#peitroxreaderxwanda

The obnoxious red indicator on the test strip glared obscenely from where you still held it. Only retort manageable among the growing shock was to glare back with hopes that it might change. Red. You knew what that meant but in denial grab for the box, rereading the instructions again and again.

You had peed on the applicator, waited the three minutes as instructed and reviewed the results, and red meant -

Nope. It must be wrong.

The mornings predetermined plans have since been forgotten, now finding yourself marching to the nearest chemist. Basket in hand, you select one of every pregnancy test available, a horde of baby-pink and blue boxes, the bold print screaming enthusiastic, marketed promises.

The perky cashier greets with rehearsed refinement, white teethed smile grating on your nerves. You unload the boxes one by one and pointedly re-frame from making eye-contact. As the mountain grows precariously higher finally you hear the bleep of the scanner and rustle of a plastic bag. Damn, I forgot the reusable bag.

“That’ll be $56.73.” She announces.

Exchanging the card, you eye her quickly and regret it instantly. The cheery demeanour has given way to sympathy and you hate it, as much as you know she means well. It was of no use to you. Sharply you tear away. The card is returned along with a receipt which you hastily stuff into your wallet. You hear an intake of breath and you look to the girl again. She meant to say something but you can only speculate. Her parted lips eventually close and the concern morphs again into the clerk persona you now prefer.

“Have a lovely day.” She kills it with enthusiasm and you grimace. Nodding a swift thank you and strained smile - it almost hurt - you flee the shop.

Stopping by a corner grocery store, your purchase two litres of orange juice and a Slurpie. You didn’t particular like sickly sweet flavour but from experience you knew the biting cold drink would go through you.

During the walk back, the daunting efforts of your mission weigh heavily, almost as heavy as the litres of juice you carry. The Slurpie is consumed as quickly as the slow melt allows; someone could mistake the effort for enthusiasm.

Setting the ammunition upon the bench, you strain an ear for signs of occupancy. Nothing. They all must be out. The empty container is chucked in the recyclables and you begin on a glass of orange juice. Argh! Tastes like piss! The irony of it. Your stomach reaches a state of being uncomfortably full so you reluctantly cease sculling another glass.

To pass the time, you read the boxes with the aim to decide which will be used first, but each is the same as the next.

‘Guaranteeing accurate and swift results!’

Please just lie to me. Pacing around the kitchen, you pause now and then and push, face glowing red at the effort, hoping to hurry along the process. It’s been 15 minutes since your return. 20. Half an hour. It’s at the 40 minute mark, anxiety eating you from the inside, that you sense the urge.

Stuffing the boxes within the bag, you flee for you bathroom.

Plus sign.

Smiley face.

Two stripes.

More like: two stripes and you’re out.

The undisputed evidence is compiled in the plastic bag; used pregnancy tests and their boxes discarded and shunned. The initial denial is paving way for a landslide of stunned horror. Still situated on the toilet with pants crumbled about your ankles, your head is cradled in your hands, the shocking truth bouncing about your head.

Pregnant.

The realisation inspires a sickening feeling, swelling amid a void of emptiness. Your breathing shudders erratically, hair laced fingers tightening painfully but you don’t heed the pain, only the daunting consequences that are soon to follow.

Fuck! Fu-fu-fu-fuck! Minutes follow where you remain seated, allowing the truth to sink in, to allow the shock to subside to manageable levels. When at last you deem yourself able to continue in a reserved manner, your pants are fastened and the wrinkles smoothed. At the basin you review your reflection. It takes two seconds before you can’t stand to look at yourself. Your head drops and hysteria bubbles in your chest. Gripping the rim of the basin, you fight down the feeling, willing it away. Don’t–

You splash a handful of water upon your face for good measure, dabbing away the remnants. It doesn’t help.

What do I do? You ask yourself. Eyeing the boxes and plastic strewn across the bathroom floor, you settle that evidence of mornings activity needed to be eliminated. Last you needed right now was someone else being privy to the crisis. Collecting the items, they’re stuffed into the disposable bag and you feet quicken to the kitchen; guilt and apprehension radiating from your person.

“Hey you.”

