re worth. What you cost. She’d spent the last several hours stitching you back together, watching the sweat bead on your forehead as fever gripped your body. She held ice to your temples and whispered to no one. She sat beside you, wondering if saving your life was a mistake.

Because while you’re here, she can’t begin what comes next. She can’t take the steps the Darkhold has shown her. 

Wanda wheels around. “Why did you come back?” she asks suddenly, the question slipping through clenched teeth. 

You know she won’t like the answer. Won’t believe it no matter how truthful it is. But you say it anyway. “Because I never wanted to leave you. And if I could take back what I did—”

“You can’t,” she snaps.

The wind shivers through the trees. 

“I should’ve thrown you back out into the woods,” she grits out, turning away. “Let the snow have you. Let that thing finish the job.”

“But you didn’t,” you say, almost breathless. “You saved me.”

“I regretted it.”

“You stayed by my side.”

“I needed a reminder,” she says, “of what regret feels like.”

It hurts. All of it.

“I’m not going anywhere, Maximoff,” you mutter—falling back on that old habit of using her last name when you’re trying to be cheeky, a desperate bid for normalcy.

Wanda doesn’t even blink at your old nickname for her. She stares through you to the dark tree-line. Grasping for something, you glance down at your hand and curl your thumb around the band still snug on your finger. You’d pulled it off its chain and slipped it back where it belonged the day you started tracking her.

You twist the ring once. Wanda’s eyes drop to follow the movement.

“I wore it all these years,” you murmur. On your finger, around your neck. It doesn’t matter. You never completely removed Wanda from yourself. “Not once.”

“How touching,” she drawls dryly. “A trivial fact, considering you never intended to show yourself again.”

“Wanda, that’s not—”

She lifts a hand. Enough. Without another word, she turns her back to you and walks toward the cabin. She steps inside without looking back. 

You’re left alone on the steps, thumb still circling the ring on your finger. Wanda disappears again—this time just on the other side of a wall. And you realize, with a dull kind of clarity, that she didn’t slam the door.

She didn’t have to.

—

Wanda drifts off sometime after midnight, head tipped back against the rough cabin wall.

In the dream, morning light pours over the kitchen table she never bought. Billy and Tommy sit side-by-side, their knees knocking as they race each other through bowls of cereal.

She hums while the pan warms, levitating batter in lazy spirals that sizzle into perfect pancakes. Tommy steals the first one straight from the skillet; Billy laughs so hard milk slips from the corner of his mouth.

“Mom, you’re burning the next batch,” Billy teases.

“I’m letting them get golden,” she answers.

She sets plates, ruffles hair, kisses foreheads. The world is small, bright, whole. And right when she’s at her happiest, it all stops—abruptly. Forcefully snatched from her, as if to say, they’re not yours to keep.

Wanda jolts awake, her breath catching hard in her chest. She expects to find herself alone, as she has every morning since she returned, but—

You’re kneeling beside her bed, a cautious hand on her shoulder. 

“Hey,” you whisper, careful. “You were crying out. I—”

Red light ignites behind Wanda’s pupils before the sentence finishes.

Her power snaps loose. You lift off the floor, spine arching as scarlet bands snare your ribs. A heartbeat later you’re airborne, and then driven sideways, slammed into the wooden wall so hard the boards groan. Dust rains from the ceiling. 

Wanda commands her power with reckless abandon more than ever. She’s on her feet before you even hit the floor. Her breath comes in ragged pulls, eyes wild and unseeing. You groan, trying to push yourself up. You’ve barely recovered, and you could feel the wet oozing from your stitches. 

“Wanda,” you choke out, trying to hide your discomfort. “It’s me.”

She blinks, slowly coming back to herself. Horror creeps into her eyes when she realizes what she’s done, but she doesn’t move toward you.

“You shouldn’t have woken me,” she whispers hoarsely.

Your attempt at a smile dies before it forms. You brace a shaking palm against the splintered wall, struggling to stay standing. “You were having a nightmare.”

“Nightmare?” Wanda's laugh is bitter and scathing. You realize this might be the only version of her you get now. “Sleeping’s the only time I get to see them.”

Your brow knots. “‘Them’?”

Wanda doesn’t clarify. She pushes to her feet and strides for the door, snatching her coat on the way. The cabin protests with a low groan as she yanks it open. Gray dawn floods the room. Cold air rushes in.

You flinch at the burst of light. “Wanda. Wait.” It’s little more than a croak. 

She ignores you and the door thuds shut behind her. You’re left there, bleeding and confused. And hurt. She couldn’t stand the sight of you long enough to stay in the same room.

Outside, frost rims the clearing. Wanda drags in a lungful of brittle air, as if doing so would clear the haze of yet another dream about her children. Her hands shake, so she shoves them deep into her coat. 

The dreams come more often now. Billy and Tommy, so vivid and real, appearing nearly every night. She soaks it in, greedy for every second, knowing fully now that they are real but will never be hers to keep. Every morning is harder than the last, waking up to find that she’s back where she’s supposed to be. 

Alone. 

Sometimes, she dreams of you, too. In those dreams, you’re standing in a different kitchen—one that doesn’t belong to this cabin or any real place Wanda’s ever lived. The counters are a soft sage green, the kind of color you used to say felt like spring. You’re barefoot as you whip up breakfast, the smell of eggs and coffee curling through the room. You smile when you see her watching you. And then, as if on cue, Billy and Tommy come bounding in from another room. You kneel down to ruffle their hair, tease them, hand them fruit before the sugar.

Just like you used to in Westview. 

Wanda shakes her head, refusing to go back to that headspace. Instead, she walks deeper into the woods. Branches snap softly underfoot as she moves further from the cabin, from you, from everything. Thankfully, you don’t follow. Which might have something to do with giving her space. But more likely, it’s because you're still too frail to make the effort. She clenched her fists at the thought.

It’s the same pattern; every time she sees you hurt, a part of her wants to turn back, to help, to care. But that’s supposed to change. At least, she's been practicing indifference for a while now. 

Ever since the Darkhold first whispered to her, just nights after she’d hidden herself away here, it had become impossible to trust her own thoughts. Its voice had slid inside her like smoke, showing her truths she'd never asked for. Like why you faked your death and allowed her to mourn a loss that never happened.

That revelation changed everything. It flipped her world upside down, erased every certainty she’d ever held close. For Wanda, it felt exactly like falling asleep beside you, wrapped in promises, only to wake up to an entirely different world, one in which your love had been a lie. It was you and her. Always. No matter what. 

