Work Text:
i.
The radio needs to work.
That’s what Wanda thinks as she stares into the pathetic flame and fire pit she’s conjured. If she had taken to it with stones and sticks—or even the flint she’d created and then immediately lost somewhere within her kitchen—she would have a bigger fire than the one barely warming her feet. She would have more.
She presses her bare feet against the cold dark ground of her front yard, wanting to seek warmth from within the skin of the earth. The Sokovian night is a thick, empty blanket that both comforts and chills her. The stars have abandoned her yet again for a better aerial view. It’d be easier to skip over the coolness of the night with a mere scrunch of her face, but Wanda likes to be reminded that she can feel. Some things should remain out of her control.
She needs more dry leaves and twigs. That’s what Pietro would say. Rather than get up and collect them from beneath the thick tree she’s grown overnight by the right side of her cabin, Wanda rests her elbow against her upper thigh and clicks her fingers. Thick, heavy branches and full, round leaves materialise. The fire in her pit begins to crackle before it births itself into life and climbs up the length of the air to reach for the sky. The dark night of Sokovia bursts into gold.
With her face warm and her cheeks now a healthy pink, she leans over to her left and picks up the old radio. It’s a discoloured golden brown with a broken dial. She likes it best, all beaten up and bruised. Plucking the antenna between her fingertips, she twists it to the left and then the right before she hears it crackle.
It’s loud and startling, but Wanda doesn’t flinch. She’s done this before. The unnatural crackling hurts her ears, pierces through her entire body, and then it abruptly falls silent. Cradling the radio in her lap, she holds its sides comfortably between her palms.
"Honey," she says quietly, peering at the fire. It licks hungrily at the air around her, embers floating up into the sky. She hopes it doesn’t gobble up what he needs to use to climb his way to her. "I’m here."
The radio remains quiet. Wanda’s throat tightens as she waits, forcing herself to be patient. Digging her bare feet into the dry dirt, she tries her best not to hold her breath. The radio takes its time to learn how to breathe much like a child, and once it does—
"Mom?" Billy’s voice is meek before he laughs loudly—too loudly, but it’s loud enough for Wanda to picture him beside her. She smiles and ignores her thick tears. "Mom! Did you do it? I can hear—"
"Yes, Billy," she says, laughing incredulously. Each time, she laughs in disbelief. "I made the fire."
"I wish I could see it." He sighs forlornly, the radio crackling thickly. She closes her eyes and relishes the sound.
"Maybe we could try again," she says, keeping her eyes closed. Breathing in and out, she counts them. It’s grounding. "Open up your mind to me."
"I don’t know, Mom…." She thinks he scuffs his toe against the ground. Wanda likes to imagine him at a playground, sitting on the swings while Tommy zips up the ladder leading to the slide. The playground she envisions has monkey bars, little mechanical horse rides, and the perfect bench for her. It’s surrounded by endless grass and thick protective trees. That’s where she wants her boys to be.
He makes a noise of uncertainty low in his throat. "I don’t know if I’m strong enough."
"Of course you are, honey," she says, tightly closing her eyes. "You’ve always been strong."
He’s silent on the other end, the radio crackling to remind her that he’s still here. She has him in her palms. Wanda wonders if the warmth she feels between her fingers is her own heat or Billy’s seeping through the metal of the radio.
"Okay," he says quietly. "I’m strong enough. I know I am."
Opening her eyes, Wanda clutches the radio in her lap. Staring at the fire, she focuses on how it feels—its warm palms cradling her face, the bright little embers appearing like tiny fireflies, and the solid ground beneath her feet. She’d created the fire to keep her warm from the Sokovian night’s coolness, but she had also made it to pull from it like a leech.
She tries to send the fire’s warmth through the radio, her fingertips glowing a soft red before it deepens into the scarlet magic she’s quietly come to know of herself. The pads of her fingers slowly glow until her magic seeps into her veins, creating swirls of lines along her hands and forearms. Her skin glows a bright red. The radio becomes the centre of a flame, burning hot. She thinks she sees a spark of blue.
"Mom!" Billy gasps. "Mom! I think I can feel it. My cheeks feel hot! Tommy! Tommy! My cheeks feel—"
And like last time, the radio explodes in her hands. He’s gone.
It had been a lonely Monday morning when Wanda had first felt him tickle the shell of her ear.
She’d been sitting on the porch step of her small, dark cabin, feeling bleak despite the bright sun glaring down from the cloudless sky. She could hear the clouds telling her to cheer up, but Wanda felt her heart sink to her feet and sleep away from her. Holding her warm mug in her hands, she’d counted the number of birds that came to sit on the edges of the lake in the distance. One, two, three—
And then she had felt it.
A tickle—supernaturally inclined, like her own magic—and a pinch at the lobe of her ear. Wanda had shivered, pulling her shoulders up towards her ears to try and shrug it off. The last time anyone had ever touched her ears had been in Westview. Her sons liked to pinch her, twist her hair until it was knotted at the ends. Billy always liked to touch her ears, asking if she could hear the voices he could. Sometimes, he’d cup his hands over her ears and tell her he was trying to make it quiet for her. Mom deserved silence sometimes, too.
She’d brushed it off until she’d heard him. A whisper of his voice. Since hearing him yell for her when she’d pitched the Scarlet Witch against the corner of her bedroom, she’d been desperate to hear them both. She hadn’t heard from them since, despite clawing at the air for them.
Until now. She thinks. Her mug whispers quietly against her fingertips as she sips her warm tea.
Billy’s voice had been a whisper throughout the day and night. He seemed to rattle the windows and the grass blades, knocking the thick branches of the tree against her window to try and gain her attention. But no matter how many times Wanda had tried to reach for him, he was always gone.
That was until she found the radio.
She sits at her kitchen table with the strange golden radio she’d found in the small attic of her house. Still dusty despite her best attempts to thoroughly clean it, she lugs it around the cabin with her ever since hearing a loud shriek from Billy. It’d vibrated in the ceiling, warming her house in a way only thunder could.
A couple of times, Wanda had thought she was finally losing her mind. Hidden away in a quiet, empty pocket of Sokovia, the only voice she ever hears in her head is her own. She’s tried to conjure up Vision’s voice, but when she imagines him, his skin the deep, comforting Vibranium red, she only hears her own voice come from his mouth.
The slats of the ceiling had shaken when she had heard Billy whisper. She thinks she’s seen the radio shiver gently as if it’s trying to wake itself up.
Despite not wanting any contact with anyone, Wanda doesn’t mute her phone or turn it off. Leaving it plugged in to be charged until the battery eventually wears itself out, whenever it rings, she runs to it and turns the sound off, leaving it vibrating against the small, crowded counter. It’s Monica yet again. Her home screen is filled with her name.
"Monica Rambeau."
"Please call me back, Wanda."
"At least let me know if you’re alive."
"I’ve got a ticket to space. I can see if I can bring a plus one if you want a change of scenery."
She returns back to her wooden table and continues to clean up the stems of the flowers she’s cut. She remembers the way her mother had always collected the wildflowers from the ashes of Stark’s bombs. She’d clip the stems evenly and tug the dry, wilting leaves from its spine. The flowers would always die, but her mother never stopped. It was one of the few things that made her smile.
The phone rings again, buzzing loudly against the countertop. She keeps her gaze downcast as she moves onto the last flower. Sometimes, Wanda does think Monica’s right. She wants to punish herself.
The radio crackles softly. Wanda stills.
Then, she hears his voice, so loud she startles despite expecting it. "I think you’re too hard on yourself, Mom."
"Do you think so, Billy?"
"I know so," he says, no doubt grinning lopsidedly. "I like those flowers."
Wanda bites the inside of her cheek as she does her best to keep her excitement at bay. Handling the flower stems as gently as she can, she roughly plucks a petal from the bud. "You can see me?"
Silence meets her.
Wanda swallows thickly, clearing her throat. "You can see me?" The desperation splinters her voice.
Billy doesn’t answer.
Five days later, the radio roars to life. "Yes."
It remains roaring.
Her days are simple.
Wanda glides around her house on autopilot with the small golden radio in her hands. It crackles to life early in the mornings and late in the evenings, sometimes breathing Billy’s voice at random intervals during the afternoon. She lives her life by the radio, bringing it everywhere she goes. Luckily for her, the cabin is secluded and her travels go as far as her lake and never further.
She walks around the lake on a bright warm day, the radio in her palms. She holds it so the face can see the path ahead as if it’s a pair of eyes Billy can see through. The birds scatter when she walks near them, kicking up small stones and dirt beneath her sandals.
"I like the lake," he says, no doubt smiling. "I wonder… is it warm? Could I swim?"
"When you come here, I’ll teach you how to swim," she says with a smile. Staring out at the lake, she can envision him and Tommy. She thinks Tommy would struggle against the water, always so used to commanding the air. It’d pull at him and make him change the way he manipulated the molecules he uses to propel him forward.
"Does Dad know how to swim?"
Wanda pinches her lips for a moment. "I don’t know, sweetie," she says, brow crinkling.
"I wish we could ask him," Billy sighs in disappointment.
Wanda pauses in her walk around the lake’s perimetre. "He’s not there with you?"
The radio crackles strangely; she thinks he shakes his head. "No," he says. "He’s not, is he?" It makes a loud, static noise that makes her think it’s Tommy. "We’ve looked for him, but he’s not… He’s not here."
She peers up at the sky and the streaks of white clouds stretching over the light blue. She thinks of him, of the other Vision. She wishes she had thought to ask her Vision what came of his doppelgänger. Did his existence mean that Vision’s soul couldn’t find their children? Did he have a soul? Did any of them?
Her face crumbles. She doesn’t allow herself to think about it further.
"Maybe he’ll come," Billy says, as if sensing her mind has wandered somewhere dark and sad. "Maybe he’s late!"
Wanda doesn’t have the heart to tell him Vision isn’t coming.
"Yes," she says, ensuring to smile wide enough her teeth show. "You know your father, he could be late."
"For a very important date," Billy says on a laugh. She wishes she could laugh with him.
The radio sits on the black wood of her porch railing. She gently sweeps the black wooden boards of her porch, happily collecting dust, twigs and fallen leaves beneath the bristles of her witch’s broom. Billy has always enjoyed it whenever she grabbed a broom and swept the house. She thinks he can feel the sensation of air being pushed.
"Mom…" He begins tentatively. "Can I tell you something?" His voice is loud now, the volume of the radio cranked up as high as the dial will allow. She likes how his voice fills the space of Sokovia. The country feels less empty now. "It’s kind of important."
Wanda smiles, imagining Billy’s brow crinkling as he tilts his head inquisitively to the side. He’d always been so gentle in how he approached her. Stilling her broom, she holds the handle and leans against it. "You can tell me anything, sweetie."
"I think…" The radio crackles as if he’s clearing his throat. "We don’t want you to be alone anymore."
Pressing her lips together, Wanda swallows thickly. She clears her throat, hoping to find the words she needs to try and dissuade him from following this line of thought. She knows where it leads. She been sensing him following that path since he’d tried to get her to pass the borders of her property and take a thin dirt road leading her to somewhere else. Somewhere beyond her missing them.
"I think you should go," Billy says quietly. "Tommy does, too. But I think you should go somewhere louder. It’s too quiet here, Mom."
"I’m fine, Billy," she says with a light laugh, the sound coming out hollow and fake.
The radio’s static sounds like he’s shaking his head. "No, Mom," he says gently, "you’re not."
She grips the broom handle tightly. If she had super strength, she knows its brown wood would’ve splintered by now. She holds it like a lifeline, wanting it to tell her the words she needs to say to persuade Billy to approve of her choices.
Wanda remains quiet. She cannot go where he cannot follow.
"I’ll come with you," he says as if he’d read her mind. He laughs warmly, "Family is forever."
Bracing herself against the frame of her bedroom, Wanda glances at the bright glowing image of the Scarlet Witch hovering in the corner of her room. It’s with a gentle tug of the marionette strings that her projection begins to flicker and fade, red cords gently extending out for her. She watches as red wraps around her forearms before kissing and disappearing into her skin. The Scarlet Witch is gone.
Peering down at her old cord phone and its sleek red body, she slots her fingers into the round dial and begins to tug it. The dial tone rings loudly in her ear as she slowly transforms her old phone back into her cellphone.
"Hello, this is Monica. Please leave a message."
After the small, quick beep, Wanda inhales deeply and lets the silence slip between them. Shifting against her door, she feels a gentle tug—a small, warm hand pressing against the small of her back.
Clearing her throat, she smiles and hears it in her voice as she says, "Hi, Monica. It’s Wanda. I think I’m ready to talk."
I’ll see you
When the road
Decides it’s time
For our paths
To cross
Again
— b.m
ii.
The first thing she notices is that it’s too loud. Everyone thinks too loudly, just as they had on the plane. When she had plugged her earphones into her ears and had cranked up her music, she could still hear their thoughts nudging and brushing against the shell of her ear. At one point, she thinks she’d heard him.
Tugging the strap of her deep red duffle bag over her shoulder, Wanda stands awkwardly by the luggage bay, peering around as people rush through to collect their bags from the conveyor belt before they disappear into the mouth of the airport once more. She isn’t quite sure what she had expected, having never really experienced an airport properly before. The movies always made it seem like the most pivotal point in someone’s journey with fanfare, cutely made cardboard signs and a spotlight that would zero in on her person.
No matter how hard she looks, she can’t find Monica. Pulling her cellphone out from the back pocket of her jeans, she clicks on her messages and ignores her unread messages from Sam and Clint and clicks on Monica’s name at the top of her very small list.
