#clinic

They find you in the cold. Snow clings to your clothes like a second skin, heavy, wet, unforgiving and increasingly seeping into your bones, cooling you from the knside out. It dusts your hair in pale streaks, melts slowly against your neck, and coats your shoes until the leather is dark and sodden. The evidence of how long you've been outside is written across every inch of you. Hours, maybe. Long enough that your fingers have gone numb, Turing a soft shade of purple, long enough that the cold has seeped past your skin and settled somewhere deeper, somewhere you can't name.

You don't resist when the police approach. You don't speak. You don't gesture, don't nod, don't shake your head. There's no flicker of recognition in your eyes, no acknowledgment that they're even there. You let them guide you into the car like you're barely aware it's happening,like your body is present but your mind is somewhere else entirely, somewhere far away and unreachable. There's no ID on you. No phone. No wallet, no keys, no scrap of paper with a name or address. Nothing to tether you to the world. No name you're willing or able to give. This isn't the first time they've seen someone like you.

The first step is always the same: the clinic. It's late by the time you're brought inside, evening slipping quietly into night. The sky outside has turned a deep, bruised purple, and the streetlights cast long shadows through the frosted windows. Inside, warmth replaces the cold, a wall of heated air that hits you the moment you cross the threshold but you remain distant, withdrawn. Your body doesn't respond to the warmth the way it should. You don't shiver, don't sigh in relief. You simply exist within it, passive and detached. Your fingers burn as the feeling of warmth returns.

The clinic smells faintly of lavender or citrus and something medicinal beneath it, disinfectant, perhaps, or the sterile scent of bandages and latex gloves. The lighting is soft, intentionally so, designed not to overwhelm. Pale yellow lamps glow in corners, casting gentle pools of light across worn furniture and scuffed wooden floors. Staff members move quietly around you, their voices low and careful. A nurse with kind eyes and graying hair approaches first, her steps measured, her hands visible and open. She tries gentle questions, simple prompts as she guides you to a chair.

"Can you tell me your name?" Silence. "Do you know where you are?" Nothing. "Are you hurt?" You don't answer. You don't look at her. You sit where you're placed, a chair near the reception desk, upholstered in faded blue fabric and stay there, silent and unreachable.

Your hands rest limply in your lap, your gaze fixed on some indeterminate point on the floor. The nurse exchanges a glance with a colleague, concern etched across her features.

A doctor is called. He's older, with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses that sit low on his nose. He crouches down beside you, bringing himself to your eye level, and speaks in a voice that's practiced in patience.

"I'm Dr. Ramsey. I just want to make sure you're okay. Can you look at me?" You don't.

He tries a few more questions, soft, undemanding but receives no response only your soft breathing. With no communication and no identification, there's nothing to build a report on. Nothing to explain who you are or how you ended up here. You're a blank slate, a mystery wrapped in silence and snowdamp clothing.

That's when the call is made.

Wanda and Natasha are contacted shortly after: founders of the clinic, heads of psychology and legal affairs respectively. It's late, well past the hour when most people would answer their phones, but they come anyway. They always do.

By the time they arrive, you've been moved. The staff has guided you; gently, carefully, into the large common meeting room, a space designed for community and connection. It's warmer here, more lived-in. Couches with mismatched cushions line the walls, low tables are scattered with forgotten magazines and half-finished puzzles, and shelves stacked with board games and dogeared paperbacks stand against the far wall.

A television rests in one corner, its screen dark and reflective. And in the other corner, commanding quiet attention, sits a piano large, dark, unmistakable. Its polished surface catches the lamplight, and its keys gleam faintly, untouched and waiting. You're seated off to the side in an armchair, stiff and isolated, a few meters away from everyone else.

The chair is oversized, upholstered in deep green fabric worn smooth by years of use. You sit rigidly within it, your spine straight, your hands folded tightly in your lap. Your knees are pressed together, your feet flat on the floor. Everything about your posture screams discomfort, guardedness, a desperate need to be small and unnoticed.

