#no literally.

You move without thinking, muscle memory already learning the turns. Down the hallway, past the elevator bank, and through a grey door labeled STAFF ONLY. The locker room smells like detergent and cold steel, like first-day-nerves and deodorant. It's empty and the light only comes to life when you enter and the motion sensor gets triggered.

You change quickly and with purpose, but even speed can't ward off the anxiety that's crawling up your spine. You fold your hoodie with too much precision, redoing it twice. Slip into your scrubs, tug on the long sleeve shirt layered underneath, and double check that your laces are tied securely. Once you're satisfied, you grab your coat, square your shoulders and smooth down the front of your scrubs before you walk back out into the hallway.

You ride the elevator alone, the metal walls reflect a hundred pale version of yourself. Your white coat slung over one arm and your tablet clutched between damp hands. You keep checking your badge, your name, the credentials printed neatly in plastic. As if they might vanish, as if someone might step in, press a hand to your chest, and say: No, not you. Not yet.

Most days have been feeling like this since you started your first shift at the hospital, but tonight the feeling of being an imposter is particularly strong.

The doors open to the third floor with a mechanical ding that sounds too loud in the silence. When you step out, you scan the corridor like it might look different than it did during orientation, but it doesn't, although it feels like it should.

The halls of Stark Memorial are ghostly in the dim light, a faint blue glow cast by LED panels and machines that breathe in rhythm with sleeping infants. There is no overhead chatter, and no pagers ringing unless you're in the pit. There is just the soft hum of life support an the low hiss of oxygen flowing through tiny tubes.

At this time of night, even the vending machines seem to whisper.

You walk past the glass of Bay A, where row of incubators gleam under heat lamps. You glance in on instinct, careful not to let your footsteps echo too loudly. Inside, tiny chests rise and fall, skin like butterfly wings lit up by a thousand monitors and cables. Babies whose lives are measured in grams and seconds.

Your shoes squeak once on the polished floors and you flinch. Biting the inside of your cheek, you curse the rubber on your new sneakers.

The NICU is pristine; sterile in a way that feels sacred. Sleek glass walls and warm air. You grip your tablet tighter, fingers white at the knuckles, trying to look like you belong. Your chin juts forward in false confidence, a posture learned from prep schools and dinner tables with surgeons.

You still feel like an outsider, though.

Behind the nurse's station at the centre of the unit, a woman with dark-rimmed glasses murmurs into a chart, massaging her temples with two fingers. She doesn't notice you at first, too absorbed in some scribbles, until your steps falter just short of the counter. Her head snaps up, and surprise darts across her face. Interns aren't expected until six.

Her brows lift. "You're early."

You catch her name tag as she closes the file. Darcy. Her voice is low but alert, like she's lived too many night shifts. Despite the tiredness behind her eyes, a polite smile lightens up her face.

"Either you couldn't sleep, or you're trying to impress the newcomer upstairs." Her fingers lock under her chin. "Which is it?"

You exhale softly through your nose, trying to smother a nervous laugh "Both?"

She huffs, pushing her rolling chair back with a squeal and coming around the counter. "Well, in that case; let's get you prepped." Her tone shifts. It becomes brisk, but not unkind. She nods toward the NICU bays. "We've got fifteen in bed spaces. Five vented, two preemies under 28 weeks and Baby Hope..." she pauses. "Hope had a rough stretch overnight. She's in Bay A. You'll want to watch her."

Your fingers start tapping at the tablet instinctively, casting your face in cool light. "Shaky stats?"

"Couple of desats just before four. The O2 bump helped, but not much. Labs are on file, in case you want to review them. I left notes on fluid balance, but you might want to push them during rounds."

You nod along, eyes skimming Hope's chart. Tiny vitals. Post-op day four. "They're watching for NEC, right?"

"Yeah, Dr. Rambeau flagged her yesterday."

You nod, scrolling faster, but not fast enough to miss anything. You want her to think you're fluent in this, not panicking inside.

Darcy tilts her head, lips pushed into a pout thoughtfully. "Smart girl."

Startled, you look up with furrowed brows. "Not a lot of interns would've clocked that, let alone read notes older than twelve hours."

You blink, surprised by the compliment. You don't let get to your head, even when in place like this, it's the closes thing you can get to being seen. You quietly store it away and keep it in the back of your mind as a little badge of honour.

She studies you again, a little more curiously now, and nods toward the darkened NICU bays. "You thinking NICU?"