Hadn’t you meant that?

She can’t help but wonder about those five years she missed, years you spent alone. What changed inside you? It was the only thing the Darkhold refused to show her. It urges her to look forward and not back. 

But whatever it was, you chose running away over facing her with the truth. Over staying, even just as a friend.

She knows it’s irrational to blame you completely, but rationality has lost its grip on her these days. All she knows is that you left her, chose to disappear, and now you're back as if you could simply squeeze your way into her life—into her heart—again.

As if the whole thing were just some cruel, elaborate joke.

Wanda stops walking. Her breath mists the air as she exhales slowly, staring blankly at the trees. The Darkhold whispers softly from somewhere deep inside her mind, promising answers, tempting her toward actions she’d once sworn never to take.

—

You sit on the floor until the cabin stops spinning.

Breathing hurts, but that’s nothing new. What’s new is the warm trickle soaking your side. You ease up your shirt—three of the hastily placed stitches have split clean through, red shining in the morning light.

Great.

You shuffle to the table, fetch the needle and fishing-line thread you found in Wanda’s mending kit yesterday. No antiseptic, but there’s vodka in your pack. You bite down on a strip of blanket and jab the needle through skin that’s already on fire. Six clumsy knots later the bleeding slows. 

When it’s done, you rest your head back against the wooden wall and stare at the ceiling for a long minute. Then you force yourself upright again, slowly, carefully, like you’re learning your body all over again.

You go looking for fresh clothes, but most of what you brought, what little you could carry, are still crumpled in a heap near the bed, soaked through from melted snow and blood and sweat. You pick through it anyway, hoping something might be salvageable, but they’re all soiled. 

So you go to the dresser.

You hesitate only a second before pulling open one of Wanda’s drawers. You pull out a flannel shirt and some loose sweatpants, fingers trailing over the collar of the shirt. Wanda’s scent clings faintly to the fabric—subtle, but unmistakable. You try not to think about how, just weeks ago, you were sharing clothes with someone else entirely.

You mutter an apology to the empty room and pull them on, rolling the waistband so they don’t slide off your hips. 

The cabin’s cold. You can see your breath if you stand still long enough. You don’t know how long she’ll be gone, or if she’ll come back at all, but you know one thing: when she does, she’ll be cold. And probably starving.

So you head to the kitchen. The eggs are a little old, but they’ll hold. You crack a few into the pan, add salt, whatever spices you can find. You boil water. Throw together something from a canned broth, potatoes, and greens that are just on the edge of turning. 

You wait for her for about an hour before sleep finally pulls you under, curled up on the couch. When you come to again, the sun is sinking low, spots of orange scattered around the living room. 

Your throat is dry, your body heavy from the nap, but instinct has your voice calling out before you're fully awake.

“Wanda?”

Silence.

You sit up slowly, blinking against the fading light. You shuffle into the kitchen and find the pot right where you left it, a thin skin filmed over the soup, the eggs congealed and gray on the plate. A sigh slips out before you can reel it back. Worry hits first; she hasn’t eaten, she hasn’t even been inside, but it’s chased fast by irritation. You patched yourself up, you cooked, you waited. None of it mattered.

Your stomach growls loud enough to echo. Fine. You dump the eggs, scrape the pan clean, and set the pot back on the burner. You gulp it straight from the ladle, too impatient for bowls, the heat scalding your tongue in a way that feels almost deserved. Three ladles later the pot’s nearly empty and your limbs hum with new strength.

You rinse the bowl out, wipe the counter, then stand there for a long moment, staring at the closed door to her room.

You should leave it alone.

But you don’t.

Instead, you drift back down the hall, checking quietly not out of curiosity, but to make sure she’s still here. That she hasn’t packed up and vanished while you were passed out on her couch like an idiot. You open the top drawer of her dresser just enough to see what’s inside.

Her things are still there. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. She hasn’t left you. Not yet, anyway.

But the relief is fleeting. You’ve never felt more out of place. Wanda’s made it clear: she doesn’t want you here. And still, here you are, clinging like a parasite. It’s pathetic. Desperate. But none of that changes the fact that you’re worried about her. Because everything isn’t fine. It couldn’t be, not after what happened in Westview. The people she held hostage weren’t the only ones who walked away damaged. Wanda carries every bit of the trauma on her shoulders, too. You’re not here to beg her to take you back. 

You’re here to understand what’s next.

To figure out what happened to her after the fight with that other witch—what changed in her, what broke. How she came back from it all wearing a crown. And why it doesn’t feel like a victory.

Suddenly, the door blows open on a gust that turns your breath white. The cold rushes in, unforgiving, and you jolt, goosebumps rising instantly on your arms as the wind slithers in around your ankles.

Wanda steps inside without a word. Her coat hangs heavy off her shoulders, damp with snow at the hem. She doesn’t seem surprised to see you wearing her clothes. Her eyes quickly sweep the room as if to confirm nothing’s changed in her absence. She barely looks at you.

You collect all details you can get, now that she’s finally back in your line of sight. Her face is pale but not flushed. No wounds. But your eyes catch on the blackened dirt under her nails, dark and packed tight.

You open your mouth, wanting to know if she’s eaten anything the entire day. “Wanda, have you—” 

She drops a canvas bag onto the dining table with a thud before you can finish. Out come three cardboard clamshells, still steaming, a pair of plastic forks. She pushes one box toward you without meeting your eyes.

“I brought food,” she says finally, still not looking at you.

Your mouth opens again—maybe to ask where it’s from, or how far she went, or if she’s okay—but then she does look at you. Just for a breath. And whatever you were going to say, you can’t seem to remember now.

“Eat,” she says.

Her tone leaves no room for argument, so you take a seat. 

Wanda settles opposite you, legs folding tight beneath the chair. A slim paperback appears from her coat pocket, spine already broken in half a dozen places. She props it on one knee, fork in the other hand, and starts to read as though you aren’t there.

You eat in complete silence. You're quietly grateful for the takeout—especially since the soup you made earlier was little more than hot water with a few scraps. You’re hyper-aware of every sound you make: the hiss of your breath when the sauce hits the cut on your lip, the careful clack when you set the fork down to cool another mouthful. Wanda doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she does and simply doesn’t care. She turns pages with her thumb, eyes skimming lines you can’t see.

A strange gratitude coils in your chest. She went out, she bought dinner, she came back. And now she’s feeding you.

