#aoyp

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.

The first thing you did when you and Wanda arrived in Scotland was clean up the small, nondescript apartment Natasha had directed you to. It smelled of dust and damp wood, and the wallpaper peeled at the corners, stained with colors you’d rather not think too hard about. But underneath it all, the bones were solid. Sturdy. It was something to build on.

Most of all, it was yours now. 

Yours and Wanda’s.

As you scrubbed the counters and unpacked the meager belongings you brought with you, you told her the truth. Natasha had helped you acquire a new identity, complete with forged documents, a thin but convincing backstory, and a job that surprisingly appealed to you. You couldn’t help but smile when you told Wanda it was the job of your dreams—and how it was also a chance to start fresh, doing something that mattered to you. And, because Natasha never did things halfway, she’d also arranged for a second job offer. One you’d held out to Wanda, despite knowing she probably wouldn’t take it.

She didn’t. Wanda had looked at you, her lips quirking in that soft, amused way she had when she wanted to be polite. “I’ll figure it out on my own,” she said, leaning against the counter, watching you work. She’d always had this way of saying no without making it feel like rejection, like her refusal wasn’t about you at all.

You glanced at her, pausing to wipe your hands on a towel. “Are you sure? I mean, it’s not glamorous, but it’s something.”

She smiled faintly. “I’ve been careful with my money. And besides,” she added, her voice breezy but not dismissive, “I’ve survived worse.”

Wanda was careful with her money, you learned quickly. Frugal, almost to a fault. Where you had your savings tied up in an account you couldn’t even access without some bureaucratic headache, Wanda had cash. Actual, physical cash—small bills tucked into an envelope she kept in a knapsack. You’d teased her about it once, back when things between you were still easy and new. She’d shrugged and said, “Pietro and I didn’t keep bank accounts back then. Force of habit, I guess.”

There had been instances when you’ve been short on money, and well, you always found some bills tucked in your socks every now and then.

—

Your first day as a security officer at the library began with a shirt that sat stiff on your shoulders and a badge so heavy it tugged awkwardly at the fabric where it was pinned. The library itself was grand but weathered—arched windows, polished wooden counters, and a faint smell of old paper and mildew that you’ve always found comforting. 

You spent the morning being introduced to everyone: the head librarian, a stern but kind woman named Marion; two younger assistants, Callum and Fiona, who proudly professed their caffeine addictions and carried them around like marks of pride; and a janitor named Angus.

It surprised you how easily they folded you into their world. Callum and Fiona took you out for lunch that day, leading you to the Subway shop down the street. You almost said no and thought of some excuse about needing to check the perimeter, but something about the way she said, “Come on, it’s tradition,” made you cave. You sat awkwardly at the corner of their little table, your new uniform chafing against your skin, wondering if they could smell the fraud on you. But they didn’t. They talked about books, weekend plans, and the eccentric patrons who frequented the library. 

It was bittersweet—the way they welcomed you without hesitation, without suspicion. They didn’t know who you really were. They had no idea you’d saved the world more times than you could count on both hands—or that you’d taken lives in the process. They didn’t know your face was plastered across Interpol’s most-wanted list, with a bounty large enough to make anyone who recognized you instantly rich. 

You reminded yourself of that constantly. This wasn’t permanent. You weren’t supposed to get attached. But somehow, lunch became routine. Three of you, sometimes four, depending on who could slip away from their duties.

It was a fragile little slice of normal, and you couldn’t help but hold onto it, even if you knew it wasn’t yours to keep.

—

Wanda, on the other hand, moved at her own pace. 

She wasn’t working—not officially—and at first, it bothered you. Not because you thought she should be working, but because you weren’t sure if she was acquainting herself with a new town and a new identity just fine.

To you, it looked like she was doing nothing. But that wasn’t fair judgement. Wanda filled her days in her own subdued way. 

You’d asked her once, while she stirred something on the stove, what she did all day. She’d shrugged without looking at you. “I walk. I try new cafés. I watch people.”

“Watch people?” you asked, curious.

“People tell stories without saying anything. You just have to pay attention.”

Sometimes she went to museums, or sat in parks with a sketchbook you didn’t know she had until one day it was casually left open on the coffee table—a half-finished drawing of a tree, delicate lines forming branches that reached out like arms.

And then there was the TV. Wanda didn’t watch mindlessly; she absorbed. Old sitcoms, cooking shows, documentaries about things you knew she already understood. You’d catch her staring at the screen sometimes, eyes glassy, like she was somewhere else entirely.

Back at the compound, she rarely had time for movie marathons. You figured it was partly because Vision probably discouraged it, and partly because the constant training and meetings left everyone too exhausted by day’s end.

It was very childlike—how she went about her day doing the most innocent things.

And yet—

You couldn’t stop thinking about how she felt pressed against you. How soft her lips were when you kissed them. How wet she’d been that night, soaked from the rain and from wanting you. Since moving to Scotland, neither of you had brought it up—not once. And every time you thought about circling back to that moment, you realized you still couldn’t find the right time. 

Sometimes the memory of it felt like a distant dream, and you were left questioning whether it really happened or not.

—

You got your first pay today—a thin envelope instead of a digital deposit—and it brought this unexpected rush of pride. It wasn’t even a tenth of what you used to rake in from Stark Industries, but somehow it felt more gratifying. 

On your way home from work, you made a quick stop at a takeout place. You’d been craving greasy noodles and sticky-sweet dumplings all day, thinking about sharing them with Wanda. But you wanted something more to celebrate with, and you took your time wandering around town for a clue. 

It wasn’t until you were riding the subway, head leaning against the cold metal pole, your first paycheck stuffed—and a little forgotten—in your pocket, that you started to feel… stupid. You’d been walking around for over an hour, takeout cooling in your hands, looking for something to celebrate this milestone and coming up empty. 

You were close to giving up when you heard it.

Music.

At the far end of the car, three musicians had set up—an older man with a violin, a woman with a cello balanced delicately between her knees, and a teenager, maybe seventeen, strumming a guitar with steady hands. They weren’t playing anything you recognized, but it was something slow and aching, and it made you close your eyes as you let yourself sink into it.

That’s when the image of Wanda’s hands hovering over strings, her brow furrowed in concentration, the soft tilt of her head when she found the sound she was looking for, came to you. You’d never told her how much you liked hearing her play back at the compound.

By the time the subway screeched into your stop, the idea was fully formed. You hopped off the train, take-out bag swinging at your side, and made a beeline for the nearest pawn shop you could find.

—

Wanda opened the door before you even had a chance to fish out your keys, her face breaking into a smile so wide it almost made you worry.

“You’re home!” she exclaimed, breathless and a little flushed. She wore an oversized dress shirt that skimmed just above her knees—normally paired with sweatpants, but tonight her creamy legs were bare for you to admire. 

You swallowed dryly and instinctively hid the gift you’d bought for her behind your back. You hadn’t expected her to greet you like this—she was usually curled up on the couch with her feet tucked beneath her, engrossed in Modern Family, her latest obsession from last week.

She bounced on her toes, practically glowing. “I have news,” she said, fingers tugging at the hem of her shirt. There was a glimmer in her eyes—like she’d been holding onto this all day, just waiting for you to walk through the door.

You nudged the door shut behind you. “What is it?”

She bit her bottom lip, trying to hold back a smile but failing adorably. “I found something I want to do. Well… it’s not exactly a job—more like volunteer work.” Her voice wavered between pride and nerves. “At a foster home. I checked it out this morning. I start next week.”

A grin broke across your face before you could stop it. “Wanda, that’s amazing!”

Without even thinking, you wrapped your arms around her and pulled her in. It happened so fast that you weren’t sure she’d welcome the sudden embrace, but her arms came around you just as tightly. You felt her breathe you in, and a small shiver ran through you. For a while you both just stood there, holding each other with your eyes closed.

That’s when you remembered the present you left outside. Carefully, you pulled away, an excited grin lighting up your face. “Oh! I almost forgot,” you said, moving back to the hallway to retrieve your gift. 

Wanda blinked, confused—until her gaze landed on the guitar case. Her eyes widened. “Wait—what…”

You popped the latches and opened the case with a flourish, revealing a glossy, warm-toned acoustic guitar. “Ta-da!”

She lifted a hand to her mouth. “Wha—Y-You didn’t have to—this must’ve cost a fortune!”

You shrugged, grinning. “I absolutely had to,” you said, throwing her a playful wink. “First paycheck.”

Wanda looked from you to the guitar, her eyes glassy with emotion. “You’re too much,” she whispered, fingers brushing the strings. “This is... perfect. Thank you.”

You lifted the guitar from its case and handed it toward her. “Come on, let’s see how you look with it.”

She laughed as you guided her to the couch, placing the guitar strap over her shoulder. It didn’t matter if she knew only two chords or none at all—she'd learn them again, now that she had the means to do so.

“I still can’t believe this,” she murmured, settling her fingers on the fretboard and plucking at the strings.

“You’re going to do great with this,” you said, settling beside her. “And you’re going to be amazing at the foster home. Those kids are going to love hearing you play.”

Wanda laughed. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“Play something for me?” you asked, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees.

She glanced over at you, head tilted, a soft smile on her lips. “You sure you don’t mind if I play my favorite?”

You shook your head, eager. “Not at all. I’d love to hear it.”

She seemed thoughtful for a moment, then began to play a melody that made your breath catch. It only took a few seconds for you to recognize it—the Sokovian lullaby she used to sing late in the night when she thought everyone else had gone to sleep. You’d heard her hum it to herself every once in a while, sometimes so quietly you weren’t sure she even realized she was doing it. 

The melody she was making was so beautiful, but when her voice joined the guitar, you were enchanted for good. 

We’ve been waiting for you

'tie mi t͡ʃaˈjaɫəm

Now you are here

ˈʃiɪdeŋ ˈti e ˈʃte

More perfect than I imagined

ˈdrage wo t͡sto ˈmisliɫəm

Our house is now a home (our house is now a nest)

ˈdom naʃ ˈʃiɪdeŋ ˈgnieʒdo

No matter where you go

bez veˈdeɪ̆ doˈkude ˈjit͡ʃiʃ

Sunlight shines on you

ˈʃiʒa ˈsunt͡so nad tiˈe

When she dragged out the final note to its ending, you clapped, a broad grin spreading across your face, and Wanda’s cheeks reddened.

This girl really was amazing—in every sense.

“It’s not much,” she whispered bashfully. 

You swallowed the rush of reverence rising in your chest. “It’s everything,” you murmured, voice thick. “I think it might be my favorite now, too.”

Your applause faded as you noticed the way Wanda was staring at you—intently, unblinking, her green eyes darkening with an intent that made your pulse thump against your rib cage. You opened your mouth, the start of a question on your lips—“Wanda, what’s—”

Before you could finish, she carefully set the guitar on the floor beside her, and then—

And then she launched herself at you.

You barely had time to react as she straddled your hips, her legs on either side of your hips, pressing you back into the cushions. The momentum of her body made your head spin, and any question you had died on your lips as her mouth crashed onto yours.

She kissed you like she couldn’t get close enough, like she was starved for contact. You tried to match her pace, but it was near impossible—her urgency was overwhelming. Your hands found her waist, gripping the soft fabric of her shirt as you let yourself get lost in the taste and feel of her.

A small sound escaped you when her fingers went to the buttons of your uniform, fumbling but dead-set on getting them undone. One by one, she tugged them loose until your shirt hung open, exposing the rise and fall of your chest beneath a black bra.

You caught on quickly, your hands dropping to your belt, fingers trembling slightly as the task suddenly felt far more complicated than it should have. Any focus you had shattered when her mouth found your neck, her teeth sinking into your skin before her tongue followed, soothing the sting.