Yes, she’d read her correctly the last ten times. Blue—a bright blue, like the best part of the daylight sky—is what she’s going to wear. That’s how she’ll identify her, like Wanda isn’t capable of remembering what she looks like. Has she changed? Wanda buries the sharp fluttering of butterflies in her chest as deep as she can. She doesn’t want to think of the ramifications of Monica being unfamiliar.
Wanda looks around the airport once more as she searches for that bright blue and spies only the dark shades of green, red and orange cluster around her and disappear hand in hand. Those cutely made cardboard signs remain clutched in almost every second hand. The reality of the airport is disappointing.
"Wanda!"
Peering over her shoulder, she spots the best part of the day. Monica waves her hand as high as she can as she flies over towards her. She’s wearing her promised bright blue in the form of a cap, a thick jumper, and dark blue jeans. Even her converse shoes are bright blue.
As she gets closer, she slows down and peers at herself sheepishly. Belatedly, Wanda realises she had been staring. "Yeah, I may have overdone it," Monica says, radiating waves of nervous flutter. "I didn’t want you to not see me."
Wanda smiles, shaking her head. "You missed out on doing the eyeshadow."
"Would you believe I couldn’t find the right shade?" Monica smiles, clasping her hands nervously in front of her. "It’s really nice to see you. Are we huggers?"
Wanda presses her lips together.
Monica gives her a small smile of understanding. "I had a bit of difficulty trying to find a spot, but I managed to get the best park in the entire airport," she says animatedly. Wanda knows that she hadn’t gotten the best spot at all, but she appreciates the way Monica tries to bat the awkwardness sitting between them far away. "Have you got all your bags? I figure the best place to catch up is not the luggage area of the airport."
Wanda picks at the strap of her duffle bag and nods.
Monica gestures with a wave of her hand for her to follow her; Wanda purposefully stays a step behind her, letting Monica lead. The airport isn’t as busy as she had thought it would be. The films and television shows always depicted it to be busy, an overpopulated and buzzing important world. A few people linger in each gift shop, couples buying little souvenirs that she doubts they’ll remember to get out from the bottom of their bags in six months time, and a little girl tries on different hats and poses for her mother.
She remains quiet as Monica quickly leads them through the airport, her own voice quiet even though her thoughts are loud. Wanda doesn’t mean to read them. She doesn’t mean to read any of them.
A man by a small grocery store thinks loudly about the t-shirt he should’ve bought three days ago.
A woman leans against a wall with her phone gripped between her fingers and considers calling her boyfriend to see if he wants to reconsider meeting halfway.
A little girl stands in the middle of the walkway with a large picture book in her hands as she peers around looking for her mom. Her thoughts are panicked and make Wanda slow down before the little girl smiles brightly and run towards her parent.
All Monica thinks about is her. Is she going to say the wrong thing? Do the wrong thing? Be the wrong thing? Was this a mistake?
Wanda impulsively steps a little closer to her and rests her hand against her elbow. When Monica peers at her with a furrowed brow, Wanda gives her a small smile, something appreciative this time. It’s all she can offer her.
The early morning sun stretches thinly across the sky. She could almost mistake it for Sokovia if it wasn’t for all the bustling of activity and the cement beneath her feet. Monica’s car is a small blue Toyota that’s too clean for it to be anything other than a rental.
Buckling into the passenger seat, she peers up and sees a symbol that had once sent uncomfortable heat crawl up her spine and try and rip at her skin. As Monica begins to reverse out of her car spot, the silver chain wrapped around the rearview mirror swings back and forth. The sword encased within a circle glints in the rising sun.
The drive to Monica’s apartment is loud. Even with the thick car doors separating Wanda from the people they pass, she can still hear a patchwork of thoughts. The streets of New York bustle even along a quiet sidewalk.
After she awkwardly tucks her bag against the foot of her bed, Monica insists on taking her out. Coffee’s in order, apparently, and Wanda doesn’t have the heart to tell her she hasn’t drunk coffee in years.
Sitting outside on the sidewalk of Monica’s chosen cafe, Wanda winces when people pass by them thinking their thoughts too loudly. She shifts in her seat and tries to ignore it when someone walks by with a large black stereo cradled on their shoulder. She thinks she hears static when it passes by her.
Wrapping her bare fingers around her smooth warm mug, she clears her throat and sits a little straighter in her seat. Monica seems all too comfortable in hers, shoulders slumped a little. Monica trusts her.
"So," Wanda begins, snatching a couple of sugar sachets from the metal tin in the centre of their table, "are you the director of S.W.O.R.D. now?"
Monica laughs a little mirthlessly and shakes her head. "No." Her smile is a bit too bright and stretched wide for her tastes. "I’m… unsure if I want to take that on right now," she says, gaze downcast. She seems to have the same idea as Wanda and plucks a sachet of sugar from the tin can. Ripping the end neatly, she pours her sugar in and begins to stir, her spoon singing along the sides of her porcelain coffee mug. "My mom was the founder, and I just…" She sighs. "There are more qualified people than me, you know?"
"You’re you," Wanda says, watching her. She presses her lips together and wonders if that had been too much.
But Monica smiles, shyly glancing up at her. Her smile is radiant. It hadn’t been too much; good, she hasn’t overstepped. She wants to stay out of her head. "I know… But right now, I’m running this program," Monica says a little self-consciously. "A lot of people are coming together to try and make sense of what happened over the last five years. I just think that’s more important right now."
Looking down at her coffee mug, Wanda rips the paper sachet and pours her sugar in. She does it again with her second sachet and her third. Stirring her spoon, she makes it soundless, the silver glowing a bright red for only a moment before her fingertips draw her magic back to her knuckles. Monica watches her; Wanda purposefully doesn’t look up.
"Do you… want to come?" Monica clears her throat and peers down at her mug. Lifting it, she hides behind the wide rim as best she can. Wanda can still see her. The problem with Monica is that neither of them can ever hide.
Wanda keeps stirring her coffee, glancing to the side as someone walks by with their phone playing their music too loudly. It’s too easy to be distracted out here.
"You don’t have to if you don’t want to, it’s just…" Monica lowers her mug with a small clatter, bringing Wanda’s fleeting attention back to her. Wanda watches Monica’s fingers curl around the mug and her blunt nails tap against it nervously. "You might find someone who gets it, you know?"
"Oh, I don’t know," Wanda says, giving her a smile. It feels forced; instantly, she knows Monica will sense that. She reaches for more sugar sachets, uncaring that she leaves one left in the tin. She begins to rip the packets and pour them into her cup. "I don’t intend to be here for long—"
"You can come to one," Monica says, smiling as bright as she can. Her lips are tense. "Just one. When we spoke on the phone—"
"I know," Wanda says quietly, peering down at her mug. All she can see is black nothingness waiting for her. "I know… what we said. And I’m trying, Monica," she says, peering up at her. "I’m trying."
"I know," Monica says with a small smile. She reaches out to brush her fingers against the back of Wanda’s hand. "Come once, and if you don’t like it, we’ll do something else together."
Inhaling deeply through her nose, Wanda nods. With her hands around her mug, her spoon stirs on its own. Monica watches, a big smile on her face that makes her think of Billy and Tommy’s enamoured expressions.
"Does your place have a radio?"
It takes her a few days to get settled in her room. Monica’s apartment is sparse save for the essential bits of furniture—a comfortable couch Wanda thinks about taking as her own bed, a kitchen packed with plates covered in various space designs, and several bookshelves that live in various spots in her home—and the few photographs she has on display depict a picture of a happy family. Despite Wanda’s best attempts, she can’t see the broken parts of Carol Danvers and Maria Rambeau’s family.
She sits at the kitchen table with an old radio in front of her. Fiddling with the tuner, she hears it crackle to life before it dies swiftly.
"You’ve been at that for hours," Monica says at the sink, filling her glass of water. She grabs a few ice cubes from the freezer and lets them clink. "I told you, it’s a lost cause."
"Nothing is ever truly a lost cause," Wanda murmurs, accent thick. She doesn’t look up to spy on what Monica finds in the fridge. All she hears is her humming to herself, a tune she remembers vaguely from her time in Westview, and listens to the way she walks around her kitchen. Monica walks more confidently than Geraldine ever did. It must have something to do with the fact she knows who she is.
"I like your optimism," Monica says brightly. When Wanda brushes against the surface of her feelings, she knows Monica means it. That’s the last word she’d ever use to describe herself. Optimistic. "My grandmother could never get it to work. I remember being a little girl and watching her stare at that radio for hours."
"Did it just stop?" Wanda peers over at her, brow arched.
Monica nods, bringing her glass of water and a vibrant red apple to the kitchen table. She sits opposite her and bites loudly into her apple. "It stopped working when my grandfather died."
Peering down at the radio, Wanda brushes her fingers very gently against its sides. It has a story now, a fissure crack in its heart that she can only just begin to see now. The dust kisses her fingertips; she regards it with gentleness. "The radio broke from heartbreak."
Monica smiles, peering down at the table. "You could say that. Looking at her, you never would’ve thought she was sad."
Wanda lets her hands sit against the sides of the radio protectively. "There’s a lot of people who like to hide."
Monica nods, looking at Wanda. Kindly, she says, "Don’t have to tell me that twice." Wanda knows Monica can see her. That’s the problem. She sees her.
The group meets on Thursday evenings. Wanda thinks it’s a little funny given it sounds much like Thor’s day.
Wriggling in her seat, Wanda presses her hands between her thighs and watches as the women and men linger around the large room. The community hall lacks a distinct personality. She wishes it had a splash of colour, a voice to it that would make it easier for her to glean what happens inside of its four walls. She doesn’t want to go into this blind.
Some of the people stand by the long table with an assortment of finger food and donuts displayed on its cheap table cloth. Others walk around the room as if it’s a part of some personal ritual. Wanda sits awkwardly in the centre of the room, one part of a circle that has yet to be filled, and leans forward with her arms on her thighs, a little too uncomfortable to rest back against it for strength. It’s a strange chair in a strange building amongst strangers she doubts will ever understand her discomfort.
A blonde woman sits beside her noisily, dropping into her chair like it’s a lifeboat. Her green eyes are wide and her shoulders slumped. Tucking her black handbag beneath her chair, she rests heavily against the back of the seat and rubs her hands nervously against her thighs. It’s like this is the first time she’s simply stopped.
Glancing at Wanda, she smiles brightly. "Hi," she says, her voice also bright. She looks at her expectantly for a moment before she offers, "I’m Trish." She lifts her hand as if she’s about to hold it out for Wanda to shake, but thinks better of it, resting her palms flat against her thighs. Her jeans are ripped at the knees.
Wanda gives her a small smile and slides her hands between her thighs. "Wanda."
Trish peers at her, lips curved upward in a friendly shape. "I know." Shaking her head, she looks down at the floor in embarrassment. Her fingers curl into her thighs before she peers up and smiles. This time, her smile isn’t something mirthful. "Sorry… I’m so used to people knowing me that it’s a little refreshing to be unknown to someone."
Wanda keeps her mouth pressed into a small smile despite the fact she knows the corners of her lips need practice in curving upward. She looks down at the floor and adjusts in her seat, keeping her hands between her thighs.
"'It’s Patsy'?" Trish looks at her profile, eyebrow arched. "You never… saw that?"
Wanda’s brows furrow before she purses her lips and shakes her head. "One episode, I think," she says, looking at Trish sheepishly. She’s not quite sure how to read her face. "I’m sorry, I was more of a fan of the black and white shows."
Trish smiles, visibly relieved. "No need to apologise. I’m not a fan of the show myself."
This time, when Wanda smiles, it feels more genuine. She brushes some of her hair behind her ear, looking around the room once more. People still mill about, chatting quietly. She knows she could listen in, but she keeps away from knocking on those doors and stepping through.
"Do you know Monica?"
Wanda turns her head towards Trish and nods. "She’s a… friend."
"She’s one of the good ones," Trish says on an exhale. "She didn’t need to do this, and yet…" Glancing over her shoulder, she smiles and lifts her hand when she catches Monica’s gaze. Monica smiles brightly before returning to her conversation with a short woman with lovely thick, dark curls. "I’ve been to a few of these," she says, turning back to Wanda, forgetting where her previous sentence was travelling. Wanda thinks she can figure out its destination—Monica has taken it upon herself to be better than what anyone ever deserves. "They can be intimidating at first. Monica’s probably given you the spiel, but just in case you need to hear it from someone who isn’t her, don’t feel pressured to speak."
Biting on her bottom lip, Wanda nods. "I won’t," she says, giving her a small smile. "Thank you. Is everyone here either…"
"Able to perform great, impossible feats because of superpowers?" Trish’s brow arches and the corner of her lips curve upward in amusement. "Some." Glancing around, she smiles when she spots a man with thick blonde hair on the top of his head. He’s tall with broad shoulders and is dressed in a leather jacket that makes Wanda think he’s trying to pose as James Dean. "They’re not my stories to tell, but… you’re not alone."
"What about you?" She rubs her hands against her thighs before she furrows her brows and shakes her head. "Sorry… I shouldn’t ask—"
"It’s not rude," Trish says as if reading her mind. Wanda’s brows furrow at the thought, but by brushing against the very top of Trish’s mind, she easily puts that to bed. Trish Walker isn’t a mind reader. She’s incredibly astute at reading people. Wanda makes a note to be careful.
Trish rubs her hands against her thighs. "I am quite agile and strong," she says. "Unnaturally so."
"I knew some people like that," Wanda says. Her brows furrow as she catches her words. "I know people like that, sorry. I didn’t mean to make it sound like they were gone."
Trish only smiles. "It’s fine," she says. "Sometimes talking about the people we’re avoiding results in the odd use of past tense."
Clasping her hands in her lap, Wanda fidgets and plays with her fingers as she watches the empty circle of chairs begin to fill. Monica’s the last to take a seat; she places a mug against the ground between her chair’s legs. Her smile is bright and warm; Wanda thinks she understands why people feel safe coming here.