Hesitating, you shrug like it doesn't matter, like you haven't been here since four on purpose. "I'm floating for now."

She clicks her tongue, smirking. "You wouldn't be here before the janitors if you weren't thinking of something."

You fight the smile tugging at your lips and shrug again. This time it's an admission.

Darcy leans closer, her voice hushed. "Dr. Maximoff's schedule got posted around two. She's making her own rounds at seven, but if she finds you doing some prep work, it might score you some points with her, or not. Hard to say."

You lift your chin high and press your lips together. "I'll take my chances."

She grins, stepping back. "Smart and brave."

She doesn't retreat to her seat immediately, though. She lingers for moment, watching you a little differently now, not just as the ghost of an intern, not just as another kid trying to prove something. No, there is now the faintest sign of recognition in her eyes, like maybe she remember what it was like to be young and unsure and desperate to matter in a place like this.

"You keep showing up like this and people are going to start noticing," she says, tone gentler now. "Make sure it's for the right reason."

You draw your head back, caught off guard. You nod, words stuck somewhere in the back of your throat.

Darcy holds your gaze a moment longer before she retakes her seat behind the counter, already reaching for her pen and falling back into her prior motion.

You glance at the incubator again. Hope's monitor beeps softly. You are here. You are early. You are ready.

Or at least you are trying to be.

But readiness isn't always enough.

You tell yourself you're here because you want the edge, the good cases, the right eyes on you, the surgical rotation you're already chasing, but it's more than that, it's always has been more.

You grew up in a house where excellence was expected, not celebrated. Your father, a decorated trauma surgeon who spent years operating in combat zones, still talks in battlefield metaphors. Your mother, Chief of Cardiothoracics at one of the top hospitals in the country, rarely blinked unless someone was coding.

You didn't inherit ambition, you were raised in it.

Your path to medicine wasn't a choice; it was a legacy, a name that had to continue to carry weight. You knew how to stitch an arm back on before you were twelve, had internships arranged before you could drive. Dinner conversations resembled board reviews more than anything. They were cold, clinical, demanding. Praise was performance-based, and weakness wasn't even a language.

Your parents already decided your specialty. Neuro, maybe, or cardio. Something worthy of pedigree, something with blood and pressure and glory.

But when you walked into the NICU for the first time, saw the quiet blinking incubators, the impossibly small fists curling in their sleep, something cracked open. It was gentle and terrifying and oh-so deeply yours.

This wasn't loud. It wasn't showy. No one would ever applaud you for wanting it. Everyone calls this unit the pink squad. It's too soft, too feminine. There's not enough adrenaline, not enough glory. But here, in this ward, with these fragile lives and impossible odds, you see a quiet conviction. It might not be flashy or heroic, but at least it's real, and entirely your own.

You read the research. You've seen the clips. You've watched surgeries that looked like miracles. In-utero heart repairs, twin separations, emergency C-sections with five teams and mere seconds to act.

And there's always one name coming up.

Wanda Maximoff.

Medical journals love to centre their articles around her. She's a myth, a legend with blood on her hands and a no-bullshit policy. The rumours about her are as big as the name she carries. She lost her sons, left her husband. Vanished. Reappeared. Chose this, out of all places in the world.

You don't know if Dr. Maximoff will ever take you seriously. She's a woman whose name your parents only mentioned with begrudging respect. But if there's one place you might finally choose yourself, it will be here.

You adjust your name badge, catching your reflection in the glass. Light blue scrubs over a lilac long-sleeve shirt, a white coat that is too clean, and a name badge that still creaks with every step you take. Your braid is already coming loose and when you try to fix it, your hands shake too much. No matter how hard you try, when you look at yourself, you still feel like a little girl playing dress-up in her parents' clothes.

A low rumble from the end of the hallway interrupts your racing thoughts. The elevator stops with a faint groan before the doors drag open.

Footsteps.

You straighten your spine, joints cracking. You glance sideways, heart thundering in your chest.

A figure in dark crimson scrubs steps out of the elevator. Her stride is confident, unhurried. Her features are sharp and striking, a face carved not from marble, but from grief.

She doesn't pause, doesn't even look around, but her piercing green eyes flicker to you.

Just a second.

Just long enough to burn.

The corridor is brighter now, smelling of coffee and disinfectant. Warm sunlight seeps through the slatted blinds, but the weight in your chest hasn't lightened. The rhythm of the hospital has shifted. Coffee cups, clipped heels, shuffling clipboards. The quiet reverence of the night has been replaced by the low-level chaos of a new shift.