“Wanda—”

She pulled back just enough to yank her own shirt over her head, and your breath caught in your throat—she wasn’t wearing a bra. The sight of her bare skin sent heat flooding through your veins, and then, in a heartbeat, she was leaning in again, her mouth finding yours with that same consuming hunger.

You broke away from her lips just long enough to tilt your head down, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses across her chest. A soft groan slipped from Wanda’s lips, and you felt her tug insistently at the ponytail keeping your hair tied back. The band snapped under her fingers—or maybe under a subtle flick of her power—and suddenly your hair was free. She ran her nails over your scalp, scratching gently as you placed a wet kiss over the swell of her breast.

“God, you have no idea how many times I’ve thought about this,” you breathed, trailing your lips up to the sensitive peak of her nipple. You dragged your tongue across it, earning a sharp gasp from her. “You’re so beautiful,” you murmured, voice thick with want.

She let out a breathy laugh, her hands tightening in your hair as you drew a hard nipple into your mouth, sucking softly. The taste and feel of her made your head spin, and you lost yourself in the sensation for a moment, swirling your tongue around the bud. 

“Oh God…” she moaned helplessly. “You too, you’re so…”

Wanda’s sentence ended in a needy whine. You switched to her other breast, giving it the same slow, deliberate attention, sucking softly as you let your palm caress the one you’d just left. Wanda’s lips parted on another helpless sound, and you couldn’t help but smile around the warm skin in your mouth.

Her impatience soon got the better of her. “Off,” she demanded, pushing at the waistband of your pants. “These… off.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you breathed, trying to move your hands to the fly of your trousers. But before you could start, you felt a shimmer of Wanda’s power surge around you. With her magic, she unclasped your belt and pushed your pants down your thighs in one swift motion.

A surprised laugh caught in your throat. “Show-off,” you smirked, but there was no mistaking how grateful you were for her ability to make things happen quickly. You wriggled your hips, kicking your pants off the rest of the way. Wanda’s eyes never left you, dark and hungry as she watched every awkward shuffle, every moment of clothing leaving your body.

Wanda’s hands slid up your shoulders and found the clasp of your bra, fingers fumbling only for a second before snapping it free. She tossed the garment somewhere behind you, too impatient to care where it landed. A fresh rush of heat bloomed on her cheeks as she let her gaze linger on your bare chest, and she reached out to touch you almost reverently.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, noticing the awe in her eyes and the hesitant way her hands cupped you.

She swallowed, nodding once. “I—I’ve never actually been with a woman before…”

You smiled at her and guided her palms against your breasts, covering her hands with your own so she could feel how you liked to be touched. Your breaths grew shallow and ragged when Wanda’s warm fingers brushed over your taut nipples. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, watching your reactions as she tried different pressures and strokes.

“You’re making me feel good,” you managed to whisper between soft gasps. “So fucking good.”

Wanda’s cheeks burned deeper at the praise, but she didn’t look away. Emboldened, she kneaded your flesh in slow circles, and each pass of her palm sent a fresh wave of wetness between your legs. 

Your own impatience stirred, drawing you to the junction of her thighs. You pushed her panties to the side, and your fingertips traced her slick heat. A low groan escaped you at how soaked she was—she practically pulsed under your touch, swollen and undeniably turned on. The fabric of her panties was ruined, dampness seeping through in the most delicious way.

And then you remembered her confession from weeks ago—she’d never truly come. The thought sent your heart racing, but you fought the urge to ask more questions this time. You didn’t want to make this a test or some sort of milestone. This moment was for her, on her terms, however it played out.

“Let me take care of you, okay?” you murmured, brushing a thumb gently along her jaw.

She gave a shaky nod, her eyes fluttering shut. You gently took Wanda’s hands off your body, shifting your grip to guide her onto the couch. She followed your cue, sitting down with a slight tremor in her legs, her breath already coming in short, uneven bursts. Her cheeks were flushed, and she kept her knees pressed together, almost like she was trying to make herself smaller under your gaze.

You took a deep breath as you slipped off the couch and knelt on the floor between her legs—only you were still high enough that you were at her eye level, able to see the nervous excitement crossing her face. She swallowed hard, then let out a shaky exhale, unclasping her hands where they’d been gripping each other in her lap.

“Hey,” you said softly, sliding your palms along the outsides of her thighs. “Is this okay?”

“I…” Her voice wavered, and she forced herself to meet your eyes. “I trust you,” she finished softly.

Those three words meant everything to you—maybe even more than the other three words Wanda hadn’t said back. Words you weren’t expecting her to say, not anytime soon, maybe not ever. You loved her, and whether or not she loved you in return didn’t change that. Loving her felt like a privilege, something rare and fleeting, and it was enough. More than enough.

Wanda nodded, swallowing hard, then loosened her legs so you could settle closer. With careful hands, you reached for her hips, hooking your thumbs under the waistband of her damp panties. You felt her muscles tense, then slowly relax as she lifted her hips just enough to help you. Bit by bit, you slid her underwear down, revealing soft, warm skin beneath. The garment peeled away, clinging for a second where it was soaked, before slipping past her knees and down to her ankles.

“It’s alright if you want to stop, or slow down,” you reminded her, giving her thigh a gentle squeeze, your nails pressing in just a little more than necessary.

“I don’t want to stop,” she whispered.

That was all you needed. Leaning in, you placed a soft kiss on her mons pubis, feeling her shiver at the contact. You moved slowly, pressing a trail of gentle kisses lower, letting her adjust to each new inch of intimacy. Wanda exhaled a trembling sigh, her hands bunching up the couch cushion on either side as she braced herself.

You kissed every inch of skin in your path, taking your time with her body as you made your way closer to her center. Wanda’s breathing grew more erratic, her thighs trembling under your touch. When you reached her most intimate place, you couldn’t help but pause, taking her in.

Just above her clit, a neat patch of hair framed her perfectly, her clit already engorged and peeking shyly out from beneath its hood. You couldn’t help but smile—she was so beautiful, so vulnerable, letting you see her this way. You brushed your nose lightly across her vulva, pressing a soft kiss nearby as her breath caught. “So stunning…” you murmured against her skin. 

Below a whisper, you added a single word—“Mine”. It was possessive, a fleeting slip of thought that you couldn’t hold back, even if you never intended for her to hear it. Wanda seemed completely unaware, lost in the slow rise and fall of her own breathing. She parted her legs a bit more, silent permission for you to continue.

Gently, you began to massage the area around her pussy, your fingers moving in slow, soothing circles to help relax her muscles while simultaneously teasing her. 

When she opened her mouth to ask, voice trembling with anxious need, “What’s taking you so long?” you finally dived in and gave her a tentative lick, starting from her entrance and dragging your tongue slowly up to her clit.

Wanda’s whole body jolted, and she let out a sharp, unrestrained curse. “Fuck!”

You repeated the motion, slower this time, savoring her shudder and gasp. Her hands gripped the cushions as your tongue explored her—deep, then up to her clit.

Her thighs twitched against your shoulders, your name falling from her lips in a broken moan. Encouraged, you let your tongue move lazily, caressing her in slow, deliberate strokes. It wasn’t long before Wanda began to move on her own, hips rolling, pressing herself against your mouth—chasing every bit of pleasure, fucking herself onto your tongue.

You pressed a hand against her lower belly to keep her grounded, your fingers splaying across her skin as you worked her with your mouth. Each time your tongue dipped into her entrance, you felt her pulse around you, her arousal so obvious in the way she grew wetter with every movement.

“Y/N—Y/N….” She kept calling your name in broken syllables.

Soon enough, Wanda's movements grew more desperate. Her hands, which had been clutching the cushions for support, moved to your head. Fingers threaded through your hair, tangling and pulling gently at first, then with increasing firmness. It was clear she was finding her rhythm, her own way of expressing what felt good, what she needed more of.

You didn’t resist. Instead, you surrendered to her, letting her guide you. Wanda’s hips rolled with purpose now, pressing herself against your mouth. The pressure of her hand on your head left you still, no longer moving on your own. Her clit throbbed against your tongue, and you adjusted subtly, letting the flat of your tongue glide over her sensitive bundle of nerves each time her hips surged forward. 

“Y/N…” she gasped, her voice heavy with need. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop.”

You couldn’t have stopped even if you wanted to. You dug your hands into her hips, holding her steady as she fucked your face with abandon, her moans turning into cries that bordered on incoherent.

Wanda’s movements became more erratic, driven by a strange, swelling pressure that coiled in her lower belly. You sensed her confusion when she stiffened, her hips momentarily faltering.

“I—” she managed, voice shaky, “something’s—”

Wanda looked almost scared, and you’ve rarely seen her afraid. 

“What’s wrong?” you murmured against her,  worried you’ve done something she didn’t like. You kept the stimulation on her clit, massaging it in rough circles with your fingers.

She shook her head, her brows knitting together. “It’s tight,” she admitted. “In my stomach. It feels like… like it’s going to—

You could tell she was right at the edge of truly losing control, so you decided to help tip her over. You replaced your fingers with your mouth once more, sucking softly on her sensitive bud, and then, with careful intent, you eased a finger into her soaked entrance—just one at first, letting her body adjust. 

“You’re close,” you said, before blowing over her clit in relief and excitement that she’s about to come—and you’re the first to get her there. “Just let it happen.”

“I don’t know…” she whispered, biting her lip, her hands hovering restlessly near her stomach as if she could stop it from happening.

“You’re safe,” you promised in between licks while curling your finger inside of her. “I’ve got you, okay? Let it happen. I’ll be right here.”

“Y/N,” she whimpered, her voice high-pitched and shaky. “I—I think I’m…”

“You are,” you affirmed gently. “You’re about to come, baby, come for me.”

Her hips jerked spasmodically, and you could feel her clench around your finger. With a few more deliberate strokes, focusing on the rhythm that had her moaning loudest, you felt her body suddenly tighten in a drawn-out moment of suspense.

And then, with a long, keening wail, Wanda finally let go. 

She sobbed your name as her orgasm overtook her, her body tensing and releasing in time with the rippling pleasure. It was raw, overwhelming, and utterly beautiful, and you couldn’t look away as she experienced it for the first time.

The fervor in her eyes melted into awe and disbelief, as if she were unsure she’d actually reached the peak she’d been chasing. She let out a disbelieving laugh, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “Oh god… I can’t believe I…”

You gently took your finger out, continuing to stroke her softly with your tongue as you helped her ride out the tail end of her orgasm, her body shuddering with each aftershock. But as the last wave of pleasure rolled through her, Wanda whimpered and tried to push your head away, squirming under your mouth. You relented, pressing one last kiss against her inner thigh before sliding up onto the couch.

A grin tugged at your lips as you climbed over her, feeling more than a little proud of yourself. She was still catching her breath, her flushed skin tempting you again. You placed a hand at her waist and urged her to lie back fully on the cushions, legs tangling together until you were hovering above her.

Leaning closer, your face inches from hers, you smirked. “So… was that to your satisfaction, Maximoff?” 

Wanda’s cheeks turned impossibly red, her lips parting in shock before she let out a breathless laugh. She reached up, her fingers grazing your cheek before resting on the back of your neck, pulling you down until your foreheads touched.

“You’re very good,” she whispered softly.

An amused laugh escaped you. “Comes with experience,” you teased, wiggling your eyebrows dramatically—though not without a certain smugness.

Instantly, you noticed how Wanda’s face changed. A shadow of something like annoyance passed over her features, and for a brief moment, her eye twitched in an unmistakable display of jealousy. It was almost too cute that it had you bursting into a breathy laugh, earning a small frown from her.

“Oh, don’t laugh,” she huffed, swatting at your shoulder. “You say that like you’ve… you know, done this with a bunch of people.”

You snorted. “A bunch? Hardly.” You hesitated, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “Besides… I’m out of practice. I haven’t been with anyone since I met you.”

“Really?” she murmured, eyes searching yours for the truth.