"Who wants to start?" Monica glances around the room, her gaze lingering on each individual. From the corner of her eye, Wanda spies Trish lifting her hand ever so subtly and sheepishly. "Trish," Monica says with a smile. "Go ahead."
Trish shifts in her seat and rubs her hands hard against her thighs. After she clears her throat, she lifts her hand in a small wave. "Hi, I’m Trish Walker," she says, glancing around the room. A few of the people say hello back, but most of them smile. Wanda watches them as they sit comfortably in their seats. "I’ve been thinking a lot over the last week about what drives us to make the decisions that we do. If it’s someone else or… even pride. I’ve been grateful for being released from the Raft, don’t get me wrong… but sometimes I wonder if I should’ve stayed there, if that was where my journey ended."
Wanda furrows her brows as she listens, glancing around the room as they merely watch her. None of the people sitting in their small cluster looks at Trish with disgust. One woman with her hands clasped in her lap smiles kindly at her.
"I still haven’t been able to call Jess," Trish says, sitting up against the back of her chair. She clasps her hands together against her thighs and looks at Monica. She sighs heavily. "I look at her name on my phone and all I can think about is how she looked at me when I drove a knife into her hand. I can’t get that out of my mind."
Monica gives her a small smile. "And that’s okay," she says gently. "Reconnecting with the people who care about us is an important step, but we can’t rush that."
Trish inhales deeply and exhales, her shoulders slumping. All her vibrant energy seems to seep out from her at once. "I don’t know how to face her," she says quietly. "I feel like I’ve lost her."
Wanda bites at her bottom lip. "You can’t lose anyone unless you let them be lost," she says. Glancing up, she clears her throat sheepishly. "Sorry—"
Monica smiles. "No, it’s completely fine. This is meant to be a conversation," she says. "There are no rules here and no need to apologise."
Wanda nods, glancing down. When she looks at Trish, she finds her smiling gratefully.
A week after migrating to New York City, Wanda sits in Monica’s kitchen in the dark. She’s quiet as she presses her fingers against the buttons of the radio, brushing them against the sleek and dusty surface. Every time she touches it, it’s blanketed in a thicker coating of dust.
Although she knows it takes longer than seven days to form a habit, Wanda thinks she’s developed one. After bidding Monica goodnight, she stows away in her bedroom and reads one of the few books she’d packed from Sokovia. Once midnight creeps by, she slithers down the stairs to the kitchen and untucks the Rambeau radio from its hideaway in the bottom cupboard shelf of Monica’s unused study.
She’s tried to bring the radio back to life the simple way. Pressing her fingers all over it, she’s pushed down buttons that refuse to spring back up. She’s turned the volume dial to the maximum level, and she’s sure she’s tuned it to a station that neither Monica nor herself would know the name of. No matter what she does, the radio doesn’t work.
Glancing around the dark kitchen, she presses her fingertips gently to the top of the radio. The skin of her fingers glows red like a night light before she watches it shoot down onto and into the radio’s sleek surface. Forming veins beneath its skin, the radio’s slow to light up.
Its sleek black turns into a radiant red. Keeping her fingers pressed against its side, Wanda squints against the bright light as the entire kitchen glows a burning red. Tugging at the dial, she twists it back and forth, plays with the antenna until it’s stretching as tall as it possibly can…
And then she hears it, a meek crackle.
"Mom?"
The static disappears as quickly as Billy’s voice rings quietly through the hollow room. Glowing red until the sun begins to rise, Wanda sits in the kitchen happily knowing she’s fixed it.
Again, Wanda sits in her unofficially allocated chair, her hands resting between her thighs as she impatiently waits for the people milling about to finally take a seat. Their thoughts are too loud, too fractured. She stares at the seat of the chair in front of her to give herself something different to focus on. It dulls out the voices, the thoughts that feel split between the need to give in to the negative despair eating at all their insides and the blooming, almost overpowering hope Monica’s smile summons.
She’s greeted by Trish who sits down heavily on her chair, once again taking to her side. She’s a warm, quiet presence despite her loud and rather well-known television personality. Trish greets her with a small smile and nod. "I’m glad to see you came back."
Wanda rolls her shoulders back, hands pressed between her thighs. She smiles shyly and looks around the room, the voices growing lower and lower in volume now that Trish is here. "I like the cupcakes."
Trish chuckles, nodding in understanding. "Sophia’s a good baker."
Monica once again leads the session—or "chat", really—and welcomes the group of patchwork people to speak their ugly, broken truths.
Keeping her gaze downcast, Wanda lets Monica’s gaze linger and glide over her simultaneously and settle on a quiet, gangly teenager named Kevin. He wears delicate glasses with black rims and sits with his hands similarly to Wanda, tucked between protective thighs. He’s a handsome man of Asian descent.
She keeps her gaze down as she listens to him recite his loss. A sister, gone. Never forgotten, but sorely missed. A part of him missing he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get back, but he hopes to restore her in his memory. Wanda doesn’t have the heart to tell him that hollowed out piece that she had taken with her when she died will always remain hollow and empty.
Her days are simple.
Wake, walk, coffee, walk, eat, possibly smile. She spends a few hours thinking of ways to get out of group. "I don’t like it" seems too callous. "I’m having an allergic reaction" has a short-term time limit and the very obvious invitation for Monica to worry even more about her. "I’m scared" is completely implausible.
Wanda waits for the evenings. That’s when she stops worrying. She comes to life then.
She thinks about a woman in group talking about emotional attachments. Erin, a woman with a pale complexion and black midnight hair that almost touched her hips was apparently one of the best braiders Wanda had ever met. It’s a random fact she’s surprised she’s retained about her. Every time she leaves group, she wants to forget—erase these people and their pained expressions and thoughts and feelings from her mind.
Erin had spoken in a way that made Wanda sit up and listen. Her nails were always painted a different colour each meeting; this time, when she spoke up, her nails were a deep forest green.
During the Blip, Erin had been gone while her sister had remained. When she had come back, she had returned to discover that her sister was gone. "Dead," she’d said, brows pulling together as she looked down at her hands. Her knuckles had been white. "I have to get used to that word belonging forever in my vocabulary." Wanda remembers Monica’s gaze dropping to her feet and the bright shape of her mouth tugging downwards.
Erin had described keeping her sister’s shoes by the front door in the hopes of her stepping across the threshold to collect them. They were her favourite heels, strappy black things that made her always trip over her feet and walk impossibly slow. Any crack in the road, her sister would find it. Erin would always manage to dodge them, even when she caught the toe of her shoe inside the crack’s mouth.
She had cried sloppy tears that had made her face brighten into a lively red as she had described what it felt like to walk down the sidewalk of her house in those shoes. At first, she hadn’t felt connected to her sister, but then she stepped into a thick crack in the pavement and almost tripped. She hadn’t laughed that hard in months.
She thinks of Erin now and her sister’s shoes and her blistered feet. She knows her hands bear invisible blisters from trying to fine-tune the radio.
Wanda sits in Monica’s kitchen in front of the black radio, now cleared of all of its dust. She sits before it, willing it to be the heel getting caught in the crack in the road and making her trip over. She waits for that moment, that burst of connection.
When she bows her head and rests her forehead against her arms and closes her heavy, tired eyes, she hears it.
"Mom." The static’s loud, clear. She keeps her head bowed, her eyes opening wide as she stops breathing. "Monica’s nice. You know I’m here? I’m still here."
Wanda sobs into her arms. She’s finally tripped.
Sitting in her allocated seat in group, she watches the people bustle around the community hall with a slight tilt of her head. The voices are still so loud—Kevin worries he hadn’t chosen the right shirt for tonight (he looks fine in a mossy green) and Erin worries that her braid needs to be re-braided (it doesn’t) while Monica worries about her (she shouldn’t). Wanda ensures to not let her gaze linger on Monica and jiggles her foot as she waits for someone in particular.
When she feels her enter the building, Wanda slouches a little in her seat. Trish drops heavily into her chair to her left and smiles, tucking her black handbag beneath her seat. Blowing some of her blonde hair away from her face, Trish hands her a brownie slice on a paper plate with a napkin tucked beneath it.
"You can’t leave the brownies for later," Trish says, brushing some of the strands of her hair away from her face. Her ponytail is sleek and high, save for the strands refusing to be obedient. "Sophia’s treats never last long. Pro-tip."
Wanda smiles, peering down at her brownie and breaking off a corner. She offers Trish a piece.
"You and Trish seem to be getting along."
Wanda only hums, sitting at the kitchen table with a newspaper staining her fingertips. She ignores her warm coffee mug, keeping it heated with a mere press of her mind. It glows red every time it seems to chill. It needs more sugar.
She keeps her gaze downcast and takes a particular interest in an article about a man who dresses up as a devil. She wonders who he is, if he’s a hero like Captain America. She wonders, briefly, if he’s after her.
"She’s a good person," Monica says. Sitting across from her, she has a small plate of banana bread in front of her and a mug of coffee. Wanda knows it’s getting cold; she can feel it begin to chill by Monica’s inattentiveness to it. She has half a mind to remind her to turn her attention back to her mug rather than waste it on her.
Feeling Monica’s eyes on her, Wanda purposefully tilts her head to the right to skim over an article about a sports game gone wrong. "She’s been through a lot," Monica continues, sucking in her breath gently between her teeth. "She’s like us. She’s one of the few who is and still comes to group."
Biting her bottom lip, Wanda furrows her brows. "I like her," she says, glancing shyly up at Monica. She sees the way Monica’s shoulders tense; Wanda wants to see them slacken and soften. Monica carries too much. Turning the page of her newspaper, she glances down at the ant-like text and chews her bottom lip once more. "She doesn’t… This will sound strange, but she doesn’t feel like bullshit."
Monica smiles in amusement. "Like she’s deluding herself into believing she’s okay?"
Wanda nods. "And I know that’s unfair of me to say—"
"Not at all," Monica interrupts kindly. "You know, Wanda… You’ve been through a lot. Not a lot of people can relate to what’s happened to you. Finding someone who you feel understands you isn’t horrible, no matter the reasons why."
"I feel like you understand," Wanda says. She peers up at her, expression feeling all too earnest. She wants Monica to not feel left out. She’d been the one to help her. All Monica had done was believe in her, even when she had been so cruel to her. "I don’t want you to think I don’t believe that."
Monica blushes. "I know," she says with a kind smile, ducking her head. It’s then she lifts her mug to her lips and pulls a face at how the warm brew has a little chill to it now. "I’m here whenever you need me, Wanda. But I also know what it’s like to need someone who doesn’t know… and I know what happened in Westview. Trish doesn’t."
She thinks she understands what Monica’s not saying. She’s giving her permission to reach out. Encouragement feels like the better turn of phrase. Wanda had felt like a caged animal in Westview with Hayward trying to box her in as if she was a lion to parade about in front of an audience of clowns. Monica doesn’t want her to feel boxed in.
Wanda nods. With a sweep of her hand, she produces the jar of sugar from the cupboard and a metal spoon. She begins to heap a couple of spoonfuls of sugar into her coffee and ignores Monica’s cocked brow.
Tilting her head towards Monica’s mug, she wordlessly asks if she wants it warmed up. After a vigorous nod, Monica watches in amazement as her mug glows a beautiful red before it begins to steam. Palming her mug once more, she sighs blissfully as the heat kisses her palms.
"For what it’s worth," Monica says, leaning over her mug as if it’s a fire, "I don’t hold it against you. I never have and I never will."
Wanda smiles up at Monica wetly. "I wish I could stop holding it against me."
Sophia the baker brings a large plate of sprinkled cupcakes to the next group. She sits in her chair, legs crossed delicately at the knee. She has stubby knees, tanned skin that makes her freckles stand out along her cheeks, and short-cropped blonde hair that always looks windswept. Fiddling with a wedding ring, she tells the story of her husband. He’d been a first responder the day Thanos had come to tackle the Avengers. He’d been in the general vicinity of the Avengers Compound when aliens had turned the area into a crater. More than the Compound had been lost that day. She misses his green thumb; the plants in their small rose garden have withered.
Her tears are sloppy and thick, and her mascara streaks down her face in an ugly way. Wanda stares at her, eyes filling with tears as everyone around her blurs.
Sophia looks up at Wanda and smiles. "I hope that the Avengers who are here do better."
She wants to tell her she’s not an Avenger—she’s never been an Avenger. Wanda bites her tongue. Heroes do not hurt people, and Wanda isn’t a hero.
"Are you going to read to us?" Billy’s voice crackles through the radio early in the morning. Wanda wants to relish the way his voice sounds so close as if he’s right beside her rather than so far away.
She promises to find him a book, one that’s filled with adventure and features speed and magic and amazing things like witches and goblins and heroes. The radio crackles with Billy’s excitement before it gradually fizzles out and leaves her cold and alone.
The local bookstore is a few blocks away from Monica’s apartment. After she Googles the address and drapes herself in a scarf and coat to help her battle the chilling autumn breeze, she sets sail for a world of stories.
With her head bowed in her paperback novel, Wanda’s brow furrows as she turns the next page and walks, using her telepathy as a cheat to sense those around her to dodge. Her shoulder collides with an arm, and before she knows it, a hand’s on her bicep, sending a familiar yet strange sensation through her.
"I’m sorry," Wanda blushes, laughing a little incredulously.
Trish smiles graciously and removes her hand. "Small world, huh?"
"I thought this city was big," Wanda says sheepishly. She twists so she’s standing with her back to the shelf closest to her. Folding the book on her finger to keep her place, she smiles up at Trish, a little uncertainly. "Do you… come here often?"