You look away before she can catch you staring.

Minutes pass. The steam fades. Your box is almost empty; hers is half-gone, eaten with the same absent efficiency she gives the novel. When you finally set your fork down, Wanda’s eyes lift—not icy, just tired.

“Finished?” she asks quietly.

You nod.

She snaps the book shut without marking her place, collects your take-out box with hers, and stands. You stay put, hands useless in your lap, watching Wanda tidy up—a plain domestic moment you haven’t witnessed in five years.

Wanda finishes flattening the last box, turns off the tap, and dries her hands. You’re still gripping the edge of the table when you feel her shadow fall over you. Wanda’s suddenly close—too close for how skittish the air is between you. Your eyes go wide. She lifts a hand and, with the pad of her thumb, wipes a smear of sauce from your cheek like it’s perfectly normal, like she’s done it a hundred times.

The touch is feather-light, gone before you can lean into it.

“You should go,” she whispers.

“Wanda, I told you—”

“I know now why you did what you did.”

Your breath snags. How? Clint never knew. You’ve never said it aloud—never even let yourself think it in plain language. Confusion must flash across your face, because she offers the smallest tilt of a smile. 

Before you can form a coherent response, Wanda’s eyes suddenly grow distant.

“You can get your old life back, you know,” she murmurs softly, her gaze drifting just over your shoulder. “With that woman. Kia.”

You go utterly still. Kia’s name in Wanda’s mouth feels wrong. Not only is it wrong, it’s impossible. You’ve never breathed a word of her to Clint, never spoken of her to anyone from the old days.

“How…?”

Wanda’s gaze drops to the table, and you follow it. Her pocketbook is there, but it’s no longer the slim paperback you’ve just seen. Now it looks ancient, leather-bound, edges frayed, the pages yellow as parchment.

It’s the same book you spotted yesterday in the other room, so that wasn’t a hallucination. Suspicion curls in your gut. Whatever this thing is, it has been guiding Wanda since she disappeared.

Maybe she sifted through your memories while you were unconscious. She once swore she never would, yet that promise feels like it was made in another life, broken by everything you forced her to believe and do.

“Whatever motive you think I had,” you say, “you’ve got it wrong.”

The mask she wears falls, revealing a smirk. “Is that so?”

Wanda’s fingers brush the book’s cover, and scarlet threads unfurl like veins across the leather. A pulse kicks behind your eyes—

—and the cabin dissolves.

You blink and find yourself on a quiet cul-de-sac bathed in late-spring gold. The hair on your arms rises from the sudden, familiar never-ending winter in the North. There’s the mailbox with Kia’s last name. There’s the porch step that always creaked when Kia came in late from a shift. Everything matches the house you once shared, right down to the dent in the gutter you kept meaning to fix.

Kia kneels in the front yard, dirt on her jeans, coaxing herbs into a planter box. She looks up and smiles, that same easy grin you’ve miraculously adopted over some time through osmosis. She stands, wipes her hands on her shirt, and walks over. Her scent reaches you a second before your lips find hers.

It’s perfect. 

And it’s wrong.

The scene stutters, the colors drain, and you’re back on the cabin floor, knees aching. Wanda stands over you, the book shut in her hands. Your body feels hollow, as if the vision siphoned the strength right out of you.

“What was that?” you manage, voice rough.

“A life where no one had to lie,” she says. “A life you could still have, if you choose.”

Tears cloud your vision, not because of the promise but because you know it isn’t real. Because you’ve been exposed. Because Wanda has seen, firsthand, that you tried to move on without her. You’re not ashamed of loving Kia. Wanda was gone, for God’s sake. Still, it feels like betrayal, something you’d never want Wanda to witness or even hear about.

She watches you with a scholar’s detachment, looking down as you tilt your head up to meet her shrouded stare. 

You lurch upright, dizzy. “What was that?”

“I don’t know which is worse,” she says quietly. “That you erased yourself instead of telling me you’d moved on, or me believing you loved me enough to always tell the truth. That you wouldn’t just throw me away like I meant nothing.”

You plant a hand on the floorboards and shove yourself upright, legs shaking. The cabin tilts, but you lurch toward her anyway, arm outstretched. Wanda steps back. Just one small pivot, but it’s enough to keep you an arm’s length away.

Red light tightens around her knuckles. A clear warning.

“You know that’s a lie,” you rasp. “You’ll never be nothing to me. If you could just let me explain—”

“There’s no explanation that would make sense to me, Y/N.” 

For the first time, Wanda’s voice betrays the raw place she’s been shoving down and down.  You feel it in your bones, how much you’ve hurt her. 

“I thought you were gone forever. I—” Your words stagger, teetering at the edge of everything you’ve buried. How do you explain that the moment she vanished, she took the part of you she loved with her?

How do you explain that fear has driven every choice you’ve made since? Fear she would return to find only half the woman she loved. Fear that the way you survived her absence would repulse her.

How do you admit you would rather let her think you were dead than see what you have become?

How do you tell her that the monster she might find learned to love someone else? When you had Wanda you had all of her; now she no longer has all of you. How do you make her understand five years have passed for you, changed you in irreversible ways? The last time you ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich was before Wakanda, and when you tried again months ago, you’ve realized it no longer brings the same comfort.

Physically, you’re alive and well. But in all the ways that mattered you died the day she vanished.

“I didn’t walk away because you stopped mattering to me,” you say, eyes lowering in defeat. “I thought it was kinder to let you grieve than to watch you try to love what I’d become. That person,” you swallow hard, “spent five years crawling through mud, taking…t-taking lives, and—”

You dare to lift your gaze. Wanda’s eyes are shining now, no longer empty, and the sight sparks a small, stubborn hope.

“—learned to love someone else just enough to keep breathing.”

A bitter laugh leaves her lips, hollow and aching. Wanda shakes her head slowly, blinking back tears that refuse to fall. She spent her last tear on you when she let the Hex dissolve.

She has already said goodbye.

“That was never your choice to make.”

“I know,” you whisper, suddenly aware of just how wrong you were. “I was terrified that seeing me would make you feel like you’d lost me all over again.”

“But you weren’t terrified of losing me.”

“Wanda—”

“Losing you to death was agony—but losing you like this?” Her voice comes out in a hiss as she circles you. “It feels like betrayal.”

You don’t move or breathe. “I never wanted to betray you. I wanted to spare you.”

“You should’ve let me decide if your broken pieces were worth it.”