“Really,” you said, your tone serious—though you couldn’t help but feel a little embarrassed. Because honestly, the moment Wanda entered your life, no one else even registered. Down bad didn’t begin to cover it.

Wanda shifted slightly beneath you, her knee coming into contact accidentally with your soaked underwear. That’s when she realized that the past several minutes had been all about her, and a flush crept up her neck.

“You haven’t…” she began.

You noticed the faint droop of her eyelids, the way her head tilted slightly forward, almost resting against your shoulder. “Wanda,” you said, caressing her cheek in a way that coaxed her further into her exhaustion. “You’re tired.”

She blinked, like she was trying to push through it. “No, I—”

“You should get some rest.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, fingertips resting just below your ear. “You could’ve—” Her cheeks pinked. “I mean, I’m not the only one who should feel good tonight.”

“Hey,” you cooed, “it’s alright. There will be another time… right?” The last word lifted slightly—turning it into a question. You didn’t want to assume anything. For all you knew, this could’ve been a one-time thing. The last thing you wanted was to trap her in expectation.

She gave a heavy-lidded smile and nodded. “I was looking forward to it,” she murmured, then, a beat later, she looked into your eyes with a quiet determination as she added, “I love you, Y/N…”

The world stopped for a second, the moment stretching into something infinite. Then you pressed your lips together, exhaling slowly. “You love me,” you said at last—not a question, but a statement. 

A certainty.

“And you love me too?”

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.

“Honey! I shrunk the kids!” 

Wanda bursts into the basement, apron billowing out like a cape. Except, there's no draft down here; that apron shouldn't be moving like that at all. But then again, considering your wife’s claim, maybe the laws of physics are taking a day off.

You glance up from the miniature model home you’re meticulously working on, unsure if you heard her right. Did she really just say that? 

“You what?”

Wanda, flushed and a little breathless, skids to a stop in front of you. “Okay, so I was experimenting with a new spell, one that was supposed to…” She bites her lip, hesitating, her face glowing a deeper shade of red. “...it was supposed to do something else, but it backfired and... well, it’s not important right now!”

“Jesus, Wanda.”

Your poor, beautiful, occasionally clumsy wife stands there, teetering between a freak-out and a fit of giggles. 

“It was an accident! I didn't mean to!” Wanda shrieks, causing the room to tremble from her panic.

Wanda's powers have always been a wildcard. You can child-proof the entire house in a day, but that definitely doesn't cover child-proofing Wanda herself—especially not when your kids are involved. Luckily, the boys have inherited some special abilities of their own, which leaves you as the sole non-superpowered member of the household. With that in mind, you know better than to panic. Getting worked up alongside her would only escalate things, and you’re not exactly keen on being shrunk next.

“Okay…where are they now?” you ask as calmly as you can manage.

Wanda takes a deep breath and leads you to the living room. You trail her in silence, clutching at composure. It can’t be that bad, right? The distant sound of playful music trickling through the house almost makes it seem like everything’s fine. You hadn’t really noticed it before, but now that you think about it, it’s like your brain has learned to associate that kind of tune with situations that somehow always end in collective sighs of relief.

Sighs, giggles, and applause—sounds that don't belong to Wanda or the boys.

Where are they coming from?

Before your mind can completely sink into the oddities of your life here in Westview, Wanda halts in the middle of the living room. Your eyes dart around, searching for Billy and Tommy, but they’re nowhere to be seen.

“Where?”

“Right there,” Wanda points toward the coffee table, her finger trembling slightly.

You squint in the direction she’s pointing. Next to the TV remote, two tiny figures wave up at you—your sons, each about the size of your thumb.

“Oh my god, they’re tiny!” you gasp, covering your mouth with your hand. You expected them to be at least half their normal size—a size they might grow out of eventually.

“Shhhh, Y/N!” Wanda hisses, pressing her index finger to her lips. “The neighbors might hear you.”

Neighbors. Which usually means just Agnes from next door. There’s literally several meters of spaces between your houses, but somehow, she always manages to hear things she shouldn’t and pries like she’s in some perfectly timed routine.

Wanda kneels by the coffee table, her eyes soft. “I told them to stay right there until we sorted this out.”

The twins start making noises, sounding like tiny bells, though still hard to make out. You pull out a magnifying glass from your back pocket—has that been there the whole time?—making sure your sons are okay. As soon as the lenses zoom in on their faces, you're relieved to see them laughing uproariously, seemingly unbothered by their predicament.

“They seem... happy?” you say, lowering the magnifying glass.

“They think it's hilarious,” Wanda grumbles, her lips curling into a pout.

“So,” you sigh, pushing yourself to your feet. “Any ideas on how to fix this?”  You're tempted to suggest just letting it run its course, waiting for the spell to fizzle out, but you know Wanda wouldn’t go for that. She's fiercely protective of the twins, and you can't blame her—it’s all her handiwork, after all.

Then you hear it—a hiccup. Another follows, and then another, each one a little louder than the last.

Before you know it, Wanda's a sobbing mess.

You cup her face in your hands. “Hey, hey...it’s okay,” you murmur, gently brushing away a tear with your thumb.

Wanda’s breath hitches as she looks at you, her eyes brimming with worry. “What if I can’t fix it?”

“We will,” you promise, looking into her eyes.

A collective ‘awww’ rings in your ears, pulling you out of the moment. What the hell—where did that come from? You've had this creepy feeling of being watched lately, and it's only getting worse.

Wanda brings you back to focus when she nuzzles into your palm. “Oh, Y/N, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You give her a small, lopsided grin and plant a kiss on her forehead. “Good thing you’ll never have to find out.” Something passes over her eyes as soon as you say it, but it vanishes in a split-second, replaced by a moment of inspiration.

“Wait,” she bursts out, stepping away from your embrace. “I think I have an idea.”

She heads straight for the fridge, and you trail after her, holding your breath.

“I’ve been trying to reverse it, but my magic isn’t cooperating. It’s like... it’s tangled,” Wanda mutters, yanking things out of the fridge.

You scowl, arms crossed, watching her. “Tangled? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. The more I try to fix it, the worse it gets. Like it has a life of its own,” she says. she says. After a few more seconds of rummaging, Wanda finally grabs a tetra pack of chocolate milk—the twins' favorite.

“I’m hoping this will do the trick,” she says, giving the carton a shake.

You cock your head, clueless on what’s going on. “Honey, what’s going on?”

Wanda mumbles, barely glancing up as she vigorously shakes the carton. “Just doing what it says—’Shake well before serving.’”

You roll your eyes, muttering, “This woman...”. Then louder, you ask, “I mean, what’s the chocolate got to do with our tiny children?”

Wanda stops mid-shake, a look of realization dawning on her face. “Oh, right,” she slaps her forehead. “You can’t read minds. I keep forgetting,” she chuckles, setting down the carton with a sheepish grin.

There it is again—a chorus of laughter from somewhere far off. Your mouth twitches at the sound—it’s really starting to get on your nerves. You make a mental note to bring it up with Wanda later.

Wanda gathers herself, then pitches her plan. “Instead of directly casting a spell on the twins, I think it’s safer to enchant this chocolate milk.” She picks up the carton again, giving it a final shake. “The idea is to infuse the milk with a spell that will gradually restore them to their normal sizes.”

You nod, beginning to understand what she’s trying to do. “Sounds less risky than zapping them with more magic head on.”

“Exactly,” she agrees, her eyes lighting up with excitement. You’d swear she’s getting a kick out of this macabre parenting hack—kids and all. The background tune keeps playing, like a promise that the universe won’t let things turn to shit. You’re wondering if maybe Wanda hears it too.

“This way, the magic is diluted and can adjust more naturally with their systems. It’s like... sneaking the cure into their bodies,” she says, snapping her fingers, red swirls of magic emanating from them to the carton of milk.

“I'm so proud of you, baby,” you say, leaning in for a quick kiss which she happily accepts. “For finding a fix, I mean. The whole shrinking our kids thing? Still not great.”

–

“What kind of spell do you think Wanda was going for?” Darcy asks, her eyes fixed on the credits rolling across the screen before it fades to black. She’s really gotten into Wanda’s little show, a welcome distraction from the freezing depths of hell that is New Jersey in November. Though exciting things are finally happening to her, the timing couldn't be worse. 

“No clue,” Jimmy mutters, his attention glued to the laptop in front of him. It’s been two days since Quantico sent him to look into the bizarre case of a missing town—a phenomenon almost unheard of in the 21st century. Upon arriving, they discovered that the town in question, Westview, was enveloped by some sort of anomaly—or a Hex, as Darcy has started calling it, referring to the hexagonal shape of the barrier encasing the town. 

Around the same time as the discovery, S.W.O.R.D. agent Monica Rambeau was quite literally sucked into the anomaly by accident. The only breakthrough has been Darcy Lewis’ detection of the signals, providing them with a window into the mysterious shroud, even helping them identify some of the show's characters as actual residents of the town.

But overall, they're still desperately trying to piece together why this is happening and how to stop it.

Darcy peeks over at the data on Jimmy’s screen. “Find anything new?”

Jimmy sighs in frustration. “No, not really. Everything we dig up just adds more questions instead of answers.”

“Like what, for instance?”

Instead of answering directly, he slides a thick file across the table toward her. “See for yourself.”

Darcy catches the file and starts flipping through it. Murmuring, she says, “So, Google finally returned search results?” The stack of papers is downright daunting. Jimmy’s right—any mountain of information would raise more questions than answers.

“No, not Google,” Jimmy corrects her. “Stark's highly confidential database did. The woman Wanda's married to in Westview? She’s not in any public records. Turns out her records were wiped clean two years ago.”

Darcy looks up, puzzled. “Why would Stark's company have this?”

“Just read, Darcy. It’s all in there,” he says, turning his full attention back to his research.

Darcy frowns slightly and begins scanning through the pages more attentively. It takes her a few minutes to piece together the information she's reading, with her mind going in different directions and still burning with curiosity about the spell Wanda botched.

Finally, she reads aloud, somewhat incredulously, “Subject was recognized as S.H.I.E.L.D.'s youngest marksmanship prodigy prior to recruitment by Stark Industries following the dissolution of S.H.I.E.L.D.. Subsequently provided tactical support on multiple classified operations in conjunction with the Avengers initiative.”

She sets the file down thoughtfully. “Kinda reminds me a bit of Romanoff or Barton. Total badass. I hadn’t pegged Maximoff for that crowd.”

“What crowd did you have Wanda filed under?” Jimmy asks, just out of curiosity.

Darcy’s gaze drifts off, a dreamy smirk on her lips. “Honestly? I always pictured her—or anyone for that matter—swooning over someone more…mythical hammer than tactical espionage.”

Jimmy snorts to himself at Darcy's whimsical take and says, “Of course, you’d say that. Thor's everyone's type.”

“He’s yours too?”

“Yeah, why not,” Jimmy shrugs, his tone more reluctant than sarcastic, which only amuses Darcy more.

“So,” Darcy begins, “Wanda's settled down in New Jersey, married to a woman? I mean, good for her. They all deserve a break. Maybe even an early retirement.”

Jimmy lets out a long, tired sigh, like he's just about done with everything. Darcy notices and raises an eyebrow. “What now?”

He barely glances up. “Like I said, everything’s in there. Just keep reading.”

Darcy groans but goes back to the file, flipping through the pages again. She’s about to make a snarky comment when something catches her attention—something that has her eyes practically popping out of their sockets.

“It… it says here Y/N’s dead.”

“That’s right,” Jimmy responds without missing a beat.

“Not snapped five years ago. Dead-dead.”

“Yep.”

Darcy stares at the page, disbelief all over her face. “That can’t be right, can it?”

Jimmy finally swivels his chair to face her, looking as tired as he sounds. “That’s what I’ve been trying to wrap my head around for hours. If aliens and superheroes are real, maybe bringing someone back from the dead to star in a sitcom isn’t so far-fetched, right?”