While staff and police brief Wanda and Natasha in hushed tones near the doorway, you remain still. You don't watch them arrive. You don't react as the room subtly shifts around their presence the way conversations lower, the way bodies turn slightly toward them in deference and respect. You sit apart from it all. Silent. Unidentified. Waiting though you may not know for what

Wanda is the first to approach. She walks slowly, her movements deliberate and unhurried, giving you time to adjust to her presence. Her steps are careful, quiet, the kind of quiet that comes from years of working with people who startle easily, who flinch at sudden movements and loud voices. She stops near you, leaving a respectful distance, a buffer of space that feels intentional. She doesn't invade your boundaries, doesn't lean in too close or tower over you.

She waits.

Her eyes are kind and soft, the color of warm earth flecked with green. Her expression is neutral, non-threatening, radiating a calm that feels almost tangible.

She keeps her hands visible, resting loosely at her sides, her body language open. She bends slightly at the knees, lowering herself just enough that she's not looming over you.

"Hello," she says, her voice gentle, the kind of voice that doesn't demand but offers. "I'm Wanda, and this is my wife, Natasha."

She gestures behind her with a small, unhurried movement. You don't turn to look, but in your peripheral vision, you catch the outline of another woman, tall, composed, standing a few paces back. Her presence is quieter than Wanda's, more reserved, but no less attentive.

Something in you shifts. It's small, barely perceptible a tiny crack in the wall you've built around yourself. But you don't let it show on the outside. Not yet.

Your eyes remain glued to the floor, tracing the grain of the wooden planks, the small scuffs and scratches that map out years of foot traffic. Your chest rises and falls in shallow, measured breaths, each one carefully controlled.

Wanda notices your eyes on the ground. She recognizes the guarded expression, the closed-off body language. It's nothing uncommon she's seen it before, countless times. She doesn't force eye contact, doesn't attempt to break through your silent retreat. Instead, she continues speaking, keeping her tone soft and steady, a lifeline cast gently into dark water.

"We were told that you were found outside," she says, each word chosen with care. "In the freezing cold. Is that right?" All eyes in the room are on you now. The police officers, the nurses, the staff members lingering near the doorway, they're all watching, waiting, silent, attentive. The weight of their attention presses down on you like a physical thing, heavy and suffocating. Everyone keeps quiet, holding their breath as Wanda tries her luck.

But you remain silent, as if your mind isn't even with you right now. It's like your body is just a shell, waiting for someone to pick it up and guide it, to tell it what to do next. Wanda can feel the tension in the room, the weight of expectant eyes watching, the collective hope that you'll respond, that you'll give them something, anything, to work with. But she focuses her attention solely on you, on your unresponsive body, your vacant expression, the way you seem to be looking through the floor rather than at it.

She recognizes the signs of dissociation, the subtle disconnect between mind and body. It's as if you are there, but not all there. A part of you has retreated somewhere deep inside, somewhere safe and distant. She keeps her voice soft, her words measured, trying to reach you without overwhelming you.

"You don't have to answer right now," she reassures, her tone warm and patient. "But can you tell us your name?"

You feel your breathing deepen slightly, just a fraction, just enough that someone paying close attention might notice. It's involuntary, a physical response to the pressure building around you. You swallow, the motion tight and uncomfortable. The eyes watching you feel like heavy stones weighing you down, pressing against your chest, your shoulders, the back of your neck. Your jaw tenses, muscle tightening beneath skin, and you stay rigid in the chair, every part of you coiled and defensive.

Wanda observes the subtle changes, the way your breathing shifts, the tension building in your jaw. She can see the stress in your expression, the weight of all those eyes on you, the way you seem to withdraw even deeper into yourself, folding inward like a flower closing its petals against the cold. She gently tilts her head as she watched.

She exchanges a brief glance with Natasha, a silent understanding passing between them. They've worked together long enough that words aren't always necessary. They both recognize the signs of discomfort, the internal struggle you're dealing with, the way you're teetering on the edge of shutting down completely.

Wanda turns her attention back to you, shifting her body slightly to make herself smaller, less threatening. She lowers herself a bit more, her voice dropping to an even softer register, trying to make herself seem as unthreatening as possible.

"It's okay if it's hard to speak right now," she says gently, each word a quiet reassurance. "We can wait. Can you nod or shake your head for me instead?"

She pauses, giving you space to process her words, to respond-if you can -without the pressure of speaking.