You close your eyes, knowing there’s no argument to that. A bitter heat climbs your throat. “You weren’t the one left counting days—”

“And you weren’t the one who held a whole town hostage because the counting never stopped,” she snaps back. Then, softer, almost bewildered: “It’s unfair both ways, isn’t it?”

It is. All the darkness you clawed through after losing her doesn’t justify what she’s laying at your feet now.

“I’m offering you a choice,” Wanda says. Your head lifts, thinking you misheard. Gratitude already starts to form on your lips, but it stalls when she finishes her sentence.

“To go back to Kia.”

Is that what the vision was for? Can she even do that? Her powers have evolved, grown into something terrifying and divine—but reshaping reality like that? Is it even real?

Still, you won’t take it.

Because it won’t be Kia’s choice.

And it won’t truly be yours either—not after all the weeks you’ve spent chasing Wanda across the wreckage, trying to make this right.

“That’s not what I want,” you tell her earnestly. 

“Isn’t it?” she asks. “Because that vision was your heart, Y/N. I didn’t invent it—it came from you.”

“No,” you rasp immediately, shaking your head. “That vision was an impossible wish.”

Wanda’s eyes gleam sharply. “It’s crueler if you lie, Y/N.”

You swallow hard, holding her gaze even as it scorches. “If being with Kia was what I really wanted, I would have begged you the moment that vision faded.”

Wanda lifts her chin defiantly, refuses to believe you. The Darkhold has never lied to her. It has shown her hidden corners of the universe and whispered that everything she wants is within reach. When it revealed that someone else had claimed your heart, that your disappearance let her mourn a love already gone, it fit too neatly to doubt.

You keep talking, because at least, you’re able to. She’s letting you. 

“Kia kept me alive. She kept the nightmares from swallowing me. But she never erased you.” Your palm presses to your sternum, as if you could show her the bruise that never healed. “I carried you, every day, every mile, in every fucking moment I wished I was dead. I still do.”

She studies you carefully, finally seeing just how broken you truly are. When you lay unconscious after Sabertooth nearly killed you, Wanda allowed herself to pretend nothing had changed, not in you, and certainly not in her. As she tended your wounds, wrapped fresh bandages, she let herself linger, running her fingers softly over your temples, through your hair. When your eyes were closed, you still looked like her Y/N, though now your face held more lines, your cheekbones sharper, etched by years she had missed.

But you're right about one thing: time never stopped. Wanda feels a painful ache at the truth, that she no longer knows every piece of you, that you've grown and changed without her watching. She has missed five of your birthdays, missed countless meaningful milestones she should have shared with you.

And she sees clearly now that you don’t feel the same way about her. At least, not the way she remembers. Not the way she's clung to all this time.

“That’s not love,” Wanda murmurs softly. “That’s guilt dressed up as devotion.”

The Darkhold hisses, urging her to banish you into the perfect life it promises. She resists it for the first time. She intends to give you the choice you never gave her. And until you decide, she will pour every ounce of herself into finding her boys.

Your face crumples at the rejection, at the depth of her distrust. She wants nothing to do with you. And wasn’t that what you wanted all along?

“You have seven days,” Wanda says suddenly. “Seven days to decide what life you really want. After that, the choice won’t be yours anymore.”

Your eyes snap to her face, unable to hide your disbelief and panic. “Seven days? Wanda, this is… this is insane. You’re talking about rewriting reality. And for what? Just to get rid of me?”

Wanda simply smiles, tucks the book under her arm, and starts down the hall toward the last room.

You stare after her, mouth hanging open, searching for something to say. “This is absurd. This isn’t you, Wanda.”

“This wasn’t in my bingo card.”

Everyone turns to Jimmy, who breaks the silence with a dry shake of his head, still reeling from the truth behind your voluntary disappearance. He shrugs helplessly. “Just saying. You fake your own death, let Wanda think you’re gone, take the fall for Barton… Kinda hard to top.”

You huff a humorless breath. “Give it time. I’m sure I’ll find a way.”

Clint says nothing. He just stands nearby, arms crossed, eyes shifting between you and the crackling red shimmer of the Hex. Hayward and his men are down, thanks to you and Clint, but the urgency outside hasn’t gone away. A few minutes ago, the signal blacked out. No matter how many experts dig into it, no one’s been able to bring it back.

Still, for some reason, Jimmy and Monica can’t get past one simple fact: the real you is alive and well—just also a convicted international criminal. For Monica, that fact comes with too many questions.

What if you hadn’t taken Clint’s place?

What if Wanda knew you were never really gone?

She knows there’s more to your story than the version you’ve allowed them to hear, but it’s hard not to feel a semblance of resentment. Your choices (however noble or necessary they might’ve seemed) helped bring everyone to this point.

Monica studies you closely, still trying to make sense of the present situation. “They really tagged you?”

You nod once. “Injected. Somewhere deep. I don’t know where.” You glance down at your hands like they’ll tell you. “Not that it matters. If I run, they’ll know. They’ll come.”

Jimmy lets out a low whistle. “From what we’ve seen this past week, I’d say Wanda could fix that problem for you.”

“I didn’t come here to run,” you say. “I’m not looking for an escape, Agent Woo.”

“Then why are you here?” Monica asks. There’s a chill in her tone, sharper than she intended, but not entirely unearned.

You take a slow breath, well aware that the whole truth—every last brittle piece of it—won’t land clean with anyone here.

“I came because Clint asked. Because this whole town did, in one way or another,” you say.

You never meant to see her again. Five years is a long time to stay gone, long enough to convince yourself she is safer believing you died. A reunion was the last thing on your mind, certainly not one like this. If she recognizes you now, your arrest, your sacrifice, the quiet erasure of your life—all of it will have been for nothing.

But none of that matters if you do not stop her. If this continues, everything else is beside the point.

You still can’t believe Wanda did this—built a cage from her grief and pulled a whole town inside. But maybe you should have seen it coming. Maybe you, more than anyone, should have recognized the signs.

After all, you’ve done worse.

Jimmy surprises you then, by asking, “How do we even know you're not the copy?”

You meet his gaze, fighting back a laugh. “I mean, look at me,” you say, glancing down at your own weary, thin frame, worn down in a way the replica Clint described could never be.

The wind picks up then, cutting through you like a blade. You square your shoulders and try to bear it. You’ve never been fond of the cold. 

Monica starts pacing in circles, and you gaze at her curiously. Whatever’s running through her mind, you’ve got a feeling it won’t break in your favor.