The greeting startles you, the bag dropping to the ground. Natasha sits at the island bench, smug in her success of frightening you. You retrieve the fallen item and regard her on straightening. She holds in an inquisitive stare. Anxiety spikes in alarm and nervously you glance at the bag, noting with minor relief that the grey colour disguises its contents.

“Hey.” You offer back but note the uncharacteristic waver of the reply so you try to hide with inquiry. “What are you doing here?”

“I could say the same.”

You’re taken back by the smooth reply, mind delaying a swift and calculated response. Instead you fumble ungraciously to say, “Just doing some stuff.”

Natasha’s brow quirks at the response and it succeeds to make you more nervous. You inch around the island bench, making for the bin disclosed behind a cupboard. Pulling open the door, you dump the bag within, squishing it for good measure.

“Get a sudden craving?” And you see her interest in the half empty container of orange juice. Shit! You’d left it out. No. No. It’s cool. Nothing could be deduced from that.

“Something like that.”

“Of all the brands you bought the one that tastes like piss?” Her nose wrinkles.

“I quickly discovered that.”

“But you still drank half the contents.”

“I was thirsty.”

“Apparently.”

She was digging and caution flares in alarm. What had instigated Natasha’s questions you wouldn’t know, but you knew her well enough to not continue the conversation, least she discover your new found secret, and Natasha’s expertise was uncovering secretes.

It was time to abort.

“You’re welcome to the rest. I don’t want it.” Offering a strained smile, you begin removing yourself from the kitchen and away from Natasha’s probing until she stalls you with a final question.

“(Y/N)?” You pause, back to her and await continuation. “I’m here should you ever need something.” The statement surprises you, that you’ll admit, and you turn to her. Even when she let her guard down, Natasha still maintained a level of reservation but enough to know her offer was genuine.

It’s so tempting. You could tell her, beseech her wisdom and comfort and you know she would provide it willingly and do all in her power to help. But what help could she provide you? She couldn’t undo what was already done.

You don’t trust yourself to voice a reply, afraid that it will all tumble freely and without restraint. Instead you offer a nod, acknowledging her aid with what gratitude you can convey.

The cheap orange is juice is forgotten again.

There were options, many options available to you but any consideration at present is too much to comprehend.

You don’t know what more shocking; the fact that you are or that there existed only one occasion in which this outcome was possible.

It was six weeks ago. Memories of the lust fueled night and its participants flash before you eyes in vivid detail. As much as you want to push them away, you retrace that nights events, trying to pinpoint evidence – or lack of – that would explain your dilemma. But remember as you do, no memory of contraception and its use can be found. God-damnit! How could they all have been so careless?! Because no consideration for the consequences of our actions had been spared. It had been about sex and only sex.

Thankfully the Twins were off somewhere, South America, and with no estimated time of return. This allowed you time to arrange your thoughts, your priorities and your plan of action. You weren’t sure how or when you would reveal to them what has happened. But they, as much as yourself, were liable, yet you would be the one to bear the consequence.

The recognition stuns you momentarily. You hadn’t considered alternative options, hadn’t considered what the next step might be, but you realise then that unconsciously it had decided. However reluctant and afraid, your choice was made. That much was sure.

In days to follow, you keep to yourself but not to the extent that would arouse suspicion. Everything would continue as normal, save your mind that is reeling maddeningly. How long until you started to show? What doctor should you get? Diet restrictions? How did you tell everyone?

Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant!

You had never wanted children but had never no wanted them either. It honestly hadn’t something you considered nor desired. Something you might’ve in years to come. Many years to come. But that projection has been shot to shit.

Yet a more pressing and daunting factor creeps upon your mind. You, should you want it, would be responsible for this life. To mold a human being and introduce them to the world. The astronomical responsibility that would prioritise the rest of your life proves to be overwhelming.

You cry yourself to sleep for the first time since the discovery.

It’s been seventeen days since you’ve found out. Sixty-one since the conception.

Wanda and Pietro have yet to return. You both dread and crave it. You feel alone, scared, and anxious. You don’t want to bear this alone, but you don’t want to be dictated and directed. Your decisions were your own and it would remain that way. But you weren’t ready for this and each passing day drew the inevitable near.