–

You carefully pull the blankets up over Billy, smoothing his hair and whispering a soft good night. Tommy’s already half-asleep, but you make sure to tuck him in just as snugly, brushing a kiss on his forehead. Wanda stands in the doorway, watching you, her heart swelling in her chest. You were so clueless when she first had the twins, but now, being a mother just seems to come naturally to you. 

And you pulled it off in a week, while the twins stretched into six-year-olds just as fast.

“Honey,” you call softly, noticing the way she’s lost in thought. “Aren’t you going to say good night to our boys?”

Wanda steps into the room, giving each of the boys their good night kiss. You pucker your lips, silently asking for your turn, and she playfully swats your arm, whispering, “Not here, baby.”

You pout, giving her your best puppy-dog eyes, which only makes her smile. Without warning, you grab her hand and hurriedly pull her out of the boys' room, making a beeline for your bedroom. Wanda’s laughter fills the hallway, and just as you reach the door, you suddenly sweep her off the ground, lifting her into your arms.

Wanda lets out a shriek, her laughter infectious, and you can’t help but grin, even as you let her thump onto the mattress—a sloppy, graceless drop. You follow her onto the bed, rolling onto your stomach to peer down at her, still sporting that stupid smile.

“So, about that kiss you owe me,” you whisper, hovering closer, teasing her with your proximity.

Wanda nods distractedly. “I think I can manage that,” she murmurs, and then her lips are on yours.

It starts simple and sweet. Though soon, her tongue is gently nudging your lips apart, and it quickly becomes anything but. Her hands slip down to your back, pulling you close until her heartbeat hammering against yours. You break away, lips trailing down to her neck, exploring every dip and hollow, your tongue darting out to taste her skin. When you hit that spot just behind her ear, the one that always drives her wild, she gasps.

“Don't start something you can’t finish,” she warns, her voice already thick with want.

“Who says I won't?” you shoot back with a wolfish grin.

You both fall into a familiar routine, as easy to slip into as the back of your hand. There’s no hurry, just the two of you moving languidly—whispering against skin, giggles turning into sighs and breathy moans. Sometimes, being with Wanda feels like a desperate need, as if not having her completely would literally be the end of you. But it’s moments like these that are your favorite—the ones where you’re barely even trying, yet she still comes apart at your touch, at the mere feeling of your fingers on her. 

Eventually, you both settle down, a contented sigh escaping you as you curl up against Wanda, your skin slightly damp with the effort of your love. You like this, being the little spoon, hiding your face in her neck like you’re hiding from the world, though you vaguely recall a time when it was usually her in your arms. 

As you’re staggering on the edge of sleep, Wanda’s fingers gently massage your scalp, her lips dropping soft, pensive kisses on your forehead. You're almost out, but one last question keeps you from drifting off entirely.

“Wanda, that spell earlier that shrunk the boys—what was that about?” you mumble, your words slurring into the dream nipping at your consciousness.

Wanda’s laughter rumbles through her chest, nudging you slightly from your drowsy state.

“Come on, tell me,” you coax, giving her side a playful pinch to keep her talking.

“It’s embarrassing,” she mumbles, her face turning a delightful shade of pink again that spreads down her neck and chest. Her coy reaction wakes you up some more. As a twisted kind of payback, you run your tongue rough over her nipple, snatching a sharp gasp from her. Moving up, you hold her flushed cheek, making sure she’s looking right at you. Your thigh presses between hers, and it doesn’t take long before she’s wet and ready again.

“Are you going to tell me, or do you plan on sleeping with a wet pussy tonight?” you whisper, brushing your lips against the corner of her mouth. Under different circumstances, Wanda would scold you for your crudeness, but right now, she's too worked up to care. Your dirty mouth has always been one of the most irritating yet irresistible things about you. Even having kids hasn’t changed that.

“I was trying to... enchant your...” she starts, but then your hand tightens on her butt, spurring her subtle grinding movements. By this time, she’s practically dripping onto the sheets, her thoughts scattering as the tightening sensation below her stomach builds.

“My what?” you push, smirking as you watch her fumble for words. You hoist her leg, resting it on your shoulder, laying her wide open. You slide two fingers inside her, fucking her slowly while your thumb brutally circles her clit. As she hesitates to answer, you hook in another finger, drawing a sharp cry of pleasure from Wanda. Your gaze stays locked on your wife, a part of you as surprised as she might be at your boldness tonight.

All day, she’s haunted every corner of your mind, fantasizing about stealing a quick, desperate moment while the twins are asleep or at Agnes’s. But there’s been something—an unnameable restraint—holding you back from indulging those wicked impulses. It isn’t until the boys are asleep, the house quiet, that those invisible chains start to loosen. That’s when you can finally allow yourself to desire Wanda the way you really want to. The way you’ve always been meant to.

“Your... clit,” Wanda finally spits out, seeing you've drifted off, stuck in your head. “I thought I could make it... well, longer. Like a...” She chokes on the words, too embarrassed to finish.

“Like a cock?” you throw out crudely, looking down at her impishly.

Wanda nods, mortified but also a little defiant. “Wanted you to fuck me with it,” she mumbles, finding her backbone now that the secret's in the open.

“I am fucking you,” you whisper hotly right into her ear. “But if you want it like that, all you have to do is say the word.”

Wanda clenches around you at the thought of doing it like that in the near future, her breath hitching. “Please,” she mewls, the word dripping with need. 

“Good girl,” you growl, cranking up the pace as you drive your fingers harder inside her, making her gasp and arch towards you. “You can come.”

With a choked whimper, Wanda surrenders, her body seizing as her orgasm washes over her. She soaks your wrist, the clear fluid trickling down onto the sheets, but you don't stop, pushing through every pulse of her release until she's quaking, utterly wrecked beneath you. You patiently wait until her spasms subside before slowly pulling your fingers away.

Wanda's hand shoots out, stopping your movements. “Stay,” she implores, sounding like she's on the verge of tears. You're momentarily startled by her reaction, concerned something might be wrong. Swiftly, you slide your fingers back where they belong, nestled deep inside her.

“Okay, baby, I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur, pushing back the damp strands of hair sticking to her forehead with your free hand. Exhaustion begins to cloud your senses as you sink down beside Wanda, still keeping your hand where she wants it. 

“I'm sorry for needing you so much,” Wanda murmurs, her voice shaky with tears you can't see, your cheek pressed against the pillow beside hers.

“Don't be,” you mumble, half-lost to sleep as she clings to you more tightly. “I’m here.”

“You love me,” she says, a hint of wonder, of fear.

You nod, lips brushing the nape of her neck. “And you love me,” you murmur back, your eyes slipping shut. “I'm not going anywhere, Wanda.”

“For now,” she whispers to herself, once your breathing evens out in sleep.

Tears betray her then, and she clamps a hand over her mouth to keep quiet. But just before her sobs fully break free, she flicks a finger, a thin red wisp of magic ensuring you stay deep in sleep.

You wake to the sound of rain on glass.

For a moment, you think you’re still in Vermont. You almost expect to roll over into a warm body, the woman who’s been playing the part of your wife for as long as you can remember. 

You blink into soft, fractured light spilling through tall stained-glass windows, gold and green twisting in patterns you’ve only seen once before. The sheets are stiff, the air cold and dry, and for all the beauty in the glass, it feels nothing like home.

The Sanctum Sanctorum.

You should be rattled like a fish out of water. Instead, you feel nothing but relief. At last, the dream—however perfect it was—is over.

You push yourself up, head throbbing, the room tilting with the motion. An imposing figure stands in the doorway, arms folded. You don’t need your eyes to fully adjust—the colors alone give away who it is. You used to scoff at the red cape draped over that blue, kimono-like suit.

“How are you feeling?” Stephen Strange asks as he approaches the foot of your bed. 

It’s a simple yet strange question. You take stock of yourself before answering. 

How do you feel after waking up from a lie?

You guess at the right answer: bitter, betrayed, hollow? But none of them perfectly describes it. The truth is messier. The whole time you were there with Kia, you were happy. Manufactured or not, it was still happiness. And you were grateful for it, even if it wasn’t real.

But there was always this itch despite not knowing anything about your life before Wanda’s gift took effect. It was a kind of void that was small, but glaring. An afterthought that would leave you sad and regretful.

Wanda. You figure she’s that void itself. Maybe she never meant to put it there, but if there’s one thing magic could never erase, it’s the mark she’s left on you. 

“Headache? Nausea?” Strange prods after you’ve been quiet for too long.

“Water,” you say. “Please.”

Strange’s mouth tips, not quite a smile. “Of course.” His cape unfurls itself from his shoulders and glides away, fetching you a tall glass.

You drink it in huge gulps, your throat bobbing up and down. By the time you drain it, Strange looks even more impatient than he did a few minutes ago.

“What took you so long?” you mutter, aiming for lightness, but it comes out sharp, petulant—like a whiny child. 

He regards your question with a single arched brow. “I wasn’t the first call Agent Woo made. Others came before me. People who decided you’d simply vanished off the grid and weren’t the authorities’ problem anymore.” His tone is dry, almost scornful. “They wrote you off.”

“And you didn’t.”

“No. I didn’t.” His chin tips up, smug for all of two seconds before he clears his throat and waves a hand. “Not that I had it figured out right away. It only made sense once Wanda’s possession of the Darkhold came to light. Then it clicked why no one could locate you. After we dealt with Wanda, we went back to the last place Woo had traced you. One simple spell, and there you were.”

“How long—”

“Were you stuck there?” He finishes your question for you. “Two hundred and fifty-nine days.”

You look down at your hands which still don’t feel like yours.

“Kia?” you ask.

“Home,” Strange says. “Returned safely to her family.”

You feel a pang of guilt for dragging her into this. You’re not sure whether to reach out and apologize, and just imagining the conversation leaves you at a loss for where to start. Maybe leaving her alone is the best form of apology you can offer for now.

“Does she remember?”

“All of it,” he confirms. He catches the objection on your face before you can voice it and adds, “We don’t sugarcoat things here, Y/N. Kia needs to know exactly what she went through if she’s going to accept it and move on. I think she’ll be fine.”

You manage to keep from smirking at his confidence. Instead, you nod, hoping he’s right.

“And Wanda?”

Strange dodges too quickly to be casual. “We’ll come back to that. Right now, there’s something else. I’ve arranged a trial for you.”

You blink. “A trial?”

“Formality,” he says. “One hearing. You’ll stand before the court, answer a few questions, and walk out.”

Your brow furrows. “What do you mean, ‘walk out’?”

“I mean,” Strange says evenly, “they’re letting you go. You’re free, Y/N.”

It takes you a moment longer to understand. So, they’re absolving you after all. After what you thought was the greatest sacrifice you could make—one that meant giving up a future with Wanda—it all comes down to this: you’re free to go. Face your crimes however you want. Off yourself, if you can’t live with your demons. They don’t care what you did, and they certainly don’t care that you’ve regretted it with every bone in your body.

It felt like the biggest fluke. And the humiliation that comes with it is undeniably striking. 

“Why?” you ask, although it doesn’t really seem to matter. 

“Because you’ve done good, too. Because there are bigger problems now than keeping you in a cell. Because I asked,” he says. “Pick whichever answer helps you breathe easier.”

You shake your head with a sardonic smile. Strange sighs. This is the only good news he’s had for you since pulling you out of Maximoff’s spell, and it’s not landing the way he hoped. It was meant to be the cushion for the real revelation he’s preparing you for.

As for you, none of the choices make breathing any easier.

“Does Clint know?”

“Yes. He supports it. Says he’ll be happy for you if you take this second shot at a true beginning.”

“When is the trial?” you ask.