You stand stiffly, pinned between Yelena and Peter in the morning line up. You'd stayed in the NICU longer than necessary, memorising Hope's labs and tracing her chart like a scripture. It was comforting, structured, clear. Something you could fix.

But now, that clarity is gone and the nerves are kicking back in.

Peter's yawning, Yelena's already on her second espresso, and MJ gives you a once-over with a raised eyebrow.

"You look like you've lost a bet with death."

You don't answer, too focused on the footsteps echoing from down the hall.

She turns the corner no longer in scrubs but in tailored black slacks and a burgundy silk blouse, sleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing lean forearms and a watch that glints under the fluorescent lights. Her heels are matte black, and her posture is absolute. A tablet is tucked under one arm, her coat draped elegantly across the other.

Without a word, she walks directly past the group of interns. No introduction. No greetings, just the clicking of her heels as she makes a sharp turn into a nearby patient room.

The group stares after her, collectively dumbstruck.

"Jesus," Peter breathes, whispering out of the corner of his mouth. "Did anyone else feel their soul leave their body?"

Darcy, who just exited a patient's room, hides her amused smile behind a clipboard. "That was your cue, kids."

There's a beat of stillness, and then, chaos.

Everyone lunges at once. Badges jostle, pens fall, someone drops their tablet with a soft curse. You fumble with yours but manage to keep it pressed to your chest as you rush after them.

"Bay D," Dr. Maximoff announces from inside the room, tapping her tablet once. "Mrs. Lawrence. Who wants to brief?"

The interns crowd the doorway, jockeying for position, trying to compose yourselves as if you hadn't just been herded like panicked sheep.

Her eyes scan the group, but she doesn't look at you. Something inside of you stirs. You want her to look at you, want her to see you. The patient's name barely registers before you open your mouth.

And then, a mistake.

"I–uh–she–Mrs. Lawrence is–"

Dr. Maximoff's eyes darken, her brows crease in the centre. She doesn't let you finish. "I'm not sure if someone has informed you," she says cooly, "But these files–" she taps the screen in your trembling hands "–are meant to be read and memorised. Not just held."

Heat blooms up your neck, eyes darting to the floor, where the edge of your too-clean white sneakers meets sterile tile. Shame pulses behind your eyes. You shouldn't have spent all your time in the NICU, you should've checked on the OBGYN patients too.

She sighs, and you can feel her rolling her eyes. "What a shame. I was told you were more than just a pretty face." The silence that follows is suffocating. "Belova." Yelena fires off the case facts without hesitation, clinical and complete. You don't even hear them. Your heart is pounding too loudly in your ears, but at least the spotlight is no longer on you.

MJ bumps your arm with her shoulder, and you nod just enough to signal that you're still breathing. Peter leans in when Dr. Maximoff turns to head to the next room, voice low. "Well, at least she thinks you're pretty?"   After going through the Bay B patients, mostly young mothers in the waiting, the next stop is Bay A. The air shifts as your team steps into the NICU's glass-panelled sanctuary. Dr. Maximoff stands at the centre of it all, poised and regal.

"Next," she says, eyes darting to an isolette fleetingly. "Jane Doe. Twenty-six-week preemie. Brought in three nights ago from the ED. No ID, no parental contact."

You already know which isolette she means. You find the little body under warm heating lamps, chest covered in tapes and tubes.

"She was found abandoned outside an apartment complex. Vitals unstable. Underwent PDA ligation on postnatal day two. Currently vented. Minimal urine output overnight."

Her voice faces for just a breath. Her eyes move to the side, to another incubator in the corner. You shift on your heels, trying to gain a better look.

Two boys lie nestled together, sharing one pod. One baby's skin is yellowed from jaundice, the other's stomach is covered by gauze, their hands curled instinctively around the other's. A laminated note is clipped to the side of the isolette with a blue whale tag: Twin therapy in progress. Post-op, Day 2.

Dr. Maximoff's attention lingers a second longer than necessary. The stoic mask on her face doesn't change, but something in her eyes does. You think you see it, but it's fleeting; a flicker of pain or memory. But it's gone as quickly as it came, and her gaze snaps back to you.

"Well, doctor?" Her voice cuts clean. "Would you like to contribute anything about your favourite glass box visitor?"

Your spine goes rigid. How does she know? Did Darcy say something?"

"She's... fragile," you say, voice low and a little shaky. "Post-op day four. Temperature's trending low. Vent setting bumped twice in the last 24 hours. She desatted again before rounds. Labs are pending."