But the pressure doesn't ease. If anything, it intensifies. Everything is pushing you down more, the focus solely on you amplifying your stress with each passing second. The nurses hovering near the edges of the room, the police officers standing stiffly by the door, their uniforms and badges stark reminders of authority and consequence.

they don't help with the pressure, even if their intentions are good, even if they're trying to help.

A quiet, displeased groan leaves your throat, barely more than a hum, raw and unfiltered. Your brows furrow, creasing the space between them, and your body tenses even further. You're on edge, and that becomes clearer with every passing second. The energy in the room is suffocating, the air thick with anticipation and concern, and it's too much. Too many people, too many eyes, too much attention.

Wanda hears the displeased sound that escapes you, sees the way your brows draw together in distress. She picks up on the subtle cues that your discomfort is increasing, that the pressure of the situation is becoming unbearable. She exchanges another glance with Natasha, and this time, Natasha moves slightly, positioning herself in a way that might help shield you from some of the prying eyes.

Wanda shifts her position as well, angling her body to create a small barrier between you and the rest of the room, trying to alleviate some of the external pressure. She softens her voice even further, her eyes filled with empathy and understanding.

"I know it can feel overwhelming," she tells you, her voice a gentle whisper, intimate and private despite the others in the room. "The people, the eyes, the attention."

She takes a small step closer, but immediately stops when she sees a slight flinch ripple through your body. your shoulders jerking infinitesimally, your breath catching. She gives you space, respects the boundary you've drawn silently , and then gives a quick gesture to the rest of the room, her hand moving in a subtle but clear signal.

The room responds immediately. The quiet chatter that had been a low murmur in the background fades to complete silence. The staff members and officers step back, giving you more physical distance, their gazes still on you but now more respectful, more cautious. They understand that crowding you isn't helping.

Natasha remains near Wanda, her expression calm and supportive, her green eyes watchful but not invasive.

Wanda turns back to you, her full focus on you once again. She can see the anxiety and stress etched across your face, the way your body is still tense and guarded, every muscle tight and ready to flee. But she also sees a hint of vulnerability beneath the surface, a flicker that tells her you're struggling to stay afloat, that you're holding on by a thread.

She takes a deep breath, intentionally slow and visible, modeling the kind of breathing she hopes you might mirror.

"Can you breathe with me for a moment?" she asks softly. But it's too much. Everything: the request, the attention, the quiet expectation, it all converges on you at once, and suddenly you can't stay still anymore.

Another displeased hum vibrates in your throat, sharper this time, and with one abrupt movement, you stand.

The chair scrapes slightly against the floor. You move past Wanda and Natasha, your steps quick and hurried, driven by an urgent need to escape. You cross the room, a few meters that feel like miles and stop at the window on the far side.

You stand close to the glass, your breath fogging it slightly, and stare outside. Snow is  still falling, soft and silent, each flake drifting lazily through the dark sky. The rhythm of it, the gentle, endless cascade, seems to calm something inside you. Your shoulders lower just a fraction. Your breathing begins to even out.

Behind you, Wanda and Natasha stand back up. They don't follow. They give you the space you clearly need.

They step back to the others and a police officer steps speaks up gently, her voice low and careful. "We didn't get any further," she says quietly, glancing toward you with a mix of concern and frustration. "They didn't answer or communicate in any way. With us, they stayed seated throughout, but this must have pushed them to move. This was the first time they moved on their own."

Wanda and Natasha listen, their eyes still trained on you as you press yourself close to the window, watching the snow as if it holds all the answers. They see the way you've sought refuge there, the way the falling snow seems to offer you something the people in the room cannot.

Wanda's heart softens at the sight. She turns her attention back to the officer, nodding in acknowledgment.

"Thank you," she says quietly. "That's helpful information. We'll let them have some space for now. I don't think you're needed here any longer, it's better if we reduce the number of people in the room. We'll call you when we have new information."

The police officer nods in understanding, recognizing the need for reduced stimulus. "Alright," she agrees. "We'll step out for now. But please, keep us updated."

With that, the officers and some of the staff begin to quietly file out of the room, their footsteps muffled, their voices hushed. The door opens and closes several times, each departure easing the pressure in the air just a little. Eventually, only you, Wanda, and Natasha remain.

The tension in the room softens as the numbers dwindle, the atmosphere growing quieter, more intimate. It feels less like an interrogation now and more like a sanctuary.

Wanda and Natasha remain standing near the doorway, giving you the space you seem to need. They stand side by side, their shoulders almost touching, a united front of calm and patience. Their gazes alternate between you and each other, silent conversations passing between them with every glance.

Wanda breaks the silence first, her voice barely above a whisper. "They seem very anxious," she says, her concern evident in her tone.

Natasha nods, her eyes still fixed on you. "They're on edge," she murmurs. "Their body language is guarded, their actions impulsive. They're struggling."

Wanda nods in agreement, her eyes never leaving you. "They're shutting down," she observes. "Dissociating, maybe."

Natasha takes a step closer to Wanda, her gaze intent. "They're in survival mode," she says quietly. "Scared and withdrawn."

Wanda lets out a weary sigh, the weight of the situation settling over her. "Their unwillingness to communicate is going to make it challenging to help them."

"We have to approach this delicately," Natasha says, her voice a low murmur, thoughtful and careful. "They're clearly in distress, and any forceful approach will probably do more harm than good."

Wanda leans against the wall, her arms crossed loosely over her chest, her brow furrowed in thought. "We need to establish trust and make them feel safe," she says. "But how can we do that if they refuse to talk or even look at us?"

Natasha is quiet for a moment, her mind turning over possibilities. She watches you, the way you stand so close to the window, the way your gaze follows the drift of the snow with an almost hypnotic focus. There's something rhythmic about it, something calming. The snowfall is steady and melodic in its own way, each flake a quiet note in an endless, improvised song.

And then it comes to her.

"We'll have to find a way to connect with them on a different level," Natasha says slowly, her eyes lighting up with an idea. "Maybe it's not about words for them right now. Maybe it's about something else."

Wanda hums thoughtfully, watching her wife's expression shift, recognizing the spark of an idea taking shape.

Without another word, Natasha steps away and moves silently toward the piano in the corner. The instrument stands there, elegant and unassuming, its dark wood frame gleaming under the soft lights.

She's taught piano for years, still does, occasionally, when time allows. Music has always been a language she understands, a way to communicate when words fall short.

Wanda watches her wife with curiosity, sensing that Natasha has thought of something. She knows Natasha's history with music, knows that she herself plays the cello with the same kind of quiet passion.

They've shared countless evenings making music together, filling their home with melodies that speak what words cannot. As Natasha settles herself on the piano bench, her fingers hovering over the keys, Wanda understands the plan.

Natasha's gaze flicks to you, still standing by the window, isolated in your thoughts. She knows that the rhythmic sound of the falling snow has a certain calming effect, but she also knows that music can be a powerful tool: a bridge, a lifeline, a way to reach someone who has retreated too far for words to follow.

She takes a moment to prepare herself, her fingers gently touching the cool, smooth surface of the keys. Then, she begins to play.

The melody she chooses is soft and tender, a lullaby she learned years ago, one meant to soothe and comfort. Gentle notes fill the room, spilling out into the space like warm light. The sound is delicate, unhurried, each note given the time it needs to resonate fully before the next one arrives.

Your head quirks to the side the moment you hear it. You don't turn around, don't look at them, not yet. But you shift your ear toward the sound, your body angling slightly, clearly listening. Interest has been piqued.

Natasha continues to play, her fingers dancing over the keys with practiced grace. The melody flows effortlessly from the piano, weaving itself through the air, wrapping around the room like a soft, comforting blanket.

The notes are simple but expressive, carrying emotion without words, offering connection without demand.

She keeps an eye on you, noticing the subtle shift in your body language as you turn your head toward her. Your gaze remains fixed out the window, but your ear is turned in her direction, your attention divided now between the falling snow and the rising music.

Wanda, standing nearby, observes the scene silently, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She sees the way your shoulders have relaxed just slightly, the way your breathing has evened out. It's working. With each note, the air seems to grow calmer, the room more tranquil. The melody floats through the space like a gentle current, nudging at the edges of your mental barriers, coaxing rather than pushing.

Natasha plays with a grace and skill that's almost mesmerizing. Her eyes remain on you, watching your reactions, adjusting the dynamics of her playing to match the energy in the room. Her fingers never pause in their melodic dance, moving from one phrase to the next with seamless fluidity.

Wanda watches as your body seems to lean toward the sound, your attention caught despite your efforts to remain detached. She can see the internal struggle playing out in the subtle shifts of your posture, the way part of you wants to retreat while another part is drawn to the music like a moth to a flame.

The lullaby continues, tender and patient, asking nothing of you but offering everything it can.

And then Natasha pauses.

The silence that follows is gentle, not abrupt, a natural breath between phrases. The last note lingers in the air for a moment before fading, leaving behind a quiet that feels different from before. It's not empty or oppressive. It's expectant. You slowly turn your head around.

For the first time since you arrived, you look at them. Your eyes; tired, wary, but undeniably present, meet Wanda's first, then Natasha's. You glance between them, your gaze searching, assessing. A moment of stillness and silence passes, heavy with significance.

Then you start to move.

You walk around the piano with caution, your steps careful and measured, as if testing the ground beneath you. You're not scared of contact anymore not in the way you were before. Something has shifted, however small. You approach the piano bench where Natasha sits, and after a brief hesitation, you slide onto it beside her.

The bench is broad enough for two, and Natasha shifts slightly to make room, her movements slow and deliberate so as not to startle you. You settle in, your hands resting in your lap at first, fingers curled loosely. Your eyes scan the keys, taking in the black and white pattern, the way the lamplight catches on the polished ivory.

Wanda and Natasha exchange a subtle but pleased look, surprise lingering behind their eyes. The moment of eye contact feels monumentally significant,a sign that you're beginning to lower your guard, that you're allowing them into your space, even if only by inches.

Natasha remains beside you, patient and still, giving you all the time you need. She sees the flicker of curiosity in your eyes as you study the keys, the way your fingers twitch slightly as if remembering something.

Wanda moves closer, resting a gentle hand on the back of the surface of the pisno, making her presence known but not overbearing. She watches you with a calm, patient expression, waiting to see what you'll do next, hoping but not expecting.

After a while, seconds or minutes, it's hard to say, you slowly lift your hands. They hover above the keys, trembling slightly, suspended in the air like birds uncertain of where to land. Then, gently, you let them sink.

Your fingers find their places on the keys, settling into position with a familiarity that surprises even you. You take a deep breath, filling your lungs with air, steadying yourself, stopping the tremble.

And then you start to play.

Your fingers move swiftly and fluidly, as if they've been waiting for this moment, as if they've been holding onto this music for years. The melody builds quickly, reaching a certain level of complexity and intensity that takes both Wanda and Natasha by complete surprise.

It's not a simple tune or a tentative exploration, it's a full, complete piece, played with confidence and skill and raw, unfiltered emotion.

The music pours out of you, filling the room with sound that is both beautiful and heartbreaking. Each note is deliberate, each chord layered with meaning. The tempo shifts and swells, dynamics rising and falling with the kind of control that only comes from years of practice, years of devotion to the instrument.

Natasha and Wanda are both taken aback, their eyes widening in genuine astonishment. They exchange another look, their expressions reflecting surprise and deep admiration. The intensity and emotional weight in your playing speak volumes, hinting at a depth and history that they can only begin to guess at.

This isn't just skill. This is storytelling. This is a language you've mastered when words failed you. It's something you know by heart.

Natasha leans back slightly on the bench, simply observing and listening, her own hands resting in her lap. She doesn't interrupt, doesn't try to join in. This is your moment, your voice finally breaking through the silence in some way.

Wanda watches the subtle expressions on your face as you play, the way your brows furrow in concentration, the way your lips part slightly with the effort, the way your eyes seem to focus on something far beyond the keys, something internal and deeply personal.

The room falls utterly quiet except for the sound of your playing. The melody echoes off the walls and hangs in the air, filling every corner with its presence. Both Wanda and Natasha are entranced, their gazes fixed on you, unable to look away.

Through the notes, they see a different side of you emerging, a guarded but intensely emotional person, someone with stories etched into their bones, someone who has survived things that have left marks too deep for words. Each keystroke, each pause, each change in tempo reveals a story untold, a chapter of your life written in music.

Wanda leans forward, resting her chin against her hand, utterly captivated by the music flowing from your fingertips.

The melody builds to a crescendo, powerful and overwhelming, before it begins to slow. You bring it down gently, carefully, guiding it toward its conclusion with the same grace with which you began. The final notes are soft, almost whispered, a gentle resolution that feels both like an ending and a beginning.

You end it gracefully, the last chord ringing out for a long moment before fading into silence.

You slowly withdraw your hands from the keys, your fingers curling back into your lap. Your breathing is heavier now, the exertion, physical and emotional, evident in the rise and fall of your chest. For a moment, you sit there, still and quiet, as if you're not quite sure what to do now that the music has ended.

Then, after a moment, you stand up. You walk back to the window, your steps slower this time, less urgent. You return to your place by the glass, looking outside again, watching the snow continue its endless, silent fall.

Silence returns. But it's different this time, not oppressive or heavy, but full. Full of understanding, of connection, of something shared without a single word spoken.

Wanda straightens herself, her eyes still fixed on you as you walk back toward the window. The change in your demeanor is evident, your face once again hidden behind a mask of stoicism, but now they know there's something beneath it. something vibrant and alive and capable of profound expression.

Natasha remains seated at the piano, still processing the intensity and emotion in your playing. Her hands rest lightly on her knees, and her eyes are on you, watching you intently as you return to your silent contemplation, the snow still falling outside the window.

The room is heavy with a sense of both awe and curiosity, the impact of your music still lingering in the air like perfume.

Wanda and Natasha exchange another glance, a silent understanding passing between them. They recognize the significance of what just happened, the shift in the atmosphere, the glimpse they've gotten of your hidden depths. You've communicated more in those few minutes of music than you could have with hours of conversation.

Wanda breaks the silence, her voice barely above a whisper, reverent and sincere. "You play beautifully," she says, her appreciation genuine and unguarded.

Natasha nods in agreement, her own voice soft. "Incredible skill," she adds. "The emotion in your playing... it spoke volumes."

You don't react. You don't turn around, don't acknowledge their words. You simply watch the snow fall again, your gaze tracking individual flakes as they drift past the window, each one unique and fleeting. But Wanda and Natasha understand. They don't need a verbal response. They get it now, the message came across loud and clear. You speak through the keys.

Playing that one piece for them was an act of trust, a communication that didn't need words. You gave them a piece of yourself, offered it up in the only way you knew how.

After a moment, Natasha's fingers find the keys again. She starts playing once more, a different piece this time, something equally gentle but new. The music fills the room again, a soft and comforting presence.

You sink into the armchair close to the window, the same one you'd occupied before, and relax against its frame. Your body settles into the cushions, tension easing from your muscles bit by bit. The music washes over you, blending with the sight of the falling snow, creating a cocoon of safety and calm.

Wanda and Natasha observe as you melt into the wall, your body language shifting to something more open, more at ease. There's a sense of understanding that's formed between the three of you now, a bond forged through the unspoken language of music.

Natasha continues to play, the melody weaving around the room like a lullaby, and Wanda observes you from a slight distance, her expression soft and gentle, protective.

The atmosphere in the room mellows further, the mood shifting to something truly tranquil and calm. Natasha's fingers continue to glide over the keys, creating a soothing, almost hypnotic tune that ebbs and flows with natural grace.

Wanda moves to a chair near your, not too close, but close enough. She settles into it with a quiet sigh, folding her knees over each other elegantly, getting comfortable. She, too, finds herself drawn into the music, into the atmosphere Natasha has created. It's peaceful in a way that feels rare and precious.

Both Natasha and Wanda seem to understand the unspoken significance of this moment. They understand the trust that was given, the silent communication that has taken place. They're not going to push for more. Not tonight

Hours pass. By now, it must be far past midnight. The world outside the window has grown darker, quieter, the snow still falling in its endless, patient rhythm. Inside, the room is warm and dimly lit, the lamps casting long, gentle shadows.

You're relaxed into a armchair behind you next to the window, your knees hugged tight against your chest, your arms wrapped around them. Your gaze follows the drift of snow, watching each flake as it tumbles through the air, disappears into the darkness, is replaced by another. It's mesmerizing, the constancy of it, the way it never stops.

Wanda is settled into the armchair close to yours, her body leaned in comfortably, her eyes halfclosed as she enjoys the music and the atmosphere. There's a sense of timelessness here, as if the outside world has ceased to exist and only this room, this moment, this music matters.

Natasha continues to play, her repertoire seemingly endless, each piece flowing seamlessly into the next. Her fingers know the keys intimately, moving with the kind of ease that comes from a lifetime of practice. And then, suddenly, you speak.

It's so soft, barely audible, as if you're talking to yourself in a hushed whisper, testing the weight of the words on your tongue.

"I'm y/n."

Wanda, who had been quietly observing the snow alongside you, her thoughts drifting peacefully, catches the sound. Her ears perk up immediately, her head turning toward you slightly, her breath catching in her throat.

She hears the words that escaped your lips, the name you whispered so softly: y/n. Wanda's heart skips a beat, her eyes widening a fraction as she registers the significance of that moment. It's the first time you've spoken, the first piece of yourself you've willingly offered in words. A name. Your name.

Natasha, too, senses the shift in the air. Her fingers falter briefly on the keys, a single note hanging in the air a fraction too long before she recovers. You turn your head slowly toward Natasha, and for the second time tonight, you meet her eyes. Your voice is gentle and soft, yet barely above a whisper, fragile, hoarse but clear.

"Please don't stop playing." Natasha, her eyes connecting with yours, understands your request immediately.

The corners of her lips curl into a small, reassuring smile, warm and genuine. Her fingers resume their dance over the keys, the melody picking up where it had faltered. The soft sound fills the room once more, a comforting and tranquil atmosphere blanketing the space like a warm embrace.

Wanda, who had been watching the whole exchange, finds herself holding her breath. The moment feels strangely intimate and significant, a turning point she hadn't anticipated but is deeply grateful for.

The music continues to flow, the notes a soft and soothing background to the snowfall outside. Natasha's eyes flicker toward you momentarily, studying your features as you sink deeper into the armchair, your body relaxing further with each passing moment.

Wanda, still observing from her nearby chair, feels a pang of protectiveness swell in her chest. She can see the vulnerability in your expression, the way you've finally allowed yourself to be present, to be seen. She can't help but feel a growing connection, a need to protect you, to ensure that this fragile trust you've extended isn't broken.

The room is silent except for Natasha's music and the subtle sound of snowflakes gently tapping against the window. It's a perfect, delicate balance:music and snow, warmth and cold, silence and sound.

As the music continues to envelop the room, Wanda remains quietly observant, her heart swelling with a mix of emotions. Every note of the melody seems to deepen her sense of protectiveness, her desire to shield you from whatever pain and hardship you've endured.

She doesn't know your story yet. not the details, not the specifics but she knows enough. She knows that you've been through something that left you out in the cold, alone and silent, unable or unwilling to speak.

But now you've spoken. You've given them your name. Y/n. It's a beginning.

Natasha continues to play, a calm and steady presence whose fingers move effortlessly across the keys. The music fills the space, blending with the snowfall like a peaceful lullaby, timeless and infinite. Each note seems to whisper, You're not alone. You're safe here. You're seen.

Time moves differently now, slower and softer. The three of you exist in this bubble of warmth and music and quiet understanding, separate from the rest of the world.

Eventually, the night deepens further, and exhaustion begins to creep in at the edges. Your eyelids grow heavy, your body sinking deeper into the chair. Wanda notices, sees the way your grip on your knees loosens slightly, the way your head begins to tilt toward the armrest.

Natasha sees it too. She adjusts her playing, choosing pieces that are even softer, more soothing, designed to ease you into rest.

Wanda stands quietly, moving with careful deliberation. She retrieves a blanket from a nearby shelf. soft, thick, meant for moments exactly like this. She approaches you slowly, giving you time to notice her, and gently drapes the blanket over your legs and lap. You don't protest. You don't pull away. You simply accept it, the warmth of the blanket settling over you like a second layer of safety.

"Rest if you need to, y/n," Wanda says softly, her voice a quiet murmur. "We'll be right here."

Your eyes meet hers for a brief moment, and in that glance, something passes between you: gratitude, perhaps, or simply acknowledgment. Then your eyes drift closed, your breathing evening out as sleep finally begins to claim you.

Natasha continues to play, her music a lullaby now in truth, guiding you gently into dreams.

@perihelion-of-the-night medi sans , clinic

@quietneighbor whisk sans, dawg, blob

Tagging the shippers