“Soon. Eat. Shower. Wong will brief you. You’ll answer a few questions, say ‘yes, your honor’ twice, ‘no’ once, and walk out.”

“And after that?”

“That’s up to you.”

You wonder what else has changed in the year you’ve been gone. But that thought leads to another—why Strange, of all the Avengers, was the one to find you trapped in a dollhouse. The question stirs a creeping dread, cold seeping into your feet. 

You almost don’t want to ask again, but you know you have to. 

“Stephen,” you murmur, voice thin, your lower lip trembling just enough to betray you. Your body feels slack, drained, bracing for the answer. “Where’s Wanda?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes dart to the floor, then to the door, then anywhere but you. The Cloak fusses at his shoulder and he stills it with a hand. He smooths an invisible crease on his sleeve. He clears his throat unconvincingly, buying seconds.

You let the silence make it obvious you’re not taking the detour.

When he finally meets your eyes, you have your answer.

“Wanda is—” He stops, swallows, tries again. “This is going to be hard to hear.”

—

So this is how you lose her. Third time. Last time. And it feels like it tears you apart in a way the others never did.

—

Strange doesn’t speak to you or visit after that morning. In the days that follow, you see him only in passing—which you actually prefer. It’s easier than watching him force a conversation he clearly has no interest in keeping. And after learning that Wanda died on Mt. Wundagore, destroying the Darkhold in every universe, you’re not in the mood for words anyway.

You’ve failed her again. You had this grand plan to save her, to help her, to not abandon her again. But in the end, there was nothing you could do. Confronted with your own mortality and your lack of any real power, you feel small—utterly worthless. Wanda loved a useless, fragile thing.

It’s Wong who keeps you company. He’s not chatty by nature, but compared to Strange’s avoidance, his unassuming presence is almost comforting. He brings you meals, checks in when you’ve been holed up in your room for hours and fills you in with practical details you don’t have the strength to ask for.

By the third day, and after you’ve exhausted yourself thinking how it happened, you gather enough courage to ask how Wanda died. Wong gives you a sad smile. He sets the tray down on your nightstand and takes the chair by the window, hands folded on his knee like you’re about to discuss the weather.

“It began at Kamar-Taj,” he says. “She came for the girl—America Chavez. A child who can open doors between universes.”

As Wong recounts Wanda’s transgressions, shame creeps in. It’s hard enough to hear what she did (claiming countless lives at Kamar-Taj), but harder still to believe she could do it to a child. So the Darkhold was successful in corrupting her, then? 

“The book didn’t put those feelings in her,” Wong says, reading what’s on your face. “It just warped what was already there.” It wasn’t entirely Wanda. And yet, it was nothing but her.

You look past him at the rain-slick city. Outside, the downpour has picked up—because of course it has.

Wong’s sad smile lingers as he settles into the chair, and what follows is less a story than a burden shared. He had been forced to bring her to Wundagore, to the ancient temple carved into the mountain where a throne already waited for her. In that place, Wanda was no longer merely herself. She was what the mountain had been built to crown.

She dreamwalked into another version of her life, into the body of a Wanda who had everything she had lost. She crossed a council that tried to stand in her way, and their failure left a trail of devastation behind her. She reached the home she longed for, stepped into a kitchen where two small boys cowered in fear of her. In their terror, she finally saw herself as they did, and the truth of what she had become was undeniable. 

“That was her undoing,” Wong recounts.

It was another Wanda who found the courage to show her compassion—who assured her that the boys would be loved. And that was what Wanda had fought for all along. In her final act, she redeemed herself. She let go, because her other self had shown her the boys would be safe, loved, and never alone.

“She destroyed the Darkhold herself. Not just on this Earth, but in all the others,” Wong says. You swear there’s a flicker of awe in his eyes, though you can’t tell if it’s for Wanda’s strength in fighting her own demons—or for the sheer magnitude of erasing something across every iteration of a seemingly infinite multiverse.

Either way, the image stays with you long after Wong finishes speaking. The storm outside deepens, rain hammering against the glass, but your thoughts are elsewhere. You cannot stop turning over the ending she chose. For all the ruin that came before, in the end she was still the woman who loved enough to sacrifice. 

But was it a necessary sacrifice? In that, you and Wanda are the same—both too willing to lay yourselves down for things you never fully understood. Or maybe you’re only questioning it now because this sacrifice stole her from you.

And yet, now that you know where she was last seen, a stubborn thought takes root. What if they’re wrong? Until you’ve seen her body with your own eyes, there’s room, however small, for doubt. For hope.

“Take me to Wundagore.”

Across from you, Wong stiffens. His frown is immediate, and he doesn’t bother to hide it. “That’s… not a good idea,” he says carefully. “Strange warned that you might ask for this. Said the decision wasn’t his to make anymore. As Sorcerer Supreme, he left it to me.”

“And what have you decided?”

Wong studies you for a long moment, eyes heavy with something that looks uncomfortably like pity. At last, he inclines his head.

“I’ve decided to grant you this favor.”

—

Wundagore is the coldest place you’ve ever been, yet it doesn’t bite at you the way Scotland or Iceland once did. Wong has cast a protection spell that keeps the chill at bay, sparing you the need for proper gear. A convenient bit of magic—enough to make you consider joining the sorcerer’s classes for this spell alone.

Your eyes sweep across the white wasteland. Wundagore was a mountain—Wong had said it himself—but nothing towers over you now. Only snow and shattered stone, stretching endlessly beneath a ceiling of pale grey clouds. The absence itself feels unnatural. You imagine the sound of it collapsing, the roar as an entire peak tore itself apart under her will. You imagine the final surge of red light, burning against the storm, until even that was buried under silence.

Wong walks ahead without a word, boots sinking into the snow. You follow quietly behind, your silence rooted in the overwhelming feeling that you’re walking towards Wanda’s grave. 

The trail stretches on until the slope breaks into a ruin of stone. This, he tells you, is where Wundagore once stood. Now it is nothing but a pile of jagged boulders, most of them buried in snowdrifts, the mountain’s bones scattered and broken.

You stop, staring at the wreckage. “Has there been any effort to recover her body?”

Wong hesitates, then shakes his head. “No. The presumption of death was… enough.”

You turn to him sharply. “Enough?”

“Y/N,” Wong says gently, “an entire mountain came down on her. No one could have survived. And more than that—she made it appear as though she chose to die here.”

“No,” you spit out. “She didn’t choose it. You and Strange let her die here.”

Wong’s gaze hardens, though his voice stays level. “That’s not fair. You weren’t there. You didn’t see the state she was in. The Darkhold had hollowed her out. If she hadn’t brought this mountain down on herself, she would have brought ruin to the rest of us.”

“You don’t know that,” you snap. “You don’t know what she could have been if someone had just tried harder. If someone had stood by her instead of writing her off as a lost cause.”

“We tried. All of us. Strange most of all.”

“Not hard enough.”

Wong exhales, already tired of the exchange. Explaining it would be useless—especially to someone with no grasp of sorcery. The truth is, every trace of her chaos magic has vanished. Nature itself shifted the moment the Scarlet Witch was gone. To deny her death would be to deny the glaring evidence that only the sorcerers could perceive.

“I’ll give you time,” he says at last. “To pay your respects.”

“No, I’ve seen enough,” you say. “Let’s go back.”

Wong raises his left hand and then starts making circles in the air with the other. “As you wish.”

—

“It’s here.”

That’s how Strange announces himself, stepping into your room without so much as a knock, an envelope in hand. He’s in a pristine suit this time. You’re so used to seeing him in sorcerer’s robes and that sentient cape that you almost forget he was a surgeon once. In formal clothes he looks almost ordinary—too civilian—reminding you that, like you, his life used to be simpler too.

“Pardon?”

You haven’t done much lately beyond shutting yourself away in this room, combing through everything you missed in the year you spent playing house with a former lover. The world has shifted in countless ways, and yet somehow feels unchanged. After the final battle with Thanos, many expected an era of peace, but the Avengers found no such rest. There was always something—new threats, new battles—even Wanda’s movements in New York, before Strange uncovered the truth that she was hunting a child named America. The backlog of information keeps you distracted from Wanda’s absence—and from the brutal truth of another reality where you can’t bring her back. When the news runs dry, you fall back on your old hobby: books. It’s a gentler escape than the last time, when half your days were drowned in blood.

Strange doesn’t bother repeating himself. He sets the envelope on the desk, neat and deliberate. You don’t reach for the envelope. Instead, you sit back in your chair, staring at it.

He says, “Your trial date. The court wants to make it quick.”

“Can it go another way?”

Strange looks at you like you’ve asked if gravity might reconsider. “Only if you insist upon it.”

You lean forward. “And if I do?”

“To be honest, they don’t care about what you want, Y/N. They just need to put on record that you’ve been acquitted.”

You’re not surprised. You were gone for a year, and if the authorities had truly wanted to find you, they would’ve gone through Strange long before Wanda raised any alarms.

“So it doesn’t matter what I say.”

Stephen exhales, the sound edged with weariness.

“The judgment’s already written. All that’s left is for you to stand there, nod when prompted, and walk out the door,” he says. Then he surprises you by inviting himself further in and sitting on your single-sized bed. 

“I actually came here because I need to kick you out.”

You laugh—loud and sudden—at the flat delivery, at the way his face doesn’t so much as twitch. The lack of reaction makes it even funnier, until you’re nearly doubled over. When the moment passes and the laughter dies down, you sober, eyes still wet.

“You didn’t have to go through all this trouble,” you say quietly, “just to tell me to leave.”

He smiles—an honest one, not the strained kind where only the corners of his mouth move, hiding pain. “Wong won’t do it for me this time.”

You glance down at your bare feet. Well… what happens now?

Strange clears his throat. “Is there anything else you need from me?”

Yes, there’s so much you want to know. Questions press against the back of your teeth. But none of it matters now. She’s gone, and knowing more won’t bring her back. Maybe it will only make the ache worse. Still, the thought circles back to the same truth that you’re leaving soon. This might be your last meeting with Stephen Strange, the only man alive who has seen what lies beyond the boundaries of your world. If you’re ever going to ask, this is the only time. So you decide, shameless as it feels, to let the questions out.

If Wanda searched every reality for the boys, if she dreamwalked into other versions of herself, then surely she must have seen you. You vaguely remember Wanda telling you that in every other universe, it’s always Kia you ended up with. But that couldn’t be true. Statistically, it made no sense. Out of thousands—no, millions—of universes, there had to be at least one where you and Wanda found your way to each other.

“You’ve looked into other universes,” you start, swallowing the lump in your throat. 

Stephen sits perfectly still for a few seconds, like he’s debating whether the truth is worth handing you. At last, he says, “I have. More than I should’ve.”

“Wanda told me that in every universe she dreamwalked into, I ended up with Kia,” you say slowly, as though recalling a distant dream. “But that’s ridiculous. I think the Darkhold was lying to her—manipulating her so it could finish corrupting her.”

“You’re both right and wrong,” Stephen says.

You tilt your head, frowning in confusion.

“You’re wrong about the Darkhold fabricating those realities she visited in her sleep,” he continues. “But you’re right about one thing—the Darkhold is manipulative. To understand Wanda’s pain, to try and appeal to what was left of her humanity, I had to study it. I had to see the source of it with my own eyes.”

He pauses here. 

“So yes,” he says at last. “I’ve seen those worlds. And no—the Darkhold wasn’t lying. In every one of them, you did end up with the other girl.”

You think of Vermont. You think of the dream, the cottage, the way Wanda crafted it around you like it could last. She wasn’t delusional. She was desperate. And she was right—because even the sorcerer standing before you, a man who’s looked into the abyss of infinite worlds, is telling you that more often than not, she was alone in them.

“So it was real,” you say, though your voice sounds small even to you. “She wasn’t chasing a lie.”