The intercom declares the arrival of the away team and adrenaline ignites within you. Before you can reason the decision, you’re inbound to their location. Opening through one door and into another room you stop abruptly.

There she stands. Outfitted in her civilian attire, no sign of the weeks long absence. Her eyes bright, round face framed by her long hair. You want to run to her, fall into her arms and pour your heart out, knowing she will listen and sooth, and work her magic. Will make everything alright again.

But you’re fixated to the spot. The length of the room separating yourselves and draws longer still the more you prolong it.

She sees you and instantly a warm smile dimples her cheeks. Warm affection blossoms in response but you don’t express it. Your mind is frozen, body is frozen by the knowledge you kept from her. For all that you crave proximity, simultaneously you’re repelled by it – by fear.

She’s quick to notice, expression dropping and replaced with concern. You have yet to move or greet her but there is not intention to do either, mind relapsing with the knowledge that for all the days you contemplated this moment it still hadn’t prepared you.

Wanda breaks your inner turmoil, nearing with cautious steps and your pulse quickens, faster and faster with every foot she draws closer. Her journey ends an arm length from you and her face has drawn into pain and dread. She can palpate your fear, consuming body and mind.

She regards you up and down, looking for sign of injury or an explanation for your state. When visual searching fails her, Wanda extends her hand, relying on tactile method to allude the cause of your obvious stress.

You watch as her hand falters, gauging for objective to her intention. When she perceives none, her hand cups your cheek fondly. You hold the moment, feeling her concern and desire to smite all negativity transfer thought the physical connection. You lean into the hand, eyes closing against the turbulence. Wanda was safe and you feel something give way, relinquishing to her presence.

Wanda perceives the change, thumb soothing your cheek. Something beckons her, calling with urgency and demanding attention. She projects herself, following the trail with curiosity for this was the reason your distress. Instead of all imaginable horrors that might’ve facilitated your reaction to her return, she finds a presence; naïve to its own existence, it flickers faintly in the vastness, cradled and protected.

Wanda retracts sharply, stunned by the discovery. Hearing the sharp intake of breath, you open your eyes to behold Wanda’s shock. She draws closer, unsure of what to do, fingers twitching anxiously. She knows and you know she knows. Her hand settles hesitantly upon your abdomen, precisely adjacent to where she knows exists the new found life.  

Her eyes level with yours, expressing understanding and comfort but out shone by awe. Cupping your face a second time, she closes the space, foreheads connecting.

“I am here.” The word sounds with promise unbroken and infinite. In the excruciating days in awaiting to tell her, now you know this is what you had needed to hear. It was everything you wanted and needed to hear.

A sobs breaks and you find yourself reaching for her, finger gripping her clothes.

For how long she holds you don’t know but familiar voice forces you to separate and acknowledge the curious regard of Pietro Maximoff. His irises dart frightfully fast between Wanda and yourself, ignorant to exchange transpired.

“Oh, brother!” Wanda exclaims breathlessly and Pietro’s demeanour changes instantly.

“What? What is wrong?” Urgency reflected on you. His eyes trace the plane of your body, searching as Wanda’s had and he stills, unnaturally like him when they settle on the palm that remains protective on your abdomen. The seconds ticks loudly until eventual comprehension alights his face comically. Wanda steps toward him, grabbing and guiding his hand to replace her own.

The moment is still and poignant. Wanda and yourself watch him critically for sign of reaction to the unexpected news. He retracts sharply and you startle at the sudden movement. His face grimaces unkindly and it requires Wanda’s trespass to interpret the meaning.

“He wonders if you hate him.” Wanda’s meek voice breaks tranquil air.

“What?! No! Of course not. I’m just scared. I’m terrified! But–” Pleading eyes directing him. “–but Pietro, I need you. Don’t you want this? I thought…I thought you would. I need you!” The fear tumbles from your mouth and tears prickle threateningly.

You’re suddenly smothered against the hard, warm plane of his chest and enclosed in his arms. Safe. The tears break free, staining your cheeks and his shirt. He holds you there, indecipherable whispers hot against your ear and for all that can’t be understood, it breaths with promise and abolishes the crippling fear.