Trish smiles, nodding. "All the time now. A friend recommended it to me." She ducks her head, her smile growing tense. She feels off; strange in a way that isn’t Trish-like. "Not Jess."
Wanda’s eyes narrow slightly as she observes her. The energy Trish radiates makes her want to fidget, shuffle her feet, and pull at her hair. It’s unsettling. "Did you want to talk about it?"
Trish regards her with a look of surprise. Wanda knows it’s a reflection of her own expression; she’s surprised, too.
Her brows furrow together incredulously before she nods. "Yeah," Trish says as if she’s surprised by the words falling from her lips. Her smile is small and uncertain, but grateful. "I would like that."
When she sees Sophia the following week in group, Wanda brings her a potted plant. The pot is a boring dark brown that fits well inside of a large handbag. The pink rose sparkles almost unnaturally, its petals thick and lively.
"For you," Wanda says, thrusting it awkwardly towards Sophia. "It doesn’t need water. It’s… a special kind of rose."
Sophia takes the pot with a crinkle to her brow. She holds it uncertainly before she twists her hands and grows comfortable. The pinch to her light brows is still incredulous, but Wanda can spy the tension in her mouth smoothing out. "I don’t understand…"
"It lives off of memories," Wanda says, twisting her hands in front of her. She glances down at the pot and the unnaturally bright, thick petals of the rose. "As long as you remember, it will live. I don’t want you to feel alone."
Sophia gives her a small, quizzical smile. Wanda doesn’t expect her to try and hug her.
When Trish invites her out for coffee, Wanda accepts it with an eagerness she hasn’t felt in years. At the sight of her own hesitation, Monica’s hands curl around her shoulders and push her out the door of her apartment. It’s comical to her to think she requires someone literally shoving her out the door, but it’s with a laugh that she almost stumbles down the steps leading to the sidewalk and reluctantly, at the insistent shooing of Monica, walks in the right direction.
It will be a great story to tell Billy later. "I went out for coffee," she’d say, and Billy would ask her what she saw, what she drank, what she ate, and then inform her of Tommy's complaining about being hungry. Thanks, Mom.
She meets Trish at a small cafe across the road from her favourite park. Sitting outside, she crosses her legs and watches runners circle the park’s small loop and mothers push prams along after them. She’d rather be walking the track than sitting; she tugs at her thick scarf, wrapping it around her neck without care that it traps her hair.
"Sometimes I wish I got to do that," Wanda says, watching the women push their prams. "I never got to."
Both of them regret the outdoor table but are too stubborn to leave for the indoors. The sun shines brightly, appearing deceptively warm, but in truth, the soft breeze holds a bite to it. Wanda thinks to change the temperature, but she keeps it as is, not wanting to incidentally summon a blizzard upon New York City.
Trish watches her curiously, her back hunched as she sips at her coffee. Wanda doesn’t feel any judgement sweep off of her.
"How many children do you have?"
"Two," Wanda says. She smiles fondly, unable to help herself. "Twins. Billy and Tommy."
Trish smiles. "Nice names."
"They were nice boys," Wanda says with a soft nod. She feels her heart wilt and bloom at the same time. At that moment, all she craves is Billy’s voice—loud, crackling, there.
"How old were they?"
Wanda scrunches up her nose as she considers the horrible math of Westview. "Probably a week old, but they were around… ten?"
Trish arches her brow. Wanda can’t help but laugh. It’s the first time she’s ever seen someone look at her like that.
"They could age themselves," she says. Trish nods, trying to understand. "They went from being babies to toddlers to little boys. They’re… like me. Magical."
When Trish smiles, it’s bright and understanding. She leans back in her chair. "They’re not with you."
Wanda shakes her head, hunching over her mug to try and feel the warmth of the coffee warm her hands and her face. She still won’t drink it. Instead, she’ll ply it with more sugar until that’s all that seems to be inside of her mug. It feels like the thing to do, trying new experiences and limiting them at the same time. Talking about her sons is another new thing she can tick off her "Never have I ever" list.
"I had to leave them behind."
Trish’s brows pinch in sympathy. "And what about your husband? Is he like you?"
She clears her throat. Despite knowing Trish must be aware of her history, of her relationship with Vision, of her being an Avenger—or previously being one—she appreciates her asking. It gives Wanda the opportunity to recite her own story.
"He was a synthezoid," she says, lifting her takeaway cup up to her mouth to cover her smile. Still doesn’t drink. It’s the first time she’s gotten to see someone’s reaction. Vision, a synthezoid, a loving husband, her best friend, her only friend felt more of a person to her than any flesh and bone human. Wanda scrunches up her nose and laughs, "That sounds absurd."
Trish smiles, shaking her head. "What was he like?"
"Kind," she says. "Tall. He was so… good." The word sounds stupid now that she’s said it aloud, but Wanda clings to it. Vision was good. "All he ever wanted to do was make me smile. To everyone else, he was a little too dry and serious, but to me…"
"He was everything, wasn’t he?"
Wanda nods, blushing. She peers down at her coffee mug. "Vision was everything I could ever want."
Trish swallows thickly and looks to the park. She licks at her teeth before she lifts her mug to her lips, filling herself with warmth. Wanda watches her, admiring her profile. She doesn’t think to ask her the same set of questions. She knows a husband and children aren’t a part of Trish Walker’s heartbreak.
Wanda clears her throat. "How long have you lived here?"
"I’ve always lived here," Trish says with a small upward curve to her lip. Wanda thinks it’s wry. "Everyone I knew lived here. Mom, Jess…"
"Why did you come back?"
Trish shrugs, lifting her takeaway cup to her lips. With a smile, she shrugs, "Glutton for punishment?" Wanda chuckles. "It’s all I know. I was hoping that maybe by coming back here… I’d remember who I was."
Wanda tilts her head to the side curiously. "Have you?"
After a long moment, Trish shakes her head. She places her mug on the table but doesn’t let go of it. Her knuckles aren’t white, but Wanda can see the way she grips it tightly like it’s a lifeline. "I don’t know who that person was, but she’s not me. And that’s okay, you know?"
She doesn’t know.
Wanda smiles as she watches a dog tug on its harness so it can sniff at the fallen leaves along the sidewalk. Not one care in the world, not one burden on its shoulders. Its owner appears exasperated, which only makes Wanda laugh.
"I knew someone who could control minds," Trish says. Wanda keeps her gaze on the park and lifts her takeaway cup to her lips, her smile growing forced. Trish watches her expectantly, carefully. "He was a horrible man. He hurt a lot of people because he could. How you use your powers is what defines you."
Wanda inhales deeply and exhales heavily, her shoulders slumping. "And you define your powers, right?" She looks to Trish.
"I’m flexible and strong, and I murdered a man," Trish says plainly. She looks at her, brows slightly pinched, her mouth set with too much tension. "I’m not proud of it. I lost everything. If people knew the truth, they’d look at me and see a murderer."
"That’s not what I see," Wanda says, shaking her head. Her lips dare to curve upward as she gently teases, "I see Patsy."
Trish smiles, shaking her head. She inhales deeply, a natural reaction to a name that makes her shoulders tense up and tug up to her ears. Trish burns amusement.
"You know, this is the first time I haven’t been in the spotlight." Trish smiles brightly. Leaning over the table, she says in relief, "I’m anonymous."
Wanda holds out her hand. "Hello, Anonymous, I’m Wanda."
Trish laughs, shaking her hand. When Wanda touches her skin, all she can feel is lightness.
Bobby, who refuses to go by "Robert" despite the fact Sophia insists on calling him by it, sits up straight in his seat when Monica invites him to speak. His hands are big and his fingers are thick and short. He’s growing in some dark facial hair that hides his pale skin, which Wanda’s not sure suits him just yet. With his thick curly hair on the top of his head, he’s a man of his mid-forties whose eyes look more tired than his mouth that forces itself into a mirthless smile.
She can’t take her eyes off of the way the corners of his lips begin to droop the more he gets into his story. He speaks of his wife, a woman who had made it impossible not to smile, and his children who had all been the ages of three and five when the Blip happened.
"It’s hard trying to fit back together," he says, voice deep. He wipes at his red eyes. "It’s like we’re from the same puzzle, but theirs is an old version. We don’t seem to fit anymore."
After Trish invites her to join her for a walk around the park’s big loop, Wanda purchases a pair of black track pants and a comfortable jacket to keep her warm from the chill. She pulls her hair into a ponytail and joins Trish at the park opposite her favourite cafe. The voices of the people milling about, sitting in the park, flittering about in their apartments nearby are gentler, but still present.
When there’s a lull in the conversation, Wanda peers straight ahead and tells herself she’s going to do it. She’s been thinking of asking Trish about her abnormal experiences, if she thinks what Wanda’s thinking about is strange. She can’t ask Monica. Monica is too familiar, too knowledgeable, and too biased.
"In your experience, have you ever… met a doppelgänger of someone you love?"
Trish’s brow crinkles. She pants heavily, heaves in a breath. Wanda thinks it’s all for show. Trish is agile, her reflexes so sharp they could rival Tommy’s speed. "No," she says after a moment, her brows crinkling thoughtfully. "I don’t think so. But Jess had to deal with an acquaintance’s dead girlfriend being resurrected."
Wanda’s brows lift.
"Sorry," Trish says with a sheepish chuckle. "I think you’d understand what it’s like not being able to talk about some things."
Wanda nods and peers down at the asphalt path they follow. She’s too distracted by the butterflies in her chest and the anxious thoughts in her head to voice her curiosity.
"Why do you ask?" Trish peers at her, brushing her fingers against her sweaty temple. Some of her hair sticks to her skin.
Wanda shrugs. "It’s just… My husband, Vision… He—" She inhales deeply to try and gather her thoughts and centre her words in her throat. "When I was in Westview, I recreated him." Trish’s brows shoot up into her hairline in surprise. "He came from me. His body was left behind with S.W.O.R.D."
"That’s like S.H.I.E.L.D., right?"
"Something like that," Wanda shrugs, slowing her pace considerably. "They brought him back to life." Her brows furrow as the words ring falsely. "No," she says, curling her fingers slightly. "That’s not right. They brought him online."
Trish’s brows furrow as she watches her attentively, their pace slowing to rival snails. "What happened?"
Wanda lifts her hand to brush against her mouth. "I don’t know what happened to him," she says. "Vision was fighting him—White Vision, I guess…" She swallows and licks her lips before she clarifies, "My husband was a red synthezoid, and the one they brought back… His body came back white. He was programmed to kill me."
Trish’s brows furrow deeply. "Did Vision kill him?"
Wanda answers that with a purse of her lips. "I don’t know. A part of me hopes so… but a part of me wishes there was a piece of Vision out there."
"There’s nothing wrong with hoping," Trish says with a shake of her head. "Nothing."
It’s Wanda’s turn to regard her with a curious furrow to her brows. "You don’t think I’m crazy?"
"No at all," Trish says, stopping. She reaches out to brush her fingers against the crook of her elbow. "If I had a part of my mom out there, I’d be curious about her, too. Where is she? What’s she doing? Is she okay? Even if it’s not him, even if he’s not your Vision, you still have a right to know. That’s love."
Wanda peels at the bright pink wrapping of her cupcake with care, listening absently as Kevin asks if anyone wants to talk about anything. From her peripherals, she can sense his eagerness to hear someone else’s story. He’d had a good week. For the first time since coming back from the Blip, he’d felt closer to his sister. He’d gone to the park, pulled out a game of chess, and played with himself despite the fact that people were staring at him as they walked past. His sister was fearless. He wanted to be fearless, too.
Monica rubs her hands together noisily, peering down at her knees. Wanda watches her curiously, biting at the sweet icing of her cupcake. Pietro always liked to eat the cupcake while Wanda devoured the icing.
Wanda sits back in her chair when Monica lifts her hand, rubbing her palms against her thighs uncharacteristically. Wanda doesn’t busy herself with eating her cupcake as she watches her friend fidget about.
"I’ve been thinking a lot about my mom," Monica says with a small nervous smile. "I’ve been thinking about her a lot, actually. I haven’t been able to stop, not since I came back in that hospital room and she wasn’t there. But I stopped thinking about her once and… I don’t want this to sound awful, but I felt relieved when I didn’t remember my mom was gone. I didn’t even know I had a mom."
Monica swallows thickly, glancing up at Wanda before peering down at the ground. Her brows lift upward as she rubs her hands against her thighs. "In Westview, I realised how important it was to remember those things. Remember people."
Wanda glances around at the people in the circle as if she doesn’t know them at all. She waits for their hands to brace their pitchforks, their gazes to turn to her simultaneously and push her out of the hall. But none of them looks at her; they all watch Monica with their lips pinched in sympathy.
"My mom is the reason why we’re here," Monica continues, heaving in a breath. "She founded S.W.O.R.D. She wanted to make a better world for everyone. She wanted to find her best friend… I struggle a lot with forgiving her. Mom, Carol, myself. I wasn’t there when she died. Carol wasn’t there when she died. My mom died without me and she promised she never would."
Sophia reaches out to press a small hand against Monica’s thigh, her fingers sliding over the back of her hand. She gives her a comforting squeeze.
Kevin smiles. "That’s the first time you’ve talked," he says with a chuckle. Monica smiles, blushing bright red and ducking her head before sitting up straight in her seat. Wanda’s not sure what to say; she glances around, finding all of them smiling as they peer at Monica with different expressions of fondness. All Wanda feels is guilt.
"Yeah," Trish chuckles, shifting against her seat. "We’re finally glad you shared," she says. "Now, it’s your turn to ask us what we can do for you."
"A hard feat," Bobby laughs as Monica wipes her hand against the corner of her wet eye, "we know. But we’ve got shoulders. Mine are a little bonier, but they’re shoulders all the same."
Wanda pulls a smile but doesn’t join in the chorus of support.