Strange doesn’t answer right away. He picks up the envelope again, places it directly in your hands this time. “Real or not, it’s gone now. She made sure of it. She destroyed the Darkhold in every universe. Besides, other realities should not affect our choices in this one.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Wanda’s not the only one who wanted to believe another world could offer happiness. While I was searching for a way to stop her, I met another Christine.”

It’s rare for him to open up this much, but maybe it makes sense—two people saying goodbye often find the courage to be vulnerable. Like you, he lives a solitary life. He always has, even back when Christine Palmer was still by his side.

“She was… both Christine and not Christine. Familiar, but different. And I realized something. I will love Christine in every universe—but not as much as I love the Christine of mine.”

You feel the bittersweet edge of his realization, as though he’s only just come to terms with it.

“I think Wanda saw the same truth,” Stephen continues. “When she looked into those worlds where you existed, she must have realized she could never love any of them the way she loved you here. That’s why she let you go. Why she freed you from her. She gave you what she thought was your happy ending.”

You turn away before he can finish, just as a tear slips free and trails down your cheek. You ache for Stephen’s loss—Christine, alive but married to someone else, as Wong had told you days ago.

Stephen rises slowly, as if the weight of his own words has drained him. He smooths his suit jacket, already turning toward the door when your voice stops him.

“She’s wrong.”

He pauses, glancing back. “Who?”

“Wanda.” You swallow hard, trying to ease the knot in your throat. “She was wrong about me and Kia. Because I choose her. Here, in this one. She’s gone, and I still choose her.”

—

You eventually attend your trial and when it’s over, you walk out into the daylight with Wanda’s memory still burning in you like a compass. You do things differently now. Older, wiser, you no longer mistake survival for living. You live. You carry Wanda with you into every choice, but not as a chain—rather as a reminder of what it means to love fiercely, to find beauty even in a world that never stops breaking. You travel farther than you ever thought possible, across oceans and continents, offering your hands to rebuild villages torn apart by storms, your skills to missions that aim to make life less cruel for the most vulnerable. You work without borders, your service a kind of penance, but also a kind of freedom.

And yet, no matter how many lives you touch, you never forget that your own belongs to you too. When the years pile on and the urgency of helping the world softens, you let yourself slow down. You return east of North America, to a town that’s unfamiliar but feels like home. The days stretch longer there, unhurried, and you fill them with stacks of books you’ve promised yourself for years you would finally read. Soon, your little house begins to sag under the weight of them.

When there’s no more space to walk without brushing against spines and pages, you decide it’s time. You open a small bookstore. The shelves fill quickly, but now there’s room for them, and for you. It becomes part of the town, just as the town becomes a part of you. Life is steady, and enough. 

A year and a half goes by this way. Then one evening, just as you’re putting a book back on the shelf, the bell above the door rings. 

A woman walks in. 

This time, it wasn’t heroes or stones that brought her back.

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. 

Warmth is the first thing you feel.

Sunlight spills through the bare windows, bright and unrelenting. You lie on your back, body aching but still, there's a strange calm in your limbs. For a few blissful seconds, you forget everything. Maybe last night didn’t happen. Maybe the fence wasn’t real, and you can get up now and walk out of the forest without problem. 

Maybe it’s just another bad dream layered on top of worse ones.

You breathe in deep. The sheets smell faintly of lavender.

You try to turn over, reach for the warm hollow beside you—

Except, your left arm doesn’t come with you. You frown, try again. But to no avail.

That’s when you finally look.

Your wrist is bound, though not with a typical rope or cuffs. A red wisp, soft-looking and faintly pulsing, coils around your hand, shackling you to the headboard. It isn’t tight, but it leaves no room for escape. Every time you move, it shifts slightly, like it’s aware of you.

You stare at the glowing knot and sink back into the mattress. Not a dream then.

She didn’t even bind both hands. Just one. Just enough to stop you from getting near the barricade again and risking hurting yourself trying to break through it. Breathing shallow, you inspect your body, recalling the grotesque pain you experienced in your stubbornness to escape this forest. It was worse than you let yourself believe. Fresh bandages wrap your torso, stained pink at the edges. You stare at them for a long moment, then look away.

You start to wonder how many more hits your body can take before it finally gives out.

From the other room, you hear the unmistakable sound of a spoon tapping a bowl, the low hiss of water starting to boil. You can feel Wanda listening, measuring your wakefulness. You close your eyes a beat too late; the handle turns and the door opens without a word.

Wanda shuffles into your room, still in her pajamas from last night. You notice for the first time how sharp her cheekbones have become, how the dark circles under her eyes aren’t smudges of makeup or tricks of the light. She carries a tray in both hands, with steam rising from a shallow bowl beside a small pitcher of water and a few fresh rolls wrapped neatly in linen.

Your stomach growls right on cue.

“Good morning,” Wanda says, her voice almost polite. She sets the tray on the nightstand and drags a chair beside the mattress. You stay quiet, eyes fixed on her with deliberate intent. It’s the only power you have left—watching her, making sure she feels it.

“I wasn’t sure you’d wake so soon,” she continues, lifting the spoon. Broth smells of chicken and thyme. “Drink.”

You turn your face away. It’s petty, but you have no intention of making this easier for her.

Wanda sighs. “You’ll heal faster if you eat.”

You merely stare at her hollowly. 

She sets the spoon down, picks up a small pair of shears and bandage rolls. “Then let me change these.”

Feeling your intense gaze on her, Wanda keeps her eyes down, concentrating on the bandages. She peels back the linen, now damp with faint traces of blood, and dabs the wound clean with warm water. The pain is astonishingly minimal, and you can tell it's her magic making that possible. The sensation of her touch, the intentional way she’s being gentle and careful, sends heat skittering under your skin. It seems being deprived of her touch has made your nerves traitors.

“Thank you,” you mutter in relief before you can stop yourself.

“No need,” she replies. “You can’t exactly manage this yourself.”

“Convenient definition of care,” you say, tugging at the red tether. “You could start by untying me.”

Surprisingly enough, she considers. “I can’t risk another escape attempt.”

You catch Wanda off guard as you suddenly thrash against the restraint. It’s a useless effort, and you know it, but you throw everything into the performance.

“It’s a compulsion knot,” she explains softly. “It responds to intention. The harder you fight, the tighter it weaves.”

“New spell?” you growl. “From your favorite book?”

The slight flinch in her shoulders confirms it.

“You really think that thing cares about you, Wanda?”

Wanda’s eyes harden. She rises, gathers the bloodied cloths, and reaches for the tray. “The Darkhold doesn’t care about anything,” she says quietly. “It just gives options. And you know I don’t get many of those.”

She finally meets your eyes, and for a moment, you almost back down. She’s right. She’s never had many choices. Not as a child, not as a woman, not now. Things just happen to Wanda, and people expect her to survive them. You hate that you became one of those people, the one who took away her chance to decide if you were still worth it, if whatever this is between you was still something she wanted.

She’s right about that.

But that doesn’t excuse her. It doesn’t make it right to take away choices now, as if they don’t carry consequences.

“Kidnapping? Feeding the stray you dragged in like a house pet? Those are your options now?”

You bite your tongue to stop yourself but it’s too late. You hadn’t meant for the accusation to go that far, hadn’t meant to touch anything beyond your own situation. The incident at Westview from weeks ago is still fresh, and Wanda still hasn’t fully faced or processed everything she did and went through there. And now here you are, throwing it all at her feet like she’s some kind of monster.

Wanda’s spine straightens at the word kidnapping.

You scramble to take it all back. “Wanda—”

“You went after me,” Wanda says simply, voice even, almost weary. “And now you’re just facing the result of your actions.”

You let out a dry snort in response.

“You should eat,” she adds, glancing at the tray, the steam already starting to fade. You groan in protest but Wanda takes matters into her own hands and spoons up a small measure of broth and brings it to your lips, and this time you don’t resist, partly out of guilt for what you said, and partly because, honestly, you’re starving.

You part your mouth, taste salt and rosemary, and let the warmth slide down your throat. She withdraws, gathers another serving, and your gaze tracks the slow sweep of her wrist. The cotton sleeve slips higher, revealing a pale stretch of forearm dusted with freckles you used to map with your mouth. You try not to think about that, yet you can’t stop remembering how she shivered under your breath, how her pulse quickened beneath your lips.

The truth is, you haven’t fully wrapped your head around the fact that Wanda’s back. That she’s alive. After five years of mourning her, missing her, she’s suddenly here again—just a breath away. So far, you’ve managed to keep yourself in check, resisting that familiar pull of being helplessly, carelessly in love with Wanda Maximoff—a feeling that’s far too easy to get lost in. The situation is far from ideal, and you know she hasn’t forgiven you for the deception. Still, it’s shameful how your desire for her is like embers being coaxed to life, slow at first, then flaring hotter than ever when you need it least.

You swallow another spoonful, then blurt the first thought that trips across your tongue.

“You look exactly the same.”

Her hand stills.

You didn’t intend to let the words leave out of your mouth, but it’s too late to take them back, so you scramble to follow that up with something that would make the situation less awkward for the both of you.

Instead, you manage to say something much worse.

“Same lashes, same little hollow right there,” your gaze drops to the curve beneath her cheekbone, “I used to trace it in my sleep so I wouldn’t forget the shape of you.”

But it’s like a dam has burst, and you can’t hold back the flood you’ve been drowning in for years. “After you were gone, I kept counting your freckles every night, memory-by-memory, because if one went missing in my head, I knew I’d start losing the rest of you too.”

A tremor skates through her fingers and broth beads at the rim. She says nothing, but the scarlet knot around your wrist quivers as though feeling her pulse. 

“I thought I’d forget eventually,” you say, voice a little hoarse. “I tried to. But you know what’s worse than forgetting someone?”

Her silence dares you to finish.

“Remembering everything.”

Wanda’s throat works. You open your mouth for another spoonful, and she offers it, her hand slightly less steady now. When a bit of broth spills down your chin, you move to wipe it instinctively, but Wanda beats you to it. She reaches forward without thinking, wiping it away with her thumb. The pad of her finger drags gently along your cheek.

It’s only when she notices your other hand isn’t bound that she seems to catch herself. But the damage is done. Her cheeks flush pink, and she pulls back so quickly the spoon rattles in the bowl.

Wanda clears her throat and gets up, saying, “You still have one arm free.”

“Wands—”

“I have to go.”

And then, she’s gone. 

You let your head rest against the headboard, eyes falling closed.

—

The moment Wanda leaves, you finish the rest of the broth she left behind, eating slowly, almost defiantly, until the bowl is empty. Your stomach thanks you for it. Your body, exhausted from fever and pain, folds into the mattress the moment you let yourself relax. You don’t even realize you’re falling asleep again until you wake hours later.

Your second nap of the day ends with a soft groan and a long stretch—at least as much as your single unbound arm allows. The fatigue that wrapped itself around you this morning has mostly faded now, burned away by food and rest. You feel... almost good. Your head is clear. For the first time in what feels like days, you're not in pain. You’ve almost forgotten what normal feels like.

What’s not normal, however, is being trapped in bed like a convalescent child. You glance around the room, your new prison as it seems. Restlessness prickles at your skin.

Your body has mended enough, but the sheets under you smell sour. If Wanda unbound you, you could move around, straighten the room, clean the sheets, maybe even cook something simple. You could be useful again, do something other than count the hours and wonder what she’s thinking. You used to take care of each other, before the snap, before the lies. In Scotland, it was you who made breakfast most mornings. It was Wanda who patched the holes in your coat and kissed the bandages on your knuckles when you burned yourself cooking.

Now, as Wanda’s prisoner, you lie on stained linen, itching to move and unable to do anything at all. You stare at the scarlet tether, a thin strand of light looped around your wrist. You flex your fingers and pull, not violently, but with enough force to test its limits. It doesn’t budge. 