“It’s cruel,” she starts quietly, “letting Wanda believe you died. You really think she would’ve done any of this if she knew you were out there?”

You narrow your eyes at her. “You know her?”

She doesn’t flinch. “I’ve seen how desperate she was in there. That’s enough to—”

You cut her off with a sharp breath, bristling. There it is—that tone. As if she has Wanda figured out. As if one week inside the Hex gives her the right to speak like an authority. It grates on you more than you expect.

“No offense, but you can’t be sure of what she would or wouldn’t have done.”

Monica’s expression hardens, but you keep going.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” you bite out. “And you don’t have the right to stand there and act like I chose wrong. Like any of this was easy.”

She starts to reply, but you talk over her.

“She was gone, Monica. Gone. And I had to live with that for five years. Do you have any idea what that does to a person?”

Your voice shakes, not from weakness, but from how tightly you’re holding everything back.

“I buried her in my mind. Mourned her like she was never coming back. Then all at once, she was here again. And you think I could just… show up? After everything? After what I—”

“Y/N, that’s enough.”

Clint’s voice instantly puts a stop to your rant. Monica’s jab lit the fuse fast, but the anger burns out just as quickly, leaving only fatigue. You’re sick of second-guessing, of tallying every consequence, of defending choices you never asked for.

Exhausted isn’t even the word.

“This isn’t the time or place,” Clint says softly. “You don’t owe anyone here an explanation.”

Monica throws him a look—equal parts frustrated and disbelieving—but Clint just shrugs.

“I’m not taking sides,” he says plainly. “You’re both right in your own ways. But we’ve got bigger things to deal with.”

You look away, jaw clenched, heart still racing. He’s right. As much as you want to keep going, now isn’t the time.

The silence settles again, taut and uneasy. You can still feel Monica’s stare, but she says nothing more.

Then Jimmy clears his throat. “Okay… so what’s the plan, then?”

“I’m going in,” you say simply. 

“That’s it?” Jimmy asks, brows raised.

You nod. “That’s it.” You already know what you’ll do once you see her. And with everything happening so fast, there hasn’t been a chance to iron out the details, anyway.

“So you’re just gonna wing it?”

“Pretty much.”

Monica gives a dry laugh. “Wow, did you lose the rest of the plan on the way here?”

You arch a brow. “Got a better one?”

She folds her arms and looks away, biting back a retort.

“Thought so.”

Before she can protest, you add, “Wanda never lets anyone in unless she wants them. Darcy only got pulled in because the Hex expanded.”

A tired smile tugs at your mouth as you point past her. “Take a good look now.”

She turns. The Hex shivers, pulsing like a slow blink. Gaps open and close, an open wound trying to knit itself shut.

“It started a few minutes ago,” you say. “Whatever’s happening inside is tearing it apart. That’s my doorway.”

“And once you’re through?” Jimmy asks quietly.

You study the shimmering wall one last time, then lower your hand.

“Then I figure it out.”

—

“What do you need me to do?”

Darcy blinks, surprised by how quickly you’ve turned around.

“You’re… sure?” she asks, standing up, brushing gravel from her hands. “Because like, five minutes ago you looked ready to knock me out cold.”

You don’t answer right away, just glance down at your wedding ring. “I don’t know what’s real anymore,” you say quietly. “But if there’s even a chance you’re right, then I need to do something.”

“I wish I could tell you what to do. I don’t know how we fix this. No one does.”

You look up. “But you think she’ll listen to me.”

“If she’ll listen to anyone,” Darcy says, “it’s probably you, yeah.”

You nod slowly. “I thought the same.”

“What do you mean?”

You sigh, breathing as much air as you could—while you can. “I thought… if I could just talk to her, get her to see what this is doing—not just to me, but to everyone—she’d understand. She always did. That was our thing, you know? We heard each other.”

Darcy stays quiet, letting you work through it.

“But now… I can’t remember if I ever actually tried. If I even asked her,” you go on, voice hollow with realization. “Which means…maybe she didn’t let me. Maybe she never gave me the chance.”

Darcy’s face softens. “You think she’s keeping you from remembering?”

You shrug. “She doesn’t want to hear it. Not from me. And if Wanda doesn’t want something—”

A deafening crash shatters the moment, and both you and Darcy whip around to find the sky roiling in a storm-like upheaval.

Your feet are already moving. “Come on.”

Darcy stumbles after you, wide-eyed. “That’s Wanda, isn’t it? That has to be Wanda—”

“I don’t know what she’s doing,” you mutter, yanking the passenger door open and sliding into the seat, “but I need to get to her and the kids before someone else does.”

The engine groans before roaring to life. You don’t wait for it to warm up. Gravel kicks up behind the tires as you take off down the street. 

“What do you think is going on?” Darcy yells, knuckles white on the grab handle as you barrel down the road at triple the speed limit.

“I’m not sure,” you mumble distractedly. You do have a hunch, though. Whatever this is, it feels like the end—of what, you can’t quite say. All you know is that Wanda and the twins come first.

You turn the wheel hard, rounding a corner as another pulse of purple lightning flickers in your periphery. You slow slightly as you pass a neighborhood block, instincts flaring.

People are outside.

Not just one or two—dozens. Men, women, even children. Pouring out of their homes, blinking under the distorted sky like they’ve just woken from a deep sleep. Their movements are stiff, uncertain. Some clutch their heads. Others stumble down driveways, eyes wide, lips moving without sound.

But it’s not the confusion that makes your stomach turn.

It’s their faces when they see you.

A woman points at your car, mouth twisting. A man beside her clenches his fists. Another starts to shout—words you can’t hear through the windshield, but you know what they mean.

The bad feeling that’s been sitting low in your gut blooms tenfold. 

“Why are they all looking at us like that?” Darcy asks, glancing around nervously.

“They’re not looking at us,” you say, throat tight. “They’re looking at me.”

Darcy leans back in her seat, eyes still darting to the growing crowd on either side of the road. “Right,” she mutters. “The First Lady of Westview’s benevolent dictatorship.”

You shoot her a look.

She shrugs, a little sheepish. “Too soon?”

Well, she’s not wrong.

You don’t linger under the scathing stares. It’s too late to say anything, and there’s no time to try. You push down on the accelerator, jerking the wheel to pass a cluster of panic-stricken townspeople that nearly spill into the street. Darcy hisses in alarm, bracing a hand on the dashboard as you swerve.

Soon, the heart of Westview comes into sight. At the same time, the sky pulses in red and purple, and something far more terrifying.