"Hey, mom," Billy says happily through the radio. Wanda sits cross-legged on her bed in the dark. Her cellphone is her only source of light as it gloomily illuminates the room. She presses her hands against the radio as if it’s her son. "You seem a little sad. What’s wrong?"
Wanda forces a smile and shakes her head. "Nothing’s wrong, honey," she says a little too sweetly. The radio’s static is loud for only a moment. "I’m just…"
"Sad?"
She hums. "A little."
"Why?" She can imagine Billy’s head is tilted to the side and he sports the curious little furrow to his brow. Billy had always seen right through her. "What can we do?"
Heaving in a breath, she sighs heavily and uncrosses her legs, tugging them to the side of her body. The shift in her position does nothing to alleviate the guilt she’s been weighted with since group. She’d avoided Monica’s gaze, kept their conversations short and as nice as she can. She doesn’t think she has a right to be under the same roof as her.
"I’m…" With a twist of her lips, Wanda cards her hand roughly through her hair. "I don’t know. I’m stuck."
"Stuck?"
She nods. "I don’t know what to do. If your father was here, he’d have the answers."
"We’re here," Billy says cheerily. "We can help!"
Glancing at her open window at the illuminated night sky and cityscape of New York, she wonders if there’s an answer out there between the buildings. Westview had seemed to endless; New York feels too crowded now. Sokovia had all the answers she hadn’t thought to pack in her duffle bag.
"Monica’s sad," she says, "and I don’t know how to make her happy."
"Oh," Billy says quietly. "Is it because of her mom?"
"It is."
"Well…" The static implies he’s smacking his lips. She can only imagine his index finger’s pressing against his temple as he scratches it thoughtfully. "Maybe you could be her friend. When I’m sad, I like to be around my friend." Then, exasperatedly, "Yes, I have friends!"
Wanda can’t help but chuckle, imagining Tommy arch his brow in disbelief.
"I don’t know how to be anyone’s friend, Billy," Wanda admits sheepishly. "Your father was one of my only friends."
"Then do what he’d do," he says, voice pitching up in excitement. "Ask yourself 'What Would Dad Do?' and then do it. You can be her friend. You can give her a cupcake… or make her a cup of coffee!"
She crosses her legs again, curling her hands around her kneecaps. She’s not entirely sure if that’s a good idea. Making Monica a cup of coffee would do nothing to make up for how cruel she’d been in Westview. It won’t bring Maria Rambeau back.
The radio crackles faintly. "I believe in you."
Wanda sits tensely in her chair. Rather than watch Sophia offer chocolate-filled donuts to Bobby or see the way Erin proudly shows off her shoes, she sits in her seat with her shoulders tense and her jaw set. She ignores Trish sitting down beside her.
When they all sit down, she keeps her gaze on their feet. Wanda’s foot begins to jiggle in place, her heart beating ferociously quick in her chest. It sets off butterflies in her gut, an uncomfortable swarm of them that shoot up her spine and flutters around angrily in her ribcage.
After Monica greets them all with an all too perfect smile, she looks around the room with a kindness Wanda wishes she wouldn’t reserve for her. Monica smacks her lips and says, "Does anyone else want to speak?"
Wanda doesn’t lift her arm; she lifts her hand at the wrist, the smallest movement that feels so monumental. She wonders if anyone else felt the ground tremble beneath their feet.
When she glances up at her, she sees Monica give her a small nod.
"I’m Wanda," she says, peering down at the ground. They all know that; everyone knows she’s Wanda. Her name tag sits upside down above her right collarbone. She hadn’t bothered to write herself a new tag, using the one from last week. It curls at the edges, mismatching everyone else’s neat, unwrinkled tags.
She rubs her hands against her thighs, spying a glow of red magic mar her dark jeans. "I’m… from Sokovia. The floating city. I was there when it floated." She cracks a small smile. Her perfect American accent makes what she says sound almost comical. "I’m here because…"
She inhales shakily, feeling the ground beneath her tremble once more. The red beneath her hands stain her jeans, turning the dark blue a bright red. If anyone else notices, no one gasps. No one runs. No one calls Witch! and summons her to the stake. Agatha got that wrong. Agatha got a lot of things wrong.
A warmth settles on her hand. Glancing down, it takes her a moment to realise it’s Trish’s hand. Her fingers are long; there’s a freckle against her middle finger’s knuckle. At that realisation, Wanda feels her lips pull at a smile. Something inside of her seems to break; she realises that the trembling she feels beneath her feet is her.
"I have nowhere else to go," she says, her accent slipping from American to Sokovian violently. She settles with staring at Trish’s knees unblinkingly. Her dark denim’s a little bruised from use. "I have no one to talk to, no one to be with. I lost my parents to a bomb. I lost my home to war. I lost my country to vigilantism. I lost my brother to a hero," she swallows thickly then, squeezing her eyes closed tightly for a moment. A thick tear drops to soak through her red jeans. "I lost my husband to save the world. I lost my children… and I lost me."
She wipes her hand roughly beneath her eye. Trish’s hand squeezes her knee and doesn’t stop. She hears a sniff from someone else, something wet and thick.
"I don’t really know who I am anymore," she says, smiling mirthlessly at the faces peering at her with too much sympathy and understanding. Sophia’s eyes are red and Erin’s wiping her face with a tissue. Even Bobby’s wiping his knuckles against his eyes. Wanda sees that her tears are reflected in them, but this time, she’s not inflicting it upon anyone. They’re not her tears; those tears belong to them.
"I don’t know who Wanda Maximoff is anymore," she says with a sharp, mirthless shrug. "She’s not an Avenger. She’s not a wife. She’s not a mother or sister or daughter. She’s a friend, but she’s a shitty one. I’m not… a hero. And I know some of you know that. Westview doesn’t think that."
Monica shifts on her seat, her hands clasped together at her knees. Wanda stares at her, pressing her lips together tightly. All she can think is all my apologies to you.
"I don’t know how to move on from here." Wanda wipes the back of her hand harshly against her eyes before giving up, letting it flop helplessly against her thighs. She cries despite not wanting to. "How can you be somebody when you’re no one?"
"You don’t try to be anybody," Erin says, peering at her with a warm but sad smile.
"You be you," Trish says, squeezing her knee a little tighter. Wanda likes how hard she squeezes; it’s enough to sink through the anger she feels, rising like a palpable, living thing she can strangle. "Even if that means you fall and scrape your knees."
"You don’t move on," Monica says. She watches Wanda intently. All she can feel from her is a strange warm sensation… She thinks it’s pride. "You learn to exist. And you lean on us to help you when you feel like you’re not strong enough."
"We have good shoulders, Wanda," Kevin says with a shy smile, lifting a bony shoulder beneath a mossy green shirt. It’s a nice shirt, she thinks.
Sitting up as straight as she possibly can, Wanda tries to keep her composure. But it crumbles. She feels it bursts beneath her, turning from solid brick and stone to crushed rubble. Wanda sobs loudly into her hands. Trish’s arms are warm around her as she pulls her into her, her hand sliding up and down her spine protectively.
Come what may
Come my way
The sun is gonna shine
After the rain
"Sun Song" — TRVSTFALL
iii.
Childishly, Wanda stands by her closed bedroom door and presses her ear to the wood. She had chosen to keep to herself for the few days following group, opting to ignore texts from Trish and Kevin and actively avoiding Monica in her apartment. The radio keeps her company. Billy often asks her why she’s avoiding Monica, but she keeps her thoughts and feelings tucked far away from her son’s grasp. She doesn’t want him to see through her this time.
It’s after she hears a slight, worried crack in the static of Billy’s voice that she finds her backbone and tiptoes her way down the stairs and to the ground floor, slinking into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. He’s worried about her. He wants her to be out and about, seeing the birds, feeding the stray cat outside of the community hall that he wants her to adopt for him. Being held up in her bedroom isn’t what they had agreed upon when she had picked up her phone and made that initial call to Monica.
Uncharacteristically, she doesn’t pay attention to her surroundings. Dulling out the kitchen, everything feels muted. She jumps when Monica pulls a chair out loudly from the kitchen table.
"So," Monica begins, voice kind and an amused smile spreading slowly against her lips, "are we going to talk about it?"
Wanda clears her throat and slows the pour of the tap, keeping her gaze on her glass as water fills it. It’s a good distraction, if a temporary one that won’t last too long. She arches her brows innocently. "About what?"
"Come on, Wanda," Monica says with a slightly exasperated sigh. She remains seated at the table while Wanda purposefully gives her back to her and stays by the sink. It’s a temporary safe haven. "You’ve been avoiding me. I thought we were friends."
"We are," Wanda says quietly.
"I’ve been trying to give you space. I want to give you space—"
"I’m sorry."
Monica chuckles, but it’s not out of mirth. Incredulousness ebbs off of her. All she wants is to understand. Wanda’s not sure if she can. She’s not sure she even understands where that outburst from group had even come from.
"I don’t need you to apologise to me, Wanda."
Pressing her lips together, Wanda turns off the tap. Holding her cup for a moment, she picks up the dry dishtowel and wipes the dripping glass before turning around. Gripping it like it’s a buoy, she feels meek as she peers at Monica. "I’m sorry."
Monica sits up in the wooden chair, her brow cocked. The tilt of her head is sympathetic. "Wanda—"
"You need to hear it," Wanda says, shaking her head. "I’m sorry for what I did to you in Westview. You were trying to help. That’s all you were trying to do."
Monica presses her lips together as her brows pinch. "Wanda…"
"And I treated you poorly. I threw you out. I was aggressive." Wanda glances down in shame at her glass. She had been able to catch glimpses of herself in Westview, had been able to see that she wasn’t so far lost or gone after Thanos and the Blip, but there were jagged pieces of her that she didn’t recognise. She didn’t want to recognise that anger had truly belonged to her and wasn’t a machination of Agatha’s trickery. "I used my magic against you."
"You were in pain."
"So were you," Wanda says, peering up at her sheepishly. Ducking her gaze, she wills herself to stop being so afraid. She looks up at her and lets her gaze dart to sit against Monica’s shoulder.
Monica is brave; Wanda needs to take from her again, leech that courage from the way she sits in her seat and peers at her with such understanding. Geraldine had been so courageous, so knowing of who she was. That’s why she thinks she had been drawn to Monica from the very beginning. She fit a mould in her story that Wanda had never crafted for her.
Inhaling deeply, Wanda holds it in her chest for a moment before she sighs. Her chest still feels thick and heavy with anxiety. Licking her lips, she continues with her voice even and words slow, "You were in pain and yet you didn’t take it out on anyone. You shouldn’t forgive me for what I’ve done. I wouldn’t."
But Monica’s shaking her head. Leaning forward in her chair, she clasps her hands in her lap and peers up at her. "I forgive you," she says. "I forgive you." When Wanda ducks her gaze and shakes her head, she hears her say a little louder, "I forgive you, Wanda."
Clenching her jaw, Wanda looks at the cupboards to avoid Monica’s gaze. Her vision blurs. All she wants is for Monica to toss her out of her apartment like Wanda had done so to her. It would be fair; an eye for an eye. They’d be even. Monica can do it; she can feel the power ebb off of her tantalisingly.
"Nothing you say is going to change that," Monica says patiently. "If I had your powers, I would’ve done the same thing. I would’ve treated you the same way if you tried to stop me."
Glancing at her, Wanda looks down. She holds her glass with one hand and wipes at her wet eye.
Monica’s chair lightly scrapes against the floor. Her steps are quiet; Wanda spies her feet, snug in blue socks, as she stands impossibly close. All Monica has ever radiated is warmth. Safety. The kind of feeling Vision and Pietro would want her to flock towards, not shove away.
"I would’ve done anything to bring my mom back to me," Monica says quietly. "I don’t hate you for what you did. I understand you." She reaches out to squeeze Wanda’s bicep gently, letting her hand linger. "You need to stop hating yourself for it."
Wanda doesn’t lift her gaze from Monica’s socks. They’d been a nice blue, although they’re terribly blurry now. Another thing Wanda has ruined. "I don’t know if I can do that," she says quietly.
"Well," Monica says, waiting for Wanda to peer up before she shrugs at her. "That’s something you’ll need to deal with. I did resent you," she says, peering at her soberly. Monica glances down and crinkles her brows. "But I chose to forgive you, and I did."
Looking up, Monica smiles at her in sympathy before she wraps her arms around her. Wanda’s glass presses awkwardly between them, but Monica doesn’t seem to mind when water slops over the rim and wets her. It’s the first hug Wanda’s had since she’d put Tommy and Billy to bed for the last time.
"We are definitely not huggers," Monica laughs against Wanda’s shoulder. Wanda laughs wetly, fingers gripping at the fabric of Monica’s back. Eventually, her grip slackens and she lets go of her tightly balled fist.
It’s become a part of their routine to go get donuts after group. Wanda knows it’s her turn to pay for the box of cinnamon, pink icing with sprinkles, and chocolate and jam donuts, but she gently waves Trish away with the promise to not only pay for next week’s box, but she’ll join them, too. She needs to speak to Monica.
She waits until the stragglers leave and it’s just her and Monica left in the community hall. Wanda hadn’t realised how the small group of grievers made the tiny hall seem so big and lively. With a glance over her shoulder towards the set of front doors, she can hear them talk loudly and laugh brightly as they set off for the donut shop. Despite all the secrets and confessions they’d shared with one another, they still find lightness. It’s something she’s come to envy.
Following Monica as she begins to break the circle of chairs and carry one at a time to neatly stack alongside the wall, Wanda says abruptly, "I wanted to ask you for a favour."
Monica places a chair against the wall and stops, clasping her palms together as she watches Wanda try and slide the chair in her hands on top of another one. Piling them has never been an easy feat for her. She’s too short—and prefers to magically cheat, always racing Kevin by finding her own shortcuts.