As you continue to move around, the headboard creaks beneath you. It suddenly registers to you how old and worn it looks. Your eyes go to the screws holding it to the frame. An idea comes to you quickly. If you can break it free, you won’t be entirely free, but at least you won’t be chained to the bed.

With your other hand, you shove at the headboard, fingers prying at the joints. The wood groans. You feel it give slightly, splinters catching your palm. But when the headboard starts to crack, the red wisp stays exactly where it is, floating just above the broken wood. The tether wasn’t bound to the bed at all. 

It was bound to you.

You sit back, breathing hard, staring at the magic. There’s no end to it, no knot to pick at, no clasp to undo. You follow its path with your eyes, tracing it outward, slipping beyond the bed, beyond the cabin walls, disappearing through the wood like mist through a sieve.

You shift and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, feet meeting the cold floor. You squint out the window, looking for any trace of the tether, maybe a thread of light leading into the woods or up into the sky. But there’s nothing. It fades out of sight, like it disappears into the air. You’ve been made aware of the incredible progression of Wanda’s power recently. But it’s still hard to fathom how she’s doing all this, even before the Darkhold came into the picture.

You take a shaky breath, mind racing. You can’t just sit and wait. Your eyes land on your pack at the foot of the bed. Slowly, awkwardly, you stretch out your foot, toes reaching for it. You catch the zipper tab and pull the bag closer, inch by inch.

Finally, you get it close enough. You pinch the zipper with your toes, ease it open an inch at a time. Your pulse lifts when your toes brush the familiar pocket where your phone should be, but the compartment is empty. Only the lining greets your searching foot. Wanda must have removed it while you were unconscious.

You let the bag drop and resigned to your fate. She has stayed several steps ahead of you from the start, and seven days isn’t enough time to figure out how to get the hell out of here.

—

The afternoon light creeps across the floor in long gold bars, and for a while the only sounds are your own breathing. More than the lack of mobility, it’s the boredom that gets to you. Time moves excruciatingly slower when you’re literally counting the seconds and minutes until Wanda’s return.

You feel sticky and gross. The sheets cling in places they shouldn’t. The room smells of sweat, dried blood, and frustration.

You close your eyes, imagining what it would feel like to stand, to wash, to move freely again. But the thought only makes the present more unbearable.

Then, without warning, the door creaks open. Finally.

Wanda enters without her coat, hair gathered in a loose knot. She carries a wide wooden tray balanced in both hands: a small pot of stewed vegetables, two thick slices of bread, and a chipped enamel cup that smells of mint and willow bark. 

She sets the tray on the chair beside the bed, not looking at you. Things got out of hand earlier, and she’s determined not to let that happen again. Keeping her distance while making sure you’re fed seems the safest way forward. This time, she’s in a hurry to leave, fingertips already lifting the latch.

“Wanda.” Your voice is rough from disuse.

She stops, if only to acknowledge you having called her.

“I… I need a favor,” you say.

At that she turns, one brow arched. 

You swallow and shift to sit higher against the headboard. “Look at me,” you begin evenly. “I stink. These sheets stink. If you leave me like this much longer, I’m going to lose my mind before I can give you my answer.”

Her expression remains guarded, but you see the war behind her eyes. She’s weighing the risk, your sincerity, her guilt. You hope the last two are winning.

You lick your lips, your eyes falling down to your lap. You hate begging, but you do it anyway. 

“Please.”

At last, Wanda lets her gaze settle on you. Her green eyes are bright and clear, and for a moment, there’s a softness in them—so slight you could almost miss it. She steps closer, stretches her hand towards you and murmurs a word under her breath. The light loosens and then slips away from the headboard and coils instead around your wrist like a bracelet. It still hums with magic, but now it allows the freedom of your other arm and both legs.

“Only long enough to shower,” she says. “When you’re done, call me.”

Relief sweeps through you, almost dizzying. You swing your legs off the mattress and stand; the first full stretch makes your muscles sing. For a second you wobble, but Wanda’s hand braces your elbow before you can fall. She removes it at once, as if contact burns.

She guides you across the hall to a narrow bathroom. A stack of folded towels waits on the bench. Mist rises from the shower stall, and you realize she must have turned the water on before coming into your room.

“I’ll handle your sheets,” she adds.

You rest your palm on the doorframe. “You really don’t have to—”

“I’m using my powers,” she cuts you off sharply. “It won’t take long.”

That surprises you more than anything. Back in Scotland, Wanda avoided using magic for chores. She always said there was a kind of satisfaction in doing things the ordinary way, especially when you worked side by side. She’d mend the fraying cuffs of your coat with needle and thread instead of a flick of her fingers, laughing at the crooked stitches. You cooked, and she washed the dishes by hand, even though she could have made them clean with a thought.

You open your mouth to remind her, then close it again. That Wanda feels very far away.

She turns, already retreating down the hallway. You watch her for a moment, then step into the shower. You strip off your clothes in a hurry, a quiet sigh slipping from you as the hot water pours over your skin, bringing instant relief. Aside from the dirt and grime, you feel some tension in your chest wash away too. In this small, tiled corner of the world, it’s almost possible to pretend the last five years never happened.

When you’re done, it doesn’t even occur to you to call out for her like she’s your babysitter. The cabin is small, and you know your way around. You’re too relaxed to think about escaping, and besides, you’re half-naked under the towel. So you just head back to your room. The towel, wrapped high beneath your arms, hangs to mid-thigh, and water slips down your legs, leaving dark streaks on the floorboards. When you reach the bedroom, you find Wanda is still there. 

She stands by the bed, palms raised, focused on her work. She said she’d clean up, but she’s doing far more. She’s repairing the rotted wood, mending the headboard you damaged, even improving the small room to make it warmer, more comfortable. The gesture draws a smile from you, unbidden. She doesn’t have to do any of it.

She’s so absorbed in the task that she doesn’t notice you.

You clear your throat. “It looks great.”

Wanda is visibly startled, whirling toward the sound. Her gaze snags on the towel clinging to your damp skin, travels the line of your collarbone, and catches on the droplets sliding between your breasts. A faint flush rises in her cheeks before she drags her eyes to your face.

“You moved fast,” you say, letting a small, appreciative smile curve your lips. “Thank you.”

Wanda makes a small noise at the back of her throat. “Magic is efficient.” You don’t miss the way her eyes follow a droplet that strays down your shoulder. 

And there it is, the proof that Wanda isn’t as detached as she pretends. The pull between you still holds her. Just like it does you.

You decide to test it, taking a single, daring step closer. 

The towel loosens against your thighs as you move, and Wanda’s eyes quickly dart back to your face, wide with something that looks dangerously like want. “Wanda,” you whisper. You really aren’t sure what you’re going for. Maybe you just need her to stay this close for one more breath.

But she’s quicker than your brain’s struggle to come up with its next move. With one graceful slide, she moves between you and the door, leaving at least a foot of space between herself and you. 

“Dinner will be ready soon,” she murmurs, retreating toward the doorway, the warmth still lingering on her cheeks. Just as she’s about to step out, she pauses, as if remembering something. With a small flick of her hand, the red wisp at your wrist stirs to life, stretching and tightening until it binds you once again.

The door closes. You exhale the breath you didn’t realize you were holding and glance at the fresh clothes neatly folded on the mattress. The sweater is soft heather gray, the joggers a darker charcoal. You shrug into them awkwardly, one hand at a time, towel dropping to the floor.

You sit on the edge of the bed and test the new restraint. It gives you just enough slack to lie down and turn whichever way you want. But your thoughts are far from what you can do while being Wanda’s prisoner.

All you can think about is how she is obviously still drawn to you, even as she keeps running away.

—

Something strange happens later that night. You wake to a soft rustle, eyes still gritty with sleep, and wonder if the wind just rattled the window.

At first you think you imagined the sound that pulled you from sleep.

Then you hear it again. Your name. Being called in a whine by the only other person sleeping in this same cabin.

“Y/N…” Wanda’s voice floats across the dark room. You pull against the binds, testing. They stretch farther than before, as if the magic itself is distracted. You move carefully, sliding to the edge of the bed and wait. Maybe you’re dreaming. It wouldn’t be surprising, not with how strange this place feels, Wanda’s magic being all over the place, and the beating your body has taken over the past week.

“Y/N…” Wanda’s voice is louder this time. That spurs you to action. The magical rope surprisingly allows you to walk out of your room and wander into Wanda’s quarters. You find her in the middle of the bed, tangled in the blankets, deep in a dream—or more likely, a nightmare. She’s sweating, her brow furrowed, lips moving soundlessly. 

You hang back, watching her struggle, not sure if you should wake her or just stay close until it passes. But when her face twists and she starts to cry in her sleep, the decision is made for you. You kneel beside the bed, reaching out gently. “Hey,” you whisper. 

Her eyes snap open.

In the same breath, she surges forward, arms locking around your neck, holding onto you for dear life. She's shaking, trembling so hard you feel it through both your clothes.

“I’m here,” you murmur against her hair. It’s damp with sweat, sticking to your cheek. “I’ve got you.” 

She doesn’t let go. Her nightdress is soaked through, clinging to her skin; when she shifts, the fabric drags across your sweater, and you become acutely aware of every place your bodies meet. Heat floods up your neck. And somewhere else you’d rather ignore. 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she mumbles, although her tone seems to tell you she doesn’t mind that at all.

You cup her face, your thumb brushing a line of wet beneath her eye. Wanda rarely had nightmares in your time together. Although you’ve heard her have them when you were both living in the Avengers compound, with your rooms next to each other. 

“And I’m not going anywhere,” you answer, and you mean it more than being literally chained to this cabin. You mean it so hard it hurts. 

Wanda tenses in your arms, then shakes her head so sharply you half expect her to hurt herself. 

“You’re not supposed to be here. Not with me.”

You pull back just enough to see her face. “What do you mean ‘with you’?”

She doesn’t answer. Her arms drop to her sides, the absence of her touch somehow louder than her words.

“Wanda.”

“You’d be happier if you’re just willing, Y/N,” she says. She starts retreating further but you reach for her hand, fingers wrapping around her cold ones.

“Not like this.”

“You don’t understand. The Darkhold wants you gone. It wants you dead. As long as you’re here, it refuses to show me my children. You… you complicate everything.”

It’s the confirmation you’ve been dreading. It’s that damn book, twisting her, pushing her to a place the Wanda you knew would never go. You don’t even want to imagine what other lies it’s been whispering to her.

“I’m not—”

“All I’ve ever wanted is to bring Billy and Tommy back,” she says, and she sounds so unbearably tired. “The book keeps telling me what I have to do—what it’ll take. And you... you’re the price, Y/N. You’re what’s standing in the way.”

“Do you want me gone?”

Wanda finally looks at you, her face still streaked with tears from the nightmare. She looks utterly wrecked. 

“You wanted me to believe you were gone.”

Her answer leaves you speechless. No matter how far you’ve chased her, how long you’ve searched, or how ready you are to stay by her side now, it doesn’t change the truth—that you were the coward who ran away first.

When your silence lingers too long, Wanda speaks again.

“It’s not just about being their mother again. It’s about saving them, Y/N. I know they’re out there…somewhere. Lost and probably scared.” Her voice wavers. “Without the Darkhold, I have no way of reaching them. I could burn this whole world to the ground, and it still wouldn’t be enough. Not without that book.”

You hold on to her hand tighter. “There is another way and we can find it together. You and me. We always—”

“No.” Wanda snatches back her hand from yours. “You don’t see. I can see them through windows—in my dreams. But I can’t break through to where they are. Not without the Darkhold.”

You brush her cheek. She flinches, then lets herself settle against your hand. “So you’re really walking from everything you fought for? Gambling it all on that book to get Billy and Tommy back?”

She nods. “This is what I want. I’m sure of it.”

And that’s the worst part. Because you know she believes it. And it’s killing her. And it might kill you too. 

