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Wanda’s always liked cooking.
Pietro never had the patience for it—even before the Mind Stone touched him, he was always quick, always restless—so it was Wanda who’d watched as Mama set out the bowls and the cutting boards and showed her the right way to hold the knife. Mama was always gentle with her, offering praise when she was doing well and guiding her hands when she wasn’t. It became their time, just the two of them, basking in the warmth of the sun coming through the window until Papa came home and dragged Pietro back inside so they could all have dinner together.
Wanda cracks the egg into the bowl and feels the ghost of her mother’s hands on her own.
She beats it until the yolk has bled into the white, turning everything pale gold.
Next comes mixing the dough. When she was younger, she’d always let Mama handle this part, but Wanda’s