"Anything," Monica says.
After stacking the chair, Wanda wrings her hands together; Monica cocks her head towards the last few chairs that remain in the half-made circle in an unspoken invitation. With her head bowed, Wanda follows and sits down in her chair. Monica takes Trish’s beside her, clasping her hands together on her lap as she patiently waits for her to lift her head and look at her.
"I want to know what happened to Vision," Wanda says, peering down at the carpet. Monica remains quiet beside her, although she thinks she can feel her desire to shift in her seat. She looks at Monica to clarify, "The one S.W.O.R.D. brought back."
Monica’s brows furrow as she readjusts in her seat. She remains bent towards her as she quietly asks, "Are you sure?"
Inhaling deeply, she feels it shake something inside of her. Wanda nods. "I think it’s time."
Monica sighs and her smile’s small. She sits back in her chair and remains still for too long. Her shoulders move then, the tension that’s been mounting inside of her long before she ever came to Westview making itself known. Wanda knows what she’s asking of her. A part of her thinks it’s unfair to do this to her, to ask her to wander down the halls of her past and grief before she’s ready. But if she’s learned anything from Monica, it’s that a tiny, gentle push is sometimes needed.
And it’s about time she gave Monica the push she deserves to receive. She’s done enough pushing.
"I’ll ask Woo." Monica smiles a little tensely, resting her hand against Wanda’s thigh. She gives her a gentle squeeze that Wanda selfishly finds reassuring. "He’s been doing some work for S.W.O.R.D. and I’m sure he’ll be chomping at the bit to do a favour for you."
Wanda can’t help but tilt her head to the side. "Are you sure?"
Monica nods, her smile widening—the tension seems to disappear now, settling somewhere in her fingers on her leg. Wanda wishes she could take it from her. "He likes saying "Flourish!" a lot," Monica says with a chuckle. "I’ve been getting reports about it almost every day."
Wanda smiles, shaking her head. She lifts her hand to brush against her nose as she sniffs too loudly. She places her other hand on top of Monica’s.
Sitting cross-legged on her bed, Wanda slowly turns the pages of a gardening magazine. She’s not reading any of the words, registering the little letters to be ants walking across the silky page. The lamp sits to her right on her bedside table; despite the lamp being off to her side, it shines its light above her head as bright as the sun itself.
The radio crackles warmly to her left. It sits heavily against the bedsheets, dipping into the mattress like it’s a body itself. Wanda smiles, patiently skimming the paragraph about the benefits of having a plant beside her bed without taking it all in. She waits for him to knock gently against the static.
And he’s always on time, just like his father.
"I like Monica," Billy says warmly. Wanda closes her eyes and imagines him sitting beside her with Tommy running around her bedroom. Zipping back and forth, she could almost feel the kinetic energy of his speed encourage the hairs on her arms to stand up.
"She’s really cool," he continues. At one point, his voice sounds so clear, so naked without the static. "I like her. Tommy does, too." Then his voice quietens into a hush and she feels warmth tickle the shell of her ear. He whispers, "I think Tommy likes her."
A loud screeching. Wanda opens her eyes, brows furrowed.
"He said he doesn’t," Billy laughs loudly. Wanda relaxes, smiling as she listens to Billy talk about Tommy in descriptive detail, of how he’s standing with his hands on his hips and a very deep crease to his brows. She listens for hours until the radio goes quiet mid-sentence.
For the first time in too long, Wanda doesn’t miss his absence. She grows excited and impatient for what’s to come.
Sitting up straight in her chair, she smiles warmly as she listens to Bobby speak happily about how he feels reconnected to his family. It’d been just a moment, a glimmer of hope that had sparked something familiar and light inside of him. Perhaps their five years spent apart doesn’t need to be a wide and seemingly never-ending abyss between them.
"I feel like I’ve been overthinking it all this time," he says with a lopsided smile. "It’s like I’ve found the pieces. I’ve figured out the bloody puzzle. And I’ve never been good at them."
Wanda jiggles her foot and waits patiently for him to finish, his eyes wet as his face turns pink with emotion. His family still remains broken by the Blip—and possibly always will be, those five years are something not even she can fix for him—but he seems hopeful. Happier. It’s like he’s found himself again.
When Monica glances around with a quietly spoken invitation for anyone else to share, Wanda lifts her hand shyly. She can hear Billy’s voice in the back of her mind, encouraging her to reach out. She’s felt the bravery she only feels when his voice is static through a radio; she’d like to think he’s here, holding her hand.
"I was married," she says, smiling at them all. Lifting her left hand, her ring finger is bare until she points her finger towards it and a ring appears within a blink, pressing coldly against her skin. No matter how many times she performs a spell, they always look at her in wonder.
She glances down at the ring, a small smile on her face. "I don’t think I am the person Vision would remember," she says. "He loved someone who was generous. I am not generous."
Bobby scoffs. "That’s bullshit." He waves his hand dismissively and shakes his head. "I know, I know. We don’t undermine someone else’s feelings in this place, but I can’t sit here and listen to you say that you believe that." He glances at Monica, who only shrugs a shoulder; it encourages him to look at Wanda, his dark eyes warm and kind. The beard he’s growing suits him. "You told me to stop trying so hard. Simple advice, kind of roughly given at the time," he says with a chuckle. "But it worked. You listened. You gave me advice I didn’t believe in. You’re not a bad person, Wanda. People make mistakes."
"While we don’t know what it feels like to be someone like you…" Sophia shrugs, shifting in her chair. "You’re not a bad person."
"I know what it’s like," Trish says, nodding to herself. She licks at her teeth, finds her courage somewhere within the self-hatred that burns off from her; Wanda wants to fix it, but she knows it’s not hers to fix. "I know what it’s like to do something so unforgivable and horrible." She looks up at the group, tears in her eyes. "I murdered a man with my bare hands. I was in the Raft." She looks at Wanda with a smile. "You never made me feel like I was less than Patricia Walker. So when I say this to you," she says, leaning forward and gripping her thigh, "I mean it with absolute love."
Despite the uncertain furrow to her brow and the pounding of her heart, Wanda instinctively places her hand on top of Trish’s. She can skim her mind, feel the words begin to grow from their seed, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t skim across any of their minds, keeping herself tucked safely inside of her own sense of self. Her heart may hammer and butterflies may begin to swarm her chest, but Wanda doesn’t feel unsafe.
"Stop with the bullshit," Trish says, lips curved upward. "Vision would love you for who you are, no matter what you did. As corny as it is—and, fuck me, Jess would hate me saying this—we love you for it."
Monica smiles. "Stop letting yourself be the villain," she says. "Heroes don’t hurt people, that’s true. But you’re a person, Wanda. People hurt people, even if they don’t mean it. And you’re a person, just like the rest of us," she says, glancing around the small group of ordinary people who Wanda has found extraordinary during her time in New York. "It’s time to forgive yourself."
Erin shrugs. "I stole a bike when I was fourteen and lied about it. Then I gave it to my sister for her birthday because I forgot to get her a present."
Sophia chuckles. "I stole expensive lipstick without telling anyone." She and Erin share a smile.
"I cheated on my math test when I was in tenth grade," Bobby says with a shrug. "It was a big deal at the time."
"We’ve all done shitty things," says Kevin. "We all think shitty things, too. I sometimes wish that the Blip had stayed. I’d never know my sister was gone. It’s selfish, I know, but I want that peace sometimes."
Wanda shakes her head, looking at him earnestly; she doesn’t move her hand from where it rests against Trish’s. "That’s not shitty, Kevin."
"Isn’t it?" He cocks his brow, tilting his head to the side slightly in a challenge. "If you’re going to hold yourself accountable for what you did, then I have to hold myself accountable for that, too."
"You haven’t mind-controlled us," says Bobby. Then he furrows his brows. "I think… I did eat that cupcake even though I said I wouldn’t…"
Sophia laughs. "You ate that of your own free will, Robert."
Wanda cracks a smile. She wants to say something, anything—the thoughts are a jumbled mess as they try and clamber for purchase and the spotlight. She had mind-controlled hundreds of people. She had mind-controlled Monica. She had hurt Monica. She had killed people in Lagos—
But Wanda doesn’t let herself utter a word of it. She finds she can’t, not with these people who look at her and trust her with their secrets and vulnerabilities and hurt. She has to trust them, too.
Monica smiles widely, sitting back in her chair proudly. "I don’t think Billy would want you to be isolating yourself anymore."
Bobby shakes his head, leaning back in his chair proudly. "Nope," he says. "I like your donut choices, and I like you. We all do. You do shitty things sometimes. Own it and don’t do it again."
"And share the lottery numbers," Kevin says with a smile. The group laughs quietly; Wanda joins them, her own laughter wet. She wipes at her eyes, smearing tears against her cheeks. "That’s the least you could do."
Trish squeezes her thigh. "And remember that Vision loved you for you, and that included the ugly parts."
Monica smiles. "Especially the ugly parts."
Wanda unzips her deep red workout jacket, letting out a heavy breath as they pass the bright pink bench by the park’s route for the second time. Her feet feel like they’re about to disconnect from her ankles and fly away. Running around the park is not an activity that’s suitable for Wanda Maximoff. It should’ve come with a warning. Over the last few months, she’s begun to learn that running around the park is a Trish thing. It’s solely a Trish thing.
And a Pietro thing. Running has never stopped being a Pietro thing.
Her skin feels hot and clammy. From the corner of her eye, she notes how Trish doesn’t seem affected. She could run a lap around this track fifty times and not feel her bones turn to jelly.
"I’ve been thinking about what you said…" Trish breathes heavily, her face bright pink. It’s the only sign that she’s affected by this running. It must be a part of her powers, the ability to withstand such physical activity. Blonde hair sticks to her cheek; she brushes it away with a quick swipe of her hands.
"What did I say?" Wanda regards her with a small smile. She heaves in a breath, grateful that Trish begins to slow down. The padding of her feet against the asphalt morphs from purposeful running steps to walking. "I say many things. Some of it is absolute shit."
Trish cracks a smile and wipes her fingers against her cheek. "About Vision." She looks at her, her gaze unwavering. "The thing that Monica said about Billy…"
Wanda purposefully keeps her gaze away from her, biting on the inside of her cheek. She’s quick to try and think of a way to explain away Monica’s comment from their last group meeting. Billy, as far as Trish knows, is gone. He’s not here, not in a radio, not somewhere where Wanda can reach.
"You need to face your demons, Wanda," she says. Trish slows until she comes to a stop. They stand in the middle of the pathway. Wanda wipes her hair away from her temple, nails lightly skimming across her skin and leaving a white mark. She keeps her gaze away from Trish’s. Unfortunately for her, Trish waits patiently before she snags her gaze. "Even if it wears the face of a loved one, you need to face it."
Hopelessness sinks her gut. She exhales heavily, shoulders rising to only fall. She bites on her lip and looks past Trish’s shoulder before looking at her sharply. "How do you suggest I do that?"
Glancing to the side, Trish’s touch is gentle as she tugs Wanda off the path and to the damp grass.
"You can get him back," Trish says passionately.
"How—"
Trish grips her elbow tightly. "Take back what he took from you. I know about Vision… The other Vision. It doesn’t take much to woo Jimmy Woo, you know."
Wanda peers down at the ground, scuffing her sneakers against the damp grass. On the tip of her tongue is her apology for not including Trish in her little quest. It hadn’t been personal. She hadn’t simply thought to loop her in.
But when Wanda peers up at her, she doesn’t see Trish’s expression pinched with offence. She looks… eager, almost excited.
"I want to help," Trish says, peering at Wanda earnestly. "I can help you. Please let me help you."
Licking her lips, Wanda bows her head once more. Swallowing thickly, she glances up and wipes her hand against her hot cheek. Her skin burns; she knows it’s hope bubbling inside of her.
"I don’t know where to find him," she admits quietly.
When she peers at Trish, she’s surprised by her wide, toothy smile.
Before she can heed Trish’s advice, she knows she needs to help someone else first. She lingers in the kitchen with her hands behind her back, waiting patiently for Monica to appear from upstairs. Despite having lived with her for so many weeks, Wanda hadn’t realised just how loud Monica is. She doesn’t fly around her apartment as if she’s made of nothing but air; she’s loud, footsteps almost thumping on the wooden floorboards. Sometimes Wanda can hear I am here yelling from each step.
When Monica appears in the kitchen slightly frazzled, Wanda thinks she’ll lose her nerve. Her heart races, her skin feels hot like she’s stood underneath the sun for too long. The object in her hands is weighty and heavier now in the presence of Monica.
It takes Monica a moment to realise Wanda’s standing near the sink, loitering in an unusual and almost perplexing way. It’s evident in the way her brows furrow and she smiles at her brightly in confusion. "You okay?"
Wanda nods, making a noise in her throat. "Yes," she says after a moment. "I am. I have something for you, actually."
It’s then Monica’s gaze drops down to where Wanda’s hands disappear behind her. The crease to her brows deepens and the wide, beautiful smile that lights up the entire galaxy dims slightly. Wanda worries it’ll be put out completely by her hand.
Stepping closer to her, Wanda reveals what’s hidden behind her back: a toy plane, painted a deep blue with the imprint of Monica’s initials on the side.
Monica peers down at it quizzically. "What’s this?"
"A plane," Wanda says, the corner of her lips curving upward. "Billy…" She closes her eyes for a moment, swallowing against the lump in her throat. "He told me you like planes. We discussed creating this for you."
Monica’s brows furrow; her smile remains in place, even though the corners of her lips begin to tug downward. She’s confused; Wanda doesn’t blame her. As far as Monica’s concerned, her son is gone. To Monica, the only time Wanda would have ever had the chance to speak to him would have been in Westview.