You ease your hand away from her face but stay close, sensing the fragile détente might shatter if you so much as breathe too loudly.

With Wanda not leaving room for doubt about what she’s aiming for, you look to a different avenue, resulting in a question that pushes to the front of your mind. 

“What were you dreaming just now?”

“Nothing,” she says, almost too quickly. “You should go back to your room.” 

Her eyes drop to your wrist, and you see the flicker of realization cross her face. The magical confines should have kept you from leaving your room. When her mouth tightens into a line, it confirms what you already suspected—you weren’t meant to get this far.

You don’t move. If she wanted you chained again, all it would take is a snap of her fingers.

But until she does, you’re not going anywhere.

“You were calling my name,” you tell her, and Wanda’s brows furrow together at being caught doing just that. “Were you dreaming about me?”

“I don’t dream anymore.”

You search her face, waiting for elaboration.

She sighs, the impatience clear, like she’s tired of explaining things you should already understand. “They’re not dreams. They’re real places. Real people—from another universe. I see the boys there through a variant of me. And sometimes…” Wanda sighs. “Sometimes I see you, too.”

A slow, almost involuntary smile curls your lips at her disgruntled admission. “So you were dreaming about me,” you murmur. 

Before Wanda can protest, you lift your hand, your thumb brushing gently against her lower lip. The warmth of her skin, the softness you’ve missed, nearly undoes you. And it undoes her. She shivers beneath your touch, eyes darkening as her breath hitches.

The Darkhold growls at the back of her mind. But her body drowns it out. Her body remembers. It remembers the real you: the one she never got to keep, never got to watch grow and change, the one who broke her heart again and again but somehow still makes it feel fuller than anything else ever could.

Your eyes are dark, clouded with want. You trace her lip once more, slower this time, watching the way she trembles, how her lashes lower like she can’t bear the implication of her response to your touch.

“In that universe,” you ask quietly, “are we together?”

Wanda swallows hard and gives a small nod.

Your heart beats faster. “What were we doing there?”

Color blooms in Wanda’s cheeks, a flush trailing up her neck to the tips of her ears. She drops her gaze, but not before you catch the answer written clear as day on her face.

You lean in, slow and steady, letting her see every inch of your intent. Her eyes stay fixed on your mouth, and if this were some ordinary argument years into a marriage—if she were just being stubborn, waiting for you to make peace—you might have laughed at how easy she is to read.

This moment was never meant to exist, not weeks ago.

So you move carefully, holding the moment like it might break, because you don’t know if you’ll ever get another.

The kiss is feather-light. You’ve applied just enough pressure to know that your lips are touching hers, enough to feel her exhale a breath through the small gap between them. It’s so innocent compared to the ones you’ve shared before—and you’ve shared hundreds of them, not that you’re counting—but it feels like the most important one. 

You don’t push for more. In fact, in a second or two, you pull back. 

Wanda, on the other hand, does not agree with that. In the space of that single heartbeat, her fingers fist in the front of your sweater, and she drags you forward with a force that steals breath from your lungs. Her mouth finds yours again, and this time, there’s nothing innocent about it.

All the grief and anger she’s carried pours out in the rough slide of her lips, the nip of teeth at your lower lip, the way her breath shakes when you open for her. You gasp against her, and she follows the sound, pressing you back until your spine meets the soft mattress. Her hand cups the back of your neck, holding you there. Holding you still. Her tongue pushes past your lips, greedy and unhesitating, claiming what she’s been denied for far too long.

For Wanda, it lands on her all at once that you’re back. You’re really here with her, not buried six feet under like you wanted her to believe. Only now does she understand that she’s never truly stopped grieving, not until this moment. Because as much as she loved the Y/N she created in Westview, as much as she tried to shape that version out of everything she loved about you, it was never the same. No matter how perfect that version was, crafted from all the pieces of you she carried, it could never be the real thing.

Not even the Y/N she occasionally meets in dreams compares. She could find versions of you in a thousand universes, and none of them would matter.

She wants you, and only you.

The Darkhold does not approve of this realization, but it approves of the carnal want raging inside of her now.

She slips her fingers under your shirt and the seams give way under her unexpected strength. Cool night air rushes over your skin, goosebumps rising in its wake. Your nipples are already painfully hard, but they’re not ready for the searing warmth of Wanda’s mouth.

“Oh God, Wanda…” you breathe.

She sucks on a teat, tongue circling once before her teeth graze the tender peak. The roughness  draws a gasp from your throat, pleasure spiked with an edge of pain that curls your toes against the sheets. Your back arches, offering more. Wanda answers with a low sound that vibrates against your breast. She sucks harder, then lets go with a soft pop—only to sink her teeth just below, marking the skin with a deepening bruise against its otherwise unblemished tone. Her hand covers your other breast, thumb stroking once, twice, before she pinches, coaxing another broken moan from your lips.

Now this is something different. Usually, you’re the one who leads, the one who sets the pace, the one who leaves Wanda a babbling mess. Not that you’re complaining—you’re already on edge, though you hate to admit it—but part of you wants to slow down, to savor this, because deep down you know it might be the last time.

For Wanda, there’s no slowing down now. Once she starts, it’s like a fever takes hold, leaving her unable or unwilling to stop. She moves on instinct, stripping away your pajamas until only your underwear remains. Her gaze lingers for a moment on the dark patch at your crotch, and she smiles to herself, pleased that your body still answers to her, even after all these years, even after it has known someone else’s touch while she was gone.

She doesn’t notice the scars you’ve gathered over the past five years, the ones that mark nearly half of you. The Darkhold sees to that, keeping them hidden from her as its power glows in her eyes. 

Wanda doesn’t give you a second to adjust to the rush of cool air against your skin, or to the way vulnerability wraps around you now that you’re bare before her. She doesn’t give you the chance to tug at her nightdress, to even the playing field. Her nightdress stays where it is, slipping lower on one shoulder but nothing more, as if she’s determined to keep you exposed while she remains clothed.

Her mouth leaves your chest, but before you can catch your breath, she’s moving lower, hair brushing your stomach, fingers skimming down your sides. She kneels between your legs, pushing your thighs apart, and the scrape of fabric against your skin only heightens your awareness of just how wet you are for her, how much you’ve missed this, missed her.

She’s already lower, already focused on the place that makes your head spin. Her breath is hot against the wet patch of your underwear. She presses her mouth there, slow at first, savoring the way you shudder beneath the weight of it. You whimper, hips lifting instinctively, but she holds you down with strong hands, fingers digging into your thighs painfully.

The heat of her mouth soaks through, the wet drag of her tongue making you gasp, making your fingers clutch at the sheets. She lingers, tormenting you, rubbing slow, deliberate circles over that aching spot, savoring how you fall apart beneath so little.

“W-Wands…” you gasp, the sound of her name more plea than warning.

But she doesn’t stop. If anything, her hunger only becomes more dangerous. She releases one of your thighs, pushes your ruined panties aside, and positions a finger at your entrance. You shudder in anticipation, knowing you’ll come the moment she’s inside you.

You try to urge her upward, wanting her to hold you, to kiss you while it happens—but instead, the magical cuff around your wrist flares back to life. In an instant, it splits in two and pins both your hands to the headboard, leaving you with no choice but to lie there, hips shifting helplessly. You’re not even sure what you’re asking her anymore—to stop or to keep going.

Held open and helpless, you can only watch as she drags her mouth down your torso, eyes glowing a warning shade of red. She nuzzles between your thighs, nosing the soaked fabric of your underwear as though the damp proof of your need belongs on display.

“Please—”

She answers with action, pushing the gusset aside rather than stripping it away. She exhales a cool breath against your warm, aching cunt—before a single finger slides into you in one swift, sure motion. Your walls close around her immediately, a gasp ripping from your throat as she curls that lone digit just enough to draw another tremor from you. She keeps her finger buried deep, letting you pulse around her.

“Tako uska,” she breathes in Sokovian—so tight—her voice thick with possession. You clench around her instinctively, making you more wet if that’s even possible.

Instead of adding a second finger, Wanda puts her mouth back on you—still over the fabric—her tongue tracing damp circles that turn your legs to water. Each stroke of her tongue sends a jolt straight through your core, and the friction of wet cloth against oversensitive flesh leaves you blushing at how easily she unravels you without even undressing you fully.

“Pogledaj se,” Wanda murmurs, voice muffled by your drenched bottoms. Look at you.

Your hips cant forward as she withdraws her finger only to thrust it back in deeper. The cuffs tighten just enough to remind you who controls the pace tonight.

“Wanda… please.”

“Ti si moja,” she growls—you are mine—and a second finger presses in beside the first, stretching you just right. Your walls flutter, and the sound that escapes your throat borders on a sob. 

Her next words don’t pass her lips. Wanda goes inside your head and says—

I love you like this—messy and only mine.

It nearly pushes you over the edge. 

Somewhere in the haze, you wonder if this is the Darkhold’s influence. Wanda has never been this bold, never slipped into your mind like this, especially after promising she wouldn’t.

It should scare you, but right now, all you can focus on is the feel of her fingers inside you and her mouth doing and whispering dirty things you never imagined hearing from her. It’s reckless. It’s wrong. And it feels perilously right. 

Wanda’s fingers slide out almost to the last knuckle, and before you can fully exhale, she drives them in again—deeper, harder—while letting a third finger join the stretch. You twist against your restraints, helpless to do anything but feel. Wanda lifts her head, scarlet eyes pinning you in place. She commands—give me what is mine—before adding a fourth digit.

She punctuates the demand by curling all four fingers, pressing perfectly against that sweet spot. The swell breaks, heat rippling outward in a white-hot wave, your entire body tensing, then shattering around her hand. A ragged scream rips free as your climax crashes over you, pulsing so hard it borders on pain.

Wanda slows the curling of her fingers but keeps them buried deep inside you, letting your walls squeeze around her some more. Your hips twitch as the aftershocks seize your body, slick warmth coating her wrist. The sheer intensity of it leaves your eyes stinging; tears threaten, born of overstimulation, relief, and something you can’t name.

You lift your wrists, rattling the scarlet cuffs. “Please, Wanda,” you whisper desperately. “Let me hold you. Let me return the favor.”

Her lips curve in something almost sympathetic, but she doesn’t release you. Instead, she drags a single fingernail down your cheek, just rough enough to raise a faint red line, before bringing the same finger to your lips. “Suck,” she murmurs.

You obey, sucking eagerly as she presses her forefinger onto your tongue, tasting yourself. The humiliation and intimacy of it makes your eyes flutter shut.

“This is what you came for?” she asks quietly, watching you intently. “You wanted me to fuck you?”

You shake your head, the finger still between your lips. Pulling back only enough to speak, you manage, “I came because I have so much to make up to you. Because I was wrong. Because I finally understand I can’t live without you.”

“Yet you have lived without me,” she says. “You have—in a thousand other realities.”

You’re about to protest, but Wanda barely allows you a breath. Her fingers, still deep inside you, start to move again, slow at first, then harder, rougher, with purpose. The stretch stings as your slick begins to dry, and you hiss at the friction. Finally, she rips your ruined underwear the rest of the way off and shifts her hand so that each thrust drags her palm right over your clit, forcing your body to bloom wet around her once more.

“It’s lying to you,” you manage in a hoarse whisper, even as your eyes roll to the back of your head. “If the Darkhold’s telling you this, it’s lying.”

She answers by crashing her mouth to yours, teeth catching your lower lip hard enough that you taste blood. Her free hand closes around your throat roughly, almost cutting off your air entirely. 

“The Darkhold doesn’t lie,” she growls into the kiss. “It just shows the truth.”

“A-and what’s the truth?”

Wanda abruptly stops and for a second, the red glow in her eyes fades just a little. 

“That in every other universe, it’s always her. It’s always Kia.”

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.”