The townspeople are out and fully conscious. Fully aware. And they’re panicking. Their faces wear all kinds of emotions—fear, anger, disbelief—and a lot of it is aimed at you. They recognize you. Or at least, who they think you are.

You park the car haphazardly, door still swinging open behind you as you break into a run. Darcy scrambles after you, glancing up at the roiling sky, her face tight with fear. You push through them, gently but urgently, until the square opens up, eyes tracking upward—and then you stop cold.

You look up. Floating high overhead are Wanda and… “Agnes?” The name slips out in a stunned whisper.

But she isn’t how you remember her. The face is the same, but the disguise has fallen. She looks like someone you’ve never met. And somehow, this look fits her better. Like something’s finally clicked into place. 

Wanda levitates opposite her, and even from this distance, you can tell she’s losing ground, her movements uncertain, her form barely holding together. Both are wrapped in a strange violet smoke, seeping outward from Agatha—or at least, that’s your best guess. Then—

“Mom!”

The twins.

Billy and Tommy break through the ring of stunned onlookers, bolting toward you as fast as their legs can carry them. You barely register the gasp from someone behind you before you’re dropping to your knees, catching them both in your arms.

They’re shaking and so are you. Darcy gives you and the children some space.

You pull them close, clinging to them like they’re the only solid thing left in a world that’s rapidly coming apart. And maybe they are. No matter what you’ve learned about yourself, about Wanda, about this town, it doesn’t change what you feel now. What you know.

They’re real. They’re yours.

“You’re here, mom,” Tommy breathes, clinging to your side.

“Of course I’m here,” you whisper, looking between your sons. “Are you guys okay?”

They both nod.

Another explosion rings your ears. Agatha pulls another surge of energy from Wanda. Around you, the townspeople form a jagged, trembling ring—some pleading with Wanda to stop, others begging her to let them go. All of them stare at you like you’re in on it, like you’re part of whatever’s holding them here.

“Stay behind me,” you tell the boys, rising to your feet. 

That’s when you hear it—your name, being yelled from somewhere in the distance.

You whip around to see Geraldine—no, Monica—running towards you. You breathe a sigh of relief at seeing a familiar face, a potential ally in all of this. 

Then you see what’s trailing behind her.

And your breath goes still.

It’s… you?

Or someone who looks close enough to make your skin crawl.

And just like that, everything Darcy Lewis told you comes crashing down twice as hard, knocking the wind right out of you.

—

You’d imagined a dozen different ways you might come face-to-face with your doppelganger once you got inside the town. If you were being honest, you’d hoped to find Wanda first—maybe talk her down, get her to release the town, unravel whatever illusions she’d conjured, including this other version of you.

Clint gave you everything he knew when he pulled you from lockup, but even then, his intel was scattered at best. He couldn’t explain why there was another you in there—only that there was.

What stuck with you most was how easily he believed it. How convinced he’d been that it was really you. He didn’t even hesitate—until he saw that version start to come apart right in front of him. 

But not like someone dying. More like something made, and then being unmade.

And maybe that’s what haunts you most. Because you’re not sure how to feel about it—about what happens when Wanda finally lets go of all this. What happens to her version of you, of the children that cannot be identified by S.W.O.R.D, when the Hex comes down.

You’re not sure if you should feel guilty. If you should mourn her. But if she was just made to believe, made to love, made to fit—

Was that ever a real person at all?

And then you think of Wanda. Of how she would feel to lose you—again. You don’t know what she’ll do when it all falls apart. When the fantasy cracks and the house she built collapses into nothing. When this version of you that never broke her heart disappears with the rest of it.

What will she feel, standing in the wreckage of the world she made just to feel whole?

You think about the weight of that and how much of it started with you. How your fake death became the matchstick. How you let her suffer because the alternative was harder: telling her the truth.

That while she was gone, you became someone else. Someone she wouldn’t have recognized. That you let go of the best parts of yourself—the parts she loved—just to survive. No, you didn’t die. Not physically. But the person Wanda knew did.

And in time, you learned how to love someone else.

Monica makes it to them just in time for another explosion in the sky. You’re still a few meters back when your stride falters, eyes fixed on the boys now that they’re close enough to touch.

When Clint said Wanda had twins, you pictured something Vision‑like. One look kills that idea. Your other self is with them, one arm stretched protectively in front of their chests. She looks the part perfectly—brave, hopeful, composed. A picture of someone you used to be.

One boy spots you. You know their names but never matched them to faces; there was no time. He nudges his brother, who looks up, and both go still. Your double follows their gaze, the same uncertain expression on her face.

Something cracks open inside you at the resemblance binding the three of them.

A family.

Your heart leaps to your throat. For a moment you freeze, unsure what to say to children who believe you are already standing beside them.

The smaller boy—Billy, you think—steps forward.

You feel it then. A pull of some sort. Familiar and gut-wrenching. Regret sinks in, clawing deeper with every passing second. Was returning the mistake, or taking Clint’s fall? You cannot decide.

They were born from Wanda’s longing, her love and desperation given flesh. Yet, looking at them now, they are heartbreakingly real, and somehow they feel like yours.

The thought pierces you, because you know this can only end one way.

—

“Mom?” Billy whispers, eyes fixed on Monica’s companion. The woman is almost your mirror, only more weathered to your eye. “Why does she look like you?”

You turn to Monica, panic trembling under your skin. “Who is that? I don’t understand.”

“Y/N, look at me.” Monica darts forward, her hands settling on your shoulders—steady, not rough. “I’ll explain, I swear. But right now you need to focus.”

She points toward the churning sky. “What’s happening up there?”

You follow her finger, and in that instant, lightning flares in your eyes. Above, Agatha and Wanda remain locked in a standoff that feels less like a battle and more like a full-blown war. Wanda’s movements are slowing, her blasts thinning out, growing more frantic with each strike.

You’re caught between protecting your kids and reaching your wife, and you’ve never felt more helpless.

“I... I don’t know,” you murmur, gaze darting anxiously between your double and the approaching townspeople. Concentrating feels impossible.

That’s when Darcy reappears, a bit winded from calming down half the square. She plants herself beside Monica and raises a hand. “Hey, Monica. Miss me?”

Monica pulls her into a quick hug. “Glad you’re okay.”