"It holds memories," Wanda says, peering down at the plane. It feels light in her palm. "Of you and your mom." She looks up at Monica and hastily adds, "I didn’t take anything from you, I’ve just… made it so that if you ever want to remember her or see her again, you can do it without worrying. All the memories will be yours."
Monica’s lips purse as she looks down at the plane, the crease to her brows sharpening. "Wanda…"
"I’m sorry if it’s an intrusion."
"It’s not at all," Monica says with a smile, still appearing confused. She glances up at her before looking down at the plane, her hands purposefully heavy by her sides. She’s afraid; Wanda hardly blames her. That radio had been frightening in the beginning.
"You never got to say goodbye," Wanda says, watching Monica’s face. If she wasn’t so practiced at trying to conceal her true feelings, she’d easily overlook how Monica’s face pinches, the tension in her lips, the way her breathing’s grown shallower and her eyes become wet. But Wanda notices it all. "I know what it’s like to not be able to say goodbye. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t say goodbye, but I want…"
"I understand," Monica says with a smile. She nods, her gaze still on the plane. The crinkle to her brow changes in intensity. "I worry I’ll forget about her."
"I have nothing of Pietro’s," Wanda says, "but he got me this ring." She holds up her left hand and wiggles her thumb. A thick silver band glints into existence and shines brighter than it should beneath the dull light of Monica’s kitchen. "I put him inside of it. Sometimes, when I want to hear his voice, I… I can hear it through this."
When Monica peers up at her, it’s with a tilt of her head and a curious, almost wonderful expression. "You enchanted it?"
Sheepishly, Wanda blushes and shrugs. "I’m the Scarlet Witch. I wanted to be something other than destruction."
Monica smiles at her, looking down at the plane. Gently, Monica takes the plane from the airstrip of Wanda’s hand, her fingertips gentle in the way she holds it. It takes her a moment before she places it in the centre of her right palm. It’s the perfect fit.
Despite wanting to comfort her, Wanda doesn’t bring any attention to Monica’s tears. She waits patiently, letting her look over the plane, to feel the presence of Maria Rambeau hum gently and lovingly within the blue paint.
"I want to show you something," Wanda says. Holding out her hand for Monica to take, she’s unsurprised by how she doesn’t hesitate. "I want you to meet someone…" Her brows furrow. "Or re-meet someone… Billy is here."
Monica’s brows furrow before they rise. Wanda likes the way her face brightens at the mention of her son. "Billy’s here?"
Wanda smiles shyly, nodding. Although she hesitates, she pushes her feet forward. She’s determined to do this. She and Billy had spoken about it; Wanda wasn’t the only one who needed a nudge in the right direction. Billy’s friend needed help, too.
"I want to help," Billy had said. The radio had crackled before it had settled into a temporary state of absolute quietness. "I like Monica. I want to help her. I think I know what to do."
Wordlessly, Wanda leads Monica up the stairs and to her room. It’s the slowest walk she’s ever experienced, her footfalls feeling both heavy and light. She isn’t quite sure if the apartment has grown in length, if the wooden floorboards are pulling at the soles of her feet to slow her. But she doesn’t once think that this is a mistake. Monica deserves this, a true expression of Wanda’s trust in her.
Entering her bedroom, she remains at the doorframe. The radio sits in the centre of her bed.
Monica stands at the threshold. Regarding Wanda with a furrow to her brow, she shakes her head. "I don’t under—"
"Hi, Monica!" The voice is vibrant through the radio. It crackles unnaturally loud before it stills into a painfully empty silence. Wanda watches with amusement at the way Monica’s face changes from bemusement to incredulousness. She stares at the radio as if it’s a ghost standing corporeal in front of her; Wanda can’t help but be amused that Tommy’s prediction of Monica being totally spooked happened to be right.
Billy continues in a bright, chirpy tone, "Thanks for saving us, by the way. Did you tell Mom? I told Mom and she cried."
It takes Monica a moment to realise the voice on the radio belongs to Billy. That it is Billy. Truly Billy. Wanda hadn’t known what Monica had done for her son—there hadn’t been any time between putting down the military, sentencing Agatha to her storyline, and tucking her children into bed for the last time to discuss the events of the day. She wishes she had made more time.
Monica peers at Wanda with a bright, incredulous smile. "You fixed it," she says breathily, her eyes wide in awe. "I really thought it died of a broken heart."
Wanda shrugs self-consciously. She smiles proudly. "I fixed it."
Trish taps her fingers against the wooden table impatiently. Wanda watches her as she sits still despite the restlessness she feels. Monica’s taking too long to take the pizza from the pizza boy, something that has Trish smirking in response.
"Do you think—"
Trish nods, her smile widening. "Mhm. She definitely likes that pizza delivery boy."
Wanda smiles. "Do you think she is leaving him a big tip?’
"Oh yeah," Trish laughs.
When Monica reappears with two cardboard boxes and a loaf of garlic bread, she’s grinning widely. Sparkling, even. Depositing the boxes in the middle of the kitchen table, she takes her seat beside Wanda and looks between them with a slight furrow to her brow. "What?"
"Oh," Trish exclaims, opening the pizza box closest to her, "nothing."
"It doesn’t sound like nothing…"
"We were just wondering how you found the pizza boy," Wanda says, smiling.
"Delivery," Trish quickly corrects. Extracting her pepperoni slice from inside the box, she drops it unceremoniously onto her plate.
"Yes, delivery," Wanda repeats, purposefully unconvincingly.
Monica smiles toothily, looking between them with wide eyes. "I don’t know what you’re hinting at, but if you’re hinting that I have something for Daniel, I do not."
Trish’s eyes widen. "She knows his name!"
Wanda laughs around a bite of her supreme slice. Monica’s entire face blushes red as she ducks her head and collects her own slice of supreme, muttering about how easy and peaceful her life had been before she had chosen to invite two nuisances inside.
It’s when there’s a lull in the conversation and only three slices of supreme and four of pepperoni left that Wanda shifts in her seat, her smile drifting away a touch. Lifting her napkin to dab at her lips, she looks to Monica and says, "Billy tells me that you have special powers."
Monica smiles, nodding. "I do."
Trish glances between them but busies herself with breaking off the opposite end of the garlic bread. Apparently, she’s a big fan of the ends. They’re stable, easily relied upon.
"I need your help," Wanda says, wringing the napkin between her fingers until it almost tears. She glances down at the table before she lifts her gaze to the two women who sit opposite her. She had practiced this speech in the mirror, even reciting it in the shower in the morning, but all the words she had almost committed to memory disappear. She purposefully brushes them away. "I want to bring him back. Will you help me?"
Her pulse beats hard in her neck. Wanda peers between the two of them, tempted to skim the surface of their minds so she can prepare for their inevitable rejection. She had asked for their help weeks ago but had chosen to dig her heels into the sand and not ask them for anything further. She’d been cowardly, afraid to trust someone other than herself.
But Wanda feels braver now. She is braver.
Monica smiles widely. "It’s about damn time you asked."
Trish chews her garlic bread thoughtfully, looking between the two of them. "Anything you need."
Wanda looks at her with a smile. Curling her finger, she moves the plate hosting the garlic bread across the table telekinetically and easily pulls apart the middle of the loaf. She bites into it casually and smiles up at both of them. "Thank you. I have an idea, and it involves magic."
Trish tears into the garlic bread once more. "I have the perfect outfit for this."
Two weeks after asking for their help, Wanda requests they meet once more. This time, coffee will be on her.
Despite having too many thoughts spinning inside of her mind and the sudden desperate need to ride the coattails of her adrenaline rush, Wanda waits a few days before she asks Monica and Trish to meet her at her favourite cafe. Seated outside, she looks out over towards the park and smiles as she watches a little girl run from her father, laughing loudly as he pretends he can’t simply catch up to her in two long strides and scoop her up into his arms.
Trish smacks her lips as she withdraws her coffee mug from her chin. "I think I can safely say this is the last thing I thought I’d ever be talking about over coffee."
"That’s Wanda," Monica says brightly, smiling at her. "She likes to do the unexpected."
Wanda shrugs, feeling a little self-conscious despite wanting to pretend to preen. She rips into her croissant, some of its flakes falling into the lap of her jeans. She doesn’t bother to brush it away, busying herself with eating her pastry.
"What do you need from us?" Trish asks, smiling at her.
"Your support," Wanda says. "I need to do this by myself first. I need to see if I can do it."
Trish and Monica smile. It’s Monica who says happily, "We can do that."
"I’m going to track him down," she says. "I’m going to pull him out of the radio. I have an idea how… and I have an inkling of where he is. But I can’t have you follow me."
Monica’s brows furrow together, her lips pursed to protest. She shifts in her seat and asks, "What about Tommy?"
Wanda inhales deeply and lifts a shoulder. Tommy had been harder to grasp, fleeting in a way that made her feel like she was trying to capture sand between her palms. "I can only hope Billy will bring him."
"What if he doesn’t?" Trish asks, resting her elbows against the table. She holds her mug, preferring the warmth to kiss her hands. Wanda’s learned over time that Trish likes to be anchored; she can’t be lost if she has something to hold onto.
"He will," Wanda says with a small nod. "He has to. I have to believe that Billy will do that for me while I do this for him."
"Well," Monica says, exhaling through her mouth. Placing her mug on the table, she reaches into her small handbag and pulls out her cellphone. "It’s a good thing I happened to tell Woo about the radio." Monica appears sheepish for a moment. "He might know how you can tap into the radio’s frequency."
Trish stares at her incredulously. "You’re going to pull him out of the radio," she repeats. The way Wanda’s magic works is slowly settling in. Despite being exposed to it numerous times over the weeks, Trish still regards it as if she’s never seen it before. It makes Wanda feel giddy to see someone look at her in astonishment rather than fear.
"His dimension," Wanda says with a smile.
"Right." Trish shakes her head, smiling. Still slowly piecing it together. "The sci-fi stuff you were talking about. He exists on some other plane."
"He has to," Wanda says a little too seriously. "I have to believe he’s out there, waiting for me to reach out to him. He’s been reaching out for so long…"
"You need to reach back," Trish says quietly, nodding. "I get it. I don’t know how to even begin helping you, but if you need an actual radio station, I’m pretty sure I still have some pull at Trish Talk."
Monica’s brow furrows as she looks up from her phone. "Aren’t they still scared of you?’
"Yeah," Trish says easily, "that’s the pull."
Wanda laughs loudly.
Wanda misses three nights of group. Although she wishes to attend to meet the newest recruit—Clare, an older lady with rainbow hair who Trish thinks would be completely enamoured with Wanda’s magic tricks—and to enjoy the donut run, Wanda remains on course.
"The goods" Jimmy delivers on is Darcy Lewis’ science. It takes her a couple of days to make sense of all the numbers and words, but when she does, she feels as though she’s finally caught the big fish. The spells in the Darkhold make sense. It all makes sense now.
She’s going to get her family back, even if that means destroying her radio.
The crackling of the radio almost deafens her until it goes completely quiet. Wanda closes her eyes as she holds the shattered radio in her hands. Sitting cross-legged in the realm of the Scarlet Witch, she keeps her eyes locked as tightly as the diary she used to keep beneath her bed, filled with all of her best and forgotten secrets.
Her sons won’t be forgotten. No longer will they be a secret.
It’s quiet, dead in her hands. She begs for its life to return to it, to fill its insides and mend its bones. She prays this isn’t it, that she hasn’t begun her path of true destruction as the Scarlet Witch. The radio can’t be her first true victim. It has to breathe, it has to live.
The silence is thick and suffocating, and then—
Wanda weeps joyously.
Days later, she sits on the park bench with Trish.
"Thanks for coming," Trish says, rubbing her hand against her chin. "I’m sorry, you should be—"
"It’s fine," Wanda says with a tight smile. The park’s noisier than it’s ever been today, with children milling about along the dirt paths and grassy areas. She watches as a few children gather together to organise a game of chase. The noise summons a soft pounding to her temple. Wanda looks back at Trish and smiles, "It’s the least I could do. Did you want me to come with you?"
Trish shakes her head, smiling softly. "No, no," she says beside her. The bench creaks slightly beneath them when Trish shifts, uncomfortable with the topic at hand. Every time Wanda brings up her sister, Trish fidgets. She’s so used to her being composed. "I need to do this on my own. Just knowing someone’s here will… it’ll give me the courage I need."
Wanda gives her a small, easy smile. "You have all the courage you need even without me."
Trish ducks her head, smiling a little tensely. Wanda doesn’t take it personally. Glancing over her shoulder at the cafe across the road, Trish bites her bottom lip. "She’s not here yet."
Wanda looks over her shoulder for a moment, spying a woman with long brown hair. None of the women at the cafe match the description of Jessica Jones. None of them happens to be tall and carry the weight of the world on their shoulders.
Placing her hand on Trish’s thigh, Wanda gives her a comforting squeeze. "I’m glad she agreed to meet you."
"Me too."
"I think it’ll be good for you," Wanda says, withdrawing her hand. She rubs her palms against her thighs, smiling brightly at the display of children fussing about as they argue over their game’s rules. "I have a good feeling about these types of things."
One of the children runs over to her, almost tripping over his feet. He reminds her of a newborn foal, this boy wrapped up in a deep, protective red with his hair askew. Fondly, Wanda thinks he needs a haircut.
With his hands behind his back, Billy slows as he approaches them. He smiles at the two of them in greeting, the shape of his smile a warm mirror of Vision’s own smile. "Thank you for keeping my mom company," he says brightly to Trish.
Within moments, a blur of silvery-blue appears behind Billy. Tommy stands with his hands above his head, hands splayed as if he’s about to jump on Billy’s back. "You did an okay job," he says. Trish laughs.