He breaks apart but cradles your face, thumbs smudging the wet trails. A chaste kiss seals the moment then he pulls away to behold you–

The far doors clang with violent handling and in following comes the thundering approach of one pissed of Clint Barton, and matching the pace close behind is Natasha.

The party of three draw apart and watch the dawning of potential conflict perceived by the radiating anger. Wanda’s grip noticeably tightens and you allow her influence to guide you away from Pietro. You question her motive, scrutinising the red-tinted flare of her eyes, but Clint’s objective is quickly answered.

“You little bastard!” The connection of fist to face echoes about the room. You gasp, stunned by Clint’s actions. Pietro stumbles on impact and yet before being able to comprehend the situation, Clint’s roughly grabbing him. “You stupid, ignorant boy!”

Natasha reaches for Clint to dissuade further physical violence. “Clint.” She warns, hand upon his arm. The muscles of his jaw visibly flexes, strain evident. He relents however marginally but his claim on Pietro remains unbroken whose steely gaze gauges Clint for further action.

“Do you realise what you’ve done?” The question sounding with wavering calm.

‘How?’ remains the unanswered question but none could dispute the meaning of Clint’s accusation. Pietro holds Clint’s glare mustering a defiant glare of his own.

“I take full responsibility–”

“Damn right you’re responsible!” Clint’s temper flares. “You can’t even begin to comprehend the severity of the situation and you don’t know the first thing about responsibility. And you!” His attention rounding on yourself. “I had thought you knew better.”

Guilt and embarrassment morphs sickeningly at Clint’s reprimand and you wish you’d sink into the floor. Your mind is absent of retort, drowning in his radiating disapproval. He was a father figure and you had always admired and sought his counsel. But to now know what he thought of your situation, disgusted and –

“I do not appreciate your tone.” The threatening nature of Wanda’s unmistakable. The attention of the room diverts to her with mixed response. “We all are responsible of our actions and we will care for this child with or without your approval.”

“If you are quite finished abusing my brother and (Y/N), you will leave us to our reunion and celebration.”

“You’re too young.”

“We have been too young for many things–” Knowledge of Wanda’s and Pietro’s tragedies and experiences circumventing. “–but this, this we will cherish and behold. Our precious gift. Your involvement is optional.”

The impact of Wanda’s words is palpable.

Clint releases Pietro with an exhausted sigh. “Stubborn brats.”

Pietro uses the opportunity to flit to your side, his hand warm at the middle of your back and concern lining his face. You smile weakly though its effect does little to assure him. Sandwich between the two, Clint and Natasha observe the protective instinct of the Twins and your reception to the attention.

You throw the accusation at Natasha, “You told him.”

Natasha, understanding your meaning, shows a brief second of shame before school the emotion. The expression was probably deliberate you think.

“I was worried,” she says finally though the reply leaves much to be desired.

“It wasn’t your secret to tell.”

“A poorly kept one.” Clint intervenes, a hint of snark colouring the comment. He breaths another sigh, frustration evident. “This isn’t over. Bask in your enjoyment for now, but you’ll hearing from me later. Oh, and don’t forget Rogers. That’ll be show.”

The comment almost makes you blanch at the thought. Steve Rogers: pinnacle of morality and righteous justice. Oh God.

While mildly amused by the reaction, Clint knows he isn’t welcome after Wanda’s graciously genteel scolding. He almost felt like the child. It time for him to depart. He nods at Natasha who recognises the meaning and follows his exit, light banter trailing their leave.

“Good practice.”

“Don’t remind me,” Clint grumbles back.

The evening follows with relaxation and soft discussion. Pietro makes a nest of blankets and pillows on Wanda’s bed. They coddle and expression affection and voice ideas allowed for everyone and you to hear. Their was much that they had to to. Acceptance would come eventually from others though apprehensive at first. Wanda knows the value in their assistance and wouldn’t deny the care and protection the team would provide. It was all for a greater purchase.

In the late hours you’re lulled asleep, intertwined within their protective embrace. I hasn’t been since their departure weeks ago that you had peaceful sleep.

It was the beginning of something terrifyingly new and unique adventure.