Darcy pulls in a breath, brushing hair from her face. “Okay, headline edition: the whole town’s awake now. They remember everything—days on repeat, their minds on mute, all of it. A few tried to leave, but the Hex won’t let them. So they marched here looking for answers from Wanda.” She jerks a thumb skyward. “And then, get this—” she leans in slightly, voice dropping, “—nosy neighbor Agnes? Her real name’s Agatha. Turns out to be some sort of a witch all along.”

Monica blinks. “A witch witch?”

“According to the guy she had playing her husband and locked in the attic? Yeah.”

A violet bolt flares above you—too bright to track—then slams into Wanda’s shield with a crack that rattles windows. The shield shatters. She’s hurled earthward like a comet.

Concrete erupts when she hits, skidding her across the street; asphalt peels up in her wake. The sound alone makes your ribs ache. Agatha drifts down after her, slow and graceful, savoring every wince.

Within a second you’re on your feet. You sprint, leaving the twins with Monica and Darcy. 

“Wanda!” You scream at the top of your lungs.

Wanda lies on her side, clawing for breath, one trembling hand searching for purchase.

You push the boys behind you and take two steps, then five, courage swelling with each stride—

But someone else reaches her first, dropping to their knees at her side.

You pull up short, as if you’ve slammed into a wall. Your world-worn double cradles Wanda with the ease of long practice, murmuring quiet assurances in a voice that is yours, only rougher.

Wanda stirs at the sound, eyelids fluttering. “Y/N?” she breathes.

The other you nods.

All you can do is stand there and watch.

You brace for Wanda to collapse into the woman’s arms, but confusion spiders across her face instead. She studies the lines of that face (older, worn, but unmistakably yours) then glances up and catches sight of you—the one she’s more familiar with—standing a few feet away.

Her eyes go wide.

They dart between you and the stranger Darcy swore was dead. Bewilderment sharpens into panic, her breathing hitching. She winces upright, bracing on an elbow before forcing herself to sit.

“Wanda,” you start, “I—”

“Well, isn’t this delicious?” Agatha drawls behind you, strolling forward like she has all the time in the world. “Two Y/Ns? Tell me, were you keeping a spare in your basement all this time?”

Her words stain your confusion with something new. Wanda looks at you as though the breath has been driven from her body, eyes shining with hurt and bewilderment. Whatever is happening—whatever brought this other version of you into being—it is clear that Wanda had no part in it.

Before you can move, Billy and Tommy break from Monica’s grasp and sprint to their mother. “Mom!” Tommy drops beside her, clutching her hands with trembling fingers. Billy follows, positioning himself like a shield between Wanda and Agatha, fists clenched.

Then the other you speaks.

“Help her,” she addresses you, easing Wanda gently back so the twins can reach her. Then she strides right up to Agatha, placing herself between the witch and everything that matters. “Touch her again,” she warns, voice like iron, “and I peel the smile off your face.”

Agatha’s grin twitches. “Oh, darling—do try,” she purrs, tilting her head as though assessing a new piece on the board.

You seize the moment and drop to Wanda’s side, gathering her and the boys into one fierce embrace. They collapse against you, limbs and tears tangling until the four of you fit together as though made to. Wanda’s breath hitches against your neck. “Y/N,” she whispers.

“Shh.” You kiss her temple, brushing the blood-matted hair. “Are you hurt?”

She gives a shaky but certain nod. With a groan, she shifts, and you help her to her feet while Billy and Tommy steady her other side.

“Monica! Darcy!” you bark, hoping Wanda regains her strength soon while you buy her time. “Clear the houses, move everyone toward the nearest boundary. Keep them low and lock it down.”

Monica hesitates. “What about you? You’re not exactly Captain America.”

“I never said I’d win,” your double answers, eyes locked on Agatha. “I said I won’t let her touch my family again. Go.”

Darcy grabs Monica’s sleeve. “Come on. We’ve got people to move.” They sprint off, herding panicked residents into motion.

You tighten your arm around Wanda. Billy lifts his fists; Tommy squares his stance. In front of you, the other Y/N rolls her shoulders once, then settles in; ready to absorb the first hit so the rest of you don’t have to.

Agatha raises her hands, magic pooling like storm clouds in her palms. “Family reunion,” she sneers. “Let’s see how long it lasts.”

And then she strikes. A jagged bolt of violet lightning tears toward the four of you—fast, vicious.

You brace for impact.

But Wanda throws her arms out and roars.

Scarlet power detonates, slamming into the ground and blooming into a dome. A shell of red light snaps around everyone—including your double—and the shockwave leaves your ears ringing.

Agatha laughs, giddy and ravenous. “More… give me more.”

Wanda presses both palms against the barrier. The violet threads burrow into the scarlet shell, leeching color until the red dims and begins to sink into Agatha’s hands like water into dry earth.

Wanda grits her teeth, sweat beading at her brow.

Eventually, the barrier shatters like glass, sending a shockwave to shove everyone to their knees.

When the light fades, Wanda is swaying. Agatha stands a few steps away, smoke curling from her fingers.

Wanda looks down to see the skin of her hands mottled and ashen gray. 

Agatha’s grin widens, charred fingertips flexing. “Round two?”

—

In the end, the fight comes down to Wanda and Agatha alone.

They rise into the sky, disappearing above the dark shroud curling over Westview. You lose sight of them, but flashes ripple through the clouds—mostly violet, not red. Your stomach twists with dread. Red would signal Wanda gaining ground, but every violet flash tells you she’s still losing.

Then a loud rumble comes. A line of Humvees grinds to a halt at the edge of the square, headlights spearing the gloom. Soldiers fan out, cradling rifles in front of them. 

If Clint were still babysitting Hayward, the cavalry wouldn’t be here. Something’s gone sideways.

You force yourself upright, every muscle protesting after Agatha’s parting blow. The other you is crouched protectively in front of Billy and Tommy, breathing hard. She’s been their mother every second of their existence here; you have no claim, no matter how much it hurts to stay back.

Monica steps between the troops and the crowd, palms open. “Stand down,” she calls, “they’re not your targets.”

The ranking officer hesitates just long enough. You watch, almost impressed, as one by one the soldiers are disarmed before they can even react. Rifles vanish from their hands like magic, dropped in a growing pile ten feet away. Tommy zips past them again, grinning like it’s a game, and somehow it does look that easy—like stealing candy from a baby. You can’t help but feel a little proud.

By the time it’s over, not a single soldier is armed. Monica reiterates her call for a truce. 

“We’re not the enemy. Wanda’s ending this—just give her time,” she tells them. 