Billy peers up at them with a tilt of his head, brows furrowing together. "You shouldn’t worry so much. She’ll come back. She’ll come back like we did."
Tommy nods vigorously and blushes bright red when he peers at Trish. "So… I was going to show this doofus here—"
"Tommy," Wanda warns with a smile.
Tommy clears his throat. "I was going to show this dork how I land on my two feet." Shuffling his feet against the dirt, he cocks his brow and remains standing still, his own display of fidgeting that’s so unique to Tommy. "Do you want to see how I can land on my two feet, too?"
Trish smiles, nodding. "Of course."
"Watch!" He zips off in a stream of vibrant blue as Wanda laughs. Trish’s nerves calm down at Tommy’s demonstration of zipping around the park and throwing himself up into the air. He lands on his feet, as promised.
So does Trish.
Wanda walks the streets of New York with a light step. It’s noticeable enough for Monica to make a comment, laughing as she teases her gently about how she’s about to fly off. The bustling of the streets is loud, but it doesn’t suffocate Wanda as it had when she had first arrived. Tommy and Billy chase one another a few feet ahead, with Tommy zipping around Billy and poking him in the shoulder over and over.
"This is going to be my last group session," Monica says, clasping her hands in front of her. She begins to wring them, keeping her gaze on the cracks in the pavement. "I wanted you to know before I tell the others. I’d come for them, obviously, but I won’t really be leading them."
Wanda cocks a brow. "Why not?"
Monica presses her lips together and averts her gaze, embarrassed. "I took back what was mine." When she looks up at Wanda, her lips curve upward into something that Wanda thinks is shaped like pride. "You inspired me."
Wanda’s brows furrow before her eyes widen. She smiles so brightly, butterflies warming happily in her chest. She feels the overwhelming desire to hug her. "Your mother will be so happy."
Monica’s eyes shine with tears. "I hope so. It’s actually… I hope this doesn’t upset you, but it was something that Billy said to me."
Wanda tilts her head to the side curiously. "Billy spoke to you?"
"Through the radio. He said you wouldn’t mind." Monica’s brow furrows in worry; Wanda shakes her head to indicate she doesn’t mind at all. Monica had saved her sons’ lives. If Billy wanted to speak to Monica through the radio, she wouldn’t begrudge him a friend. "He told me that he was proud of you for being so brave. For calling me. He said he asked you to do it, and you did it. And I realised that… I needed to be brave. I want to be brave."
"You are the bravest person I know."
Monica ducks her head. "I’ve been a coward," she says. Letting her hands go, she swings her arms by her sides as if she’s about to take flight. "Letting what Hayward did sour S.W.O.R.D. for me… There are people out there who need help, and I want to help them. That’s the legacy my mom wanted."
Wanda reaches for Monica’s hand and gives her a squeeze. "S.W.O.R.D. is in good hands. What you did for these people is good, Monica," she says, smiling at her. Monica glances at her, eyes wet. She looks away, and Wanda lets her. "That’s what S.W.O.R.D. is. That’s what it will always be with you guiding it."
Monica smiles and lifts the hand Wanda’s not holding to wipe her tears away. "You really think so?" she asks wetly.
Tilting her head up defiantly, Wanda smiles. "I know so," she declares haughtily. "I’m a telepath."
Monica laughs, giving her hand one last squeeze.
After Wanda yells at her boys for the sixth time to behave on the playset, she sits back against the bench she’s come to call her new home in the park. Although she shakes her head, clearly exasperated by the two of them as Tommy runs at super-speed and Billy tries to zap him with blue balls of magic, all Wanda can do is smile. It’s begun to hurt her face.
Trish smiles. "So, that’s Billy and Tommy," she says almost whimsically. She’s come to know them over the last few weeks as wild bursts of beautifully warm energy. Tommy’s crush on Trish is more entertaining than Wanda had ever hoped it to be.
Wanda smiles, watching her children run about the playground. "That’s Billy and Tommy."
"I can see what they get from you. The stubbornness and inability to listen," Trish says with a laugh. Wanda doesn’t look away from her boys, her smile causing her cheeks to ache. She can see herself and Pietro reflected in the two of them: Billy, the twin who is too serious for his young age, and Tommy, the trouble maker.
"And Vision?" Trish arches her brow, peering at her.
The smile slowly slips from Wanda’s face. She keeps her gaze straight ahead and doesn’t answer.
Wanda wrings her hands together as she watches Billy and Tommy try and build a tall tower to play Jenga. Tommy’s patience will only last for a few more moments before he inevitably grows impatient with Billy’s need to be precise and slow. It’s a moment she doesn’t want to miss out on despite having witnessed it so many times already. Monica’s living room looks good with her boys in it. The world is better with them in it.
Monica stands on the opposite side of the doorframe, her back leaning against the wood. Her arms are crossed against her chest as she watches Wanda patiently.
And what she’s waiting for, Wanda easily gives to her. She turns away from her sons and looks at Monica with a nervous crinkle to her nose. "Are you sure you don’t mind looking after them for a few days?"
Her question’s met with an unamused purse of her lips. "You know I want to. This is your opportunity, Wanda. We’ve been through this a number of times already. Woo’s intel is only going to be good for a short window of time and Trish has been working hard at trying to lure him back to Westview. You need to do your bit now."
Wanda looks down in uncertainty. It’d been easier to play her role when it had been tightly scripted and blocked. But now that she has the freedom of improvisation, Wanda finds herself fretful.
Monica steps forward and gives her a gentle nudge on the forearm. Her hand lingers, her fingers squeezing gently. "Go make your phone call. The boys will be safe with me."
Wanda gives her a small smile. "I know." Of all the things she’s certain of right now, it’s that Monica is safe. Monica has always been safe.
Pushing away from the doorframe, she glances over her shoulder and smiles as Tommy rolls his eyes and claps his hands impatiently for Billy to place the last few blocks on the top of the tower. Despite wanting to linger, she leaves the living room and ascends the stairs. The apartment grows quieter the more distant she becomes from its beating and loud heart.
Sitting cross-legged on her bed, she peers down at her cellphone and switches it from hand to hand. It still feels weightless, full of promise. She waits for it to grow claws to tear her skin and hope away. It never does.
Every time she thinks of doing a spell, she remembers Agatha’s words. She frets about this being the moment she destroys the world. But it isn’t chaos she’s introducing into the muscle of the universe. It’s love. It’s order. It’s righting a wrong.
And for her to right the wrong, she has to find it first.
She dials a number she’d memorised from Trish. The only person in New York City Trish would ever trust with a case like this lets the call almost ring out before she picks it up.
Gruffly, "Alias Investigations."
"Hi," Wanda says, feeling her chest tighten. Jessica Jones has remained an abstract idea to her for so long that being able to speak to her without the buffer of Trish is more terrifying than facing Thanos. But she had beaten him down, and she knows that, despite the tough, prickly exterior, Jessica is not a bad person. After all, Billy likes her after meeting her once.
Wanda clears her throat, knowing Jessica won’t remain snared for long.
"I was wondering if you could help me. I’m a friend of Trish’s."
Jessica sighs. A glass clinks loudly against a wooden table. "What’s the problem?"
"I’m looking for someone," Wanda says.
There’s a scoff on the other end of the phone. "So’s everyone else. I’ve got a bottleneck of cases ever since that goddamn Bl—"
"The little girl that you’ve spent two weeks looking for is invisible and hiding in her closet every time her parents come to her door," Wanda recites as if she’s recalling a well-known rhyme. Her mind stretches across the city, tapping against windows and doors, slipping inside through the cracks between frames and brick as she recognises the houses and apartments Jessica’s investigating. It’s easy to find them; reading the files on Jessica’s desk is as easy as reading a mind up close. "She wants to pretend that she’s a wizard. And the woman whose husband is cheating on her? She is a psychic. You do need to listen to her when she tells you to watch your step."
"Jesus Christ." Wanda smiles as Jessica noisily readjusts in her seat. There’s a sigh, a little grunt, and she imagines a hand roughly rubbing over her face. "Why does Trish always have to adopt the annoying ones?"
Wanda smiles. "Can you help me?"
"Depends." This time, the voice on the other end of the line doesn’t sound so distant. She’s opening up like a flower. "Who are you looking for?"
"An Avenger."
Jessica sighs again. "I don’t travel to space."
Wanda’s quiet for a moment. Her lips curve into a small smile slowly of their own accord. Hope begins to blossom in her chest, a light, fluttery sensation in her gut and amongst her ribs. She lets herself feel it and grasp it, the opportunity to hope and want more. What she wants is within her grasp. All she has to do is extend her arm and take it.
So, she does.
"I want to find Vision. And I know that you can help me."
Wanda clutches at her stomach as Erin struts down the makeshift runway she’s created for her. A sleek red carpet with dazzling lights, Erin mocks the runway model strut and sexy pout as she shows off her sister’s shoes on her feet. It’s when she’s finished her walk that she bows, giving her thanks to her audience.
With a click of her fingers, Wanda removes the runway. Erin takes a seat in her chair, smiling at them all shyly. All the bravado she had shown disappears as soon as she stops playing the role of a confident model.
"So…" she looks around at them shyly. "Do you like them?" Thrusting out her leg, she turns her ankle around, her knee-high dress allowing them all to see the black strappy shoe that looks like it belongs with her.
"Very much," Wanda says amongst the noise of approval. She settles back into her chair as Erin presses her hands to her hot face and smiles at them all with tears in her eyes. "Your sister would have loved that you didn’t trip over."
Erin laughs loudly, hand pressed to her chest as happy tears slip down her face.
Once the room quietens, Monica glances around, waiting patiently for Kevin to clear his throat and clap his hands against his thighs. Still slowly gaining his confidence as the official leader of their group of misfits, he glances to Monica for her nod of approval. He’s gentle in the way he encourages them to talk, even though Wanda can feel the nervousness radiate off of him hotly.
"So, uh," he glances around at them once more before his eyes land on her. "Wanda," he says, smiling at her. "That was a nice display of Wanda wiggly woos." All of them hold out their hands and wiggle their fingers as they pretend to possess her power. Wanda smiles, laughing softly. Her face feels hot as she blushes.
With a slap of his hands against his thighs, Kevin leans back in his chair and smiles encouragingly at her. "We were wondering… is there anything new with you? You’ve missed a few nights, so we were a little excited to have you back. We’re super nosy to know what you’ve been up to… if you wanted to share, of course."
Wanda sits back in her chair, shrugging. "Yes, a little," she says, peering at them shyly. Trish’s hand presses against her thigh, a gentle, encouraging squeeze. Her smile’s warm and knowing. "I have everything I want," Wanda says with a bright, beaming smile. The faces around her beam as they become her mirror. "My children are back."
Bobby’s brows lift. "And you didn’t bring them here? For shame, Wanda," he says with a bright smile. None of them asks any further questions. Most of them know by now the strange and unexplainable with her is often magical. "I was hoping to get some hot tea on you."
Lifting a shoulder, Wanda smiles and tilts her head to the side. "Sorry," she says, not sounding sorry at all. He chuckles.
"They’d just tell you their mom is the best," Clare says with a smile, wringing her hands together in her lap. At Wanda’s appreciative smile, the nervousness ebbing off of her softens. She remembers being new to this strange group of people; she doesn’t want Clare to feel like she’s on the outside looking in.
"Because she is," says Trish with a wide smile. Wanda blushes and ducks her head, shifting in her seat as she enjoys the way everyone bursts with warmth around her.
"I’m Wanda Maximoff," she says, sitting up straighter in her seat. Erin scrunches up her face in happiness, her feet still dressed in her sister’s shoes.
She looks at Monica, smiling.
"I have my boys back," she says, exhaling heavily. She doesn’t bother to wipe the tears that slip against her cheeks. "And I’m happy."
Stepping off the side of the street, she climbs the stairs leading to the small porch of a New York apartment. On a small table on the very tiny porch sits a golden radio. Her fingers brush against it as it gently yawns to life, the soft sounds of Sokovia easily overpowering that of the loud noises of New York.
Before Wanda can lift her fist to tap against the bright red wooden door, it swings wide open. She warms at the sight that greets her in the foyer.
"Honey!" Vision grins toothily, his smile brightening the entire block. He’s red, wearing his true synthezoid skin. "You’re home!"
"That I am, dear," she says in her bright, American accent. They both laugh as he steps back and she crosses the threshold. He continues to hold the door open; she steps into him, smiling up at him brightly. She scrunches her nose. "Hi, Vision."
Vision closes the door gently. Leaning down until his nose almost touches hers, he chuckles in amusement. It’s the most beautiful sound she’s ever heard.
Heavy footfalls beat against the wooden slats of their apartment.
"It’s mine!" Tommy shouts.
"It’s not yours if my name’s on it," Billy says matter-of-factly. A flash of blue—a spark of magic—illuminates the house for only a moment.
"Hey! No fair! Your name wasn’t on it before, dorkus!"
Vision begins to turn as if he’s about to walk away from her to reprimand the boys. She reaches out to grasp his elbow, keeping him where he stands. "Leave them," she says quietly, smiling. "They have what they want. I want to have what I want now."
It’s hard to tell whether he’s blushing, but Wanda’s attuned to him. She spies how his red cheeks glow brighter. The white that had stained his skin is no longer there. The programming is gone; he’s Vision again. Free, within grasp, no longer a stranger—here.
Everything she had sacrificed and done had been worth seeing that smile for the first time of many times to come.
Vision laughs, his smile so wide she can see the sun between his lips. Wanda cups his face with her hands, squishing his cheeks. Vision rests his hands on top of hers and says warmly, "Hello, my darling."
Don’t forget:
Somewhere between hello and goodbye,
There was love,
So much love
- Faraway