"Diagnosis?"

You steel yourself. "NEC is a concern, especially with the feed residuals increasing and abdominal girth trending up."

Wanda studies you. "And if it is?"

You meet her gaze with a racing heart, inhaling sharply. "Prep for emergency surgery, resection if the bowel's compromised. There is a high risk of sepsis if not caught in time."

She nods, just once. "Good."

Then, her gaze shifts to the rest of the group. "She doesn't need you to hesitate. Not today. Not ever. Until she's claimed, she is our responsibility. That includes you. Do not let your focus drift just because she doesn't have a name."

The interns disperse as soon as the rounds are over, their footsteps echoing down the hospital corridor as they head toward their NICU and OBGYN assignments for the day.

Dr. Maximoff's voice cuts through the din, your name on the tip of her tongue. “You’re with me today.” 

Your heart skips a beat, hope blooming in the centre of your chest. Perhaps you had impressed her, despite your earlier slip-up. Perhaps she saw something worth watching closely.

“Thank you, Dr. Maximoff," you say softly, chin lowered in gratitude.  

“Stark Memorial is still a teaching hospital," she replies flatly, eyes trained on some labs. "And you clearly need the most teaching.” 

Your lips part in surprise. You want to say something, to push back, but the words get stuck somewhere along the way. Instead, you simply nod, swallowing the lump of humiliation. Today wasn't your strongest, but you can't remember the last time someone saw you as the runt of the litter.

Kate chuckles from the sidelines without looking up from her notes. "Try not to mess this up too badly, rookie."

Flinching, you break eye contact with her. The comment comes with sharp teeth that sink into your flesh and nestle underneath your skin. The stark comparison between you and Kate gives you the final blow, a right hook to your guts. She doesn't need to try, she's already earned her place in the few weeks you've been here. Everyone knows she's the favoured one, the one with all the answers all the time. She's already impressed half the staff with her nurtured talent. You don't cower, but there is a noticeable shift to your posture.

Dr. Maximoff's attention snaps to Kate. Her eyes narrow and her lips pull into a thin line.

"Bishop," she says, voice as sharp as a blade. "You're off my service. I don't need another intern wasting my time."

Startled with wide eyes, Kate opens her mouth to protest.

"I'm sure Dr. Romanoff will be more than happy to have you join her today," Dr. Maximoff cuts her off, dismissing her without much room to argue.

Kate's smirk falters and she turns with a downcast expression, grabbing her things without another word. It's not like she was a big fan of neonatal anyway.

You keep your attention ahead, jaw locked. Focusing on something at the far end of the unit. Pretending like you didn't hear her will make your wounded pride less fatal.

Dr. Maximoff watches you for a long moment, a faint glint of something unreadable crossing her features. For a brief instant, the sharp lines of her face soften, a quiet warmth breaking through. Then, with a quiet, unimpressed sigh, she shakes her head, dismissing a thought not worth entertaining.

"Let's see if you're worth the trouble," she says, already turning without checking if you're following.

You remain rooted to your spot. There was no clear instruction, no destination given.

She doesn't look back, she doesn't have to. Her voice cuts through the air effortlessly. "First lesson: when I walk, you walk."

Exhaling heavily, you drop down in a blue plastic chair like you've been discharged from combat. Your back aches, your legs are sore, and there is a migraine waiting to pounce behind your eyes. You peel off your white coat and let it hang limply off the back of the chair, like it might somehow shed the humiliation with it.

Peter waves a chocolate bar in your face. "You're not eating? She really is Satan reincarnated with a pager."

You take the bar without a word, and let the wrapper crinkle in your fingers without unwrapping it. The day has only begun, so who knows, maybe you will need the sugary support later on.

"Don't tell me the vagina squad isn't everything you imagined?" Kate teases, kicking her feet up on another chair.

You glare at her, but you barely have the energy to look angry. “Why are you even here? You're not NICU-assigned."

She shrugs, swinging one leg over the other. "Emotional support, mostly, but I also like to witness suffering firsthand."

You let your head fall to the table with a groan. At least the table is cold enough to ground you and extinguish the fire on your cheeks.

Kate steals the chocolate bar from your limp grip and tears it open. "Honestly, she's probably not even a doctor. She might as well just be a demon that learned to suture."

"Probably someone who hates interns," Peter mutters, half-serious, half-terrified.

"She doesn't hate us," Yelena adds, dropping into the seat across from you with a half-eaten granola bar in hand. "She just believes in pain as a teaching method."

"Spoken like a true trauma junkie," Kate mutters, not even glancing at her.

"Pain builds character and calluses" Yelena shrugs. "Both of which are very useful when you're wrist deep in someone's chest."

Kate raises a sharp eyebrow. "I think you need therapy."

Yelena grins. "I need trauma bays and a good night out."

"She made me do med rec on all four overnight admits," you mutter into your arms. "One mother only spoke Hungarian and another kept calling me Linda and mixing up the names of the medication."

Peter winces. "Ouch."

"And she watched me do it without giving any input. She just stood there sipping her coffee with that bored look in her eyes." Your wave your hand around the general direction of your face.

"Wait, she watched?" Kate cackles, clearly finding enjoyment in your pain.

"Didn't say a word."

"I have to admit, her stillness is very unsettling," Yelena adds, thoughtfully taking a bite of her granola bar. "It's almost like she's judging your entire life through a single glance."

"She probably is," MJ says as she slides into the last open chair like she's been listening the whole time, which she probably has. "I'm sure she knows all our secrets, even before we've admitted them to ourselves. There's something about those piercing green eyes..." Everyone turns to look at MJ, but she just shrugs. "I heard she once made a fellow cry in the elevator from just a look."

"It's not fair," Peter whispers, poking at the food on his plate. "Hot people shouldn't be allowed that kind of power."

"She handed me the entire patient list of the floor and told me to write every note. You want to learn, don't you? she said. Like it was a fucking gift and I should be thanking her on my knees for her generosity."

"That's so hot," Kate sighs dreamily.

You shoot her a look. "You're damaged."

"She's terrifying," Peter agrees. "But in a very sexually confusing way."

"You guys are sick," you whine, pressing your face further into the crook of your arms.

Peter leans in, an encouraging smile on his lips. "Hey, for what it's worth... you didn't choke."

You blink up at him, skeptical, remembering the horrors from a few hours ago, not to mention the few times you slipped up while talking to patients with her breathing down your neck.

"Well, okay, yes, you did, but not on the hard stuff."

You grunt. "You are terrible at pep talks."

"I'm working on it."

"Give him points for honesty," MJ says, drinking a suspiciously green substance from a mason jar. "It's more than most people in this hospital will offer."

Kate tosses her empty wrapper at Peter. "He's like an over-eager puppy. Useless in crisis but you keep him around because he means well."

Peter gasps, mock-offended. "I'll have you know I was a Boy Scout and know perfectly well how to react in crisis."

"That actually explains the pathological need to help," Yelena deadpans.

"Okay, but for real," Kate leans forward conspiratorially, eyes bright with mischief, "do you think she knows she's hot, or is it just part of the ice queen aesthetic?"

"Please," MJ mutters. "She knows it and she weaponises it."

"I didn't realise I was the topic of such passionate lunchtime discussion."

You freeze.

The whole table freezes.

Because standing behind you, again, like she apparrated out of the floor tiles, is Dr. Maximoff.

Her eyes briefly dart over the group, then they settle you. "If you have that much energy to gossip, I assume your notes are done."

Your mouth opens, then closes. To be absolutely fair, you did not gossip with them. You were just sitting here, overthinking your career choices. You swallow the bitter taste on the back of your tongue.

"They will be," you manage, voice cracking. "Soon."

"Good," she replies before leaning forward so that only you can really hear her next words. "Next time, unwrap the chocolate. Your blood sugar's tanked, and it makes your hands shaky and your reaction slow."

She pulls away with the same calm, elegant efficiency she always moves with, but just before she walks off, she throws one final comment over her shoulder.

"And for the record," her gaze cuts briefly to Peter, Kate, MJ and Yelena, "if I hated interns, you'd know. You wouldn't still be here."

And then she's gone, heels clicking sharply as she disappears through the cafeteria doors. Silence follows her until all of you are certain that she won't come back.

You sit there frozen for a beat longer than anyone else. Heart still pounding, stomach still in such tight knots that you consider getting a consult with Dr. Wilson.

"I think I just saw my life flash before my eyes."

Kate fans herself with a napkin. "Is it bad that I want her to step on me with those heels?"

Peter exhales shakily. "That was... something."

Yelena tilts her head, studying you, no, dissecting you. "She likes you."

"That's not possible."

"She watches you like she's already memorised your blood type."

Peter stares at you like he's something for the first time now. "She told you to eat something, didn't she? I think you just got knighted by the Ice Queen."

"Or marked for death," Yelena offers.