That’s when Hayward steps out of one of the tactical vehicles, gun already in hand. He raises it without hesitation, aiming directly at the kids.

But you’ve been waiting for this. Watching him. Timing him. Your Westview counterpart moves instinctively, stepping in front of the twins without hesitation. Monica joins her a heartbeat later, forming a wall between the children and the barrel of Hayward’s gun.

His finger barely tenses on the trigger before you’re behind him. You twist the gun from his grip in one swift, practiced motion, then wrench his arm back harder than necessary. His knees buckle with a grunt of pain.

“Try that again,” you growl in his ear, “and you’ll lose more than your gun.”

A single nod to Monica and the ranking officer is all it takes. They’ve seen enough. Whatever authority Hayward tried to parade disappears the instant he aimed at children. They cuff him without ceremony and haul him away while he spits useless orders.

With that threat gone, you glance around. 

What now? 

Wanda’s still in the sky, locked in a silent, brutal battle, and you have no idea how long she can hold her own, or what you’re supposed to do from down here.

You’re on the edge of spiraling when you hear footsteps behind you.

Westview Y/N approaches, cautiously, with the twins close behind her. Monica, off to the side, is already issuing post-op commands to the military, stepping seamlessly into a role she was always meant to assume.

You square your shoulders as she draws closer.

“Hi,” she says softly, like she doesn’t want to startle you, even though the situation is startling in itself.

You nod once. “Hey.”

It’s strange, looking at yourself like this. Same face. Same eyes. An exact copy of who you were five years ago. The version you’ve spent years aching to become again. And now, looking at her, you finally understand. 

You can’t go back. You can never be her again, no matter how hard you wish or how much you try.

Her eyes sweep over you—clenched fists, the blood from your run-in with Agatha—then tip up to the sky. “She’s almost done.”

You follow her stare. “Or almost gone,” you mutter, praying you’re wrong.

She waits a beat, then steps closer, the kids tight at her side. “Billy says she’s winning,” she murmurs. “He can feel it.”

Billy and Tommy peek around her waist, wide‑eyed but unafraid now that the guns have fallen silent. You give them a quick smile, unsure whether it reassures them or you.

Your clone takes a long breath. “So, what’s the plan?”

The truth is you have no real plan. All you carry is the promise to end this before it consumes Wanda. “First we keep the boys safe. After that…” You let the words die there. Saying the rest—asking Wanda to let go—feels like another betrayal. Worse, it feels like the very thing that might not keep the boys safe.

She nods anyway, reading the rest, and says, “You’re here to break the spell.” She turns to the twins. “Boys, go with Monica for a minute, okay? I’ll be right behind you.”

They hesitate, then obey when Monica waves them over. Once they’re out of earshot, she walks closer, eyes shining with something between resolve and resignation. “When this ends, so do I—and they go with me. You know that.”

You swallow hard. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” A faint smile tugs at her mouth. “I was made for a purpose, and you’re here to finish it.” She searches your face. “Just promise me she won’t be alone.”

You open your mouth, close it, and try again; only a thin breath escapes. Each time you reach for the right answer, it slips through your fingers.

Your double waits, steady and expectant. All she wants is a simple yes. You wish Wanda could have everything—could do the right thing and still keep her happiness—but life rarely offers perfect outcomes. Every road forks, and none leads to a tidy ending.

So you do the one thing you swore you never would. 

“I’ll stay,” you whisper, giving her the words she needs, though they are not the whole truth. “She won’t face this alone. I promise.”

Relief loosens her features—soft, perilous relief that feeds on your guilt. She believes you. Worse, she needs to.

“Thank you,” she says, squeezing your hand.

At the back of your mind, you wonder.

You wonder if the Snap had never happened, if you’d settled down in some quiet town with Wanda instead of tearing across the world in a grief-fueled rampage—could this have been you? The gentler, mother of two. The one who built a life instead of burning it down. You envy her, this softer reflection of yourself. It stings to realize she will have to disappear soon, erased along with the dream she represents. Then only you will remain: bitter, broken, and, as ever, not enough.

A second later, a hush sweeps the square.

The clouds above split open, pouring crimson light onto the pavement. Wanda drifts down through the glow, no longer battered and faltering. A dark crown burns at her brow, copper hair fanning wild around her. The armor she wears looks less like clothing than an extension of the power thrumming beneath her skin.

Wanda touches down like the ground belongs to her.

Soldiers gape, speechless. Even Monica’s breath hitches before she gives a single, satisfied nod—just what she’d hoped to see.

Wanda doesn’t spare the troops a glance. She walks—no, saunters—toward her family like the storm never touched her. Not even the soldiers dare raise a hand, their fear is instinctual.

The boys run to her first, of course. Billy barrels into her side, Tommy clutches at her waist, both of them laughing and crying at once. Wanda drops to her knees, gathering them close, one arm around each child. When she looks up again, it’s for one person only.

Her—the person she pulled from memory, shaped from fragments of who you were five years ago, and brought to life inside her world.

Wanda extends a hand and draws her in as well. The four of them fold together, a tight huddle. A family.

You feel Monica’s eyes on you. Darcy’s too. You don’t have to turn to know they’re both watching. Waiting.

Because this… this isn’t over. Not while the Hex still holds. The mission isn’t done, and you’re the only one who can finish it.

You steady your breath and take a step forward. Just one. But it takes everything in you.

Wanda rises at the same moment, fingers laced with Westview Y/N. Her eyes meet yours, flat and unreadable, a chill sliding down your spine. If she feels recognition, grief, or anger, she masks it perfectly.

She turns, guiding her family toward the street that leads home. The boys keep pace, and your double sends you a glance, part apology, part pity, then squeezes Wanda’s hand and follows.

You stand your ground until they pass.

“Wanda—”

She keeps walking as if hearing nothing.

You try again, a little louder. “Wanda!”

The air answers before she does. A low pressure hums off her like heat from summer asphalt, shaking loose panes in the shopfronts. A wordless warning; the only answer she’s giving. You have no choice but to take it. 

Monica appears at your side, a hand light on your arm. Her head moves in a slow, firm no. “Don’t,” she murmurs. “Give her space. Give her time.”

You watch the four of them shrink into the hazy light until the far corner swallows them. Only then does Monica speak again.

“Maybe you can’t end this,” she says, voice level but kind. “But she can.” She nods after Westview Y/N. “You and she? The same heartbeat. She’ll say what Wanda needs to hear.”

Monica’s right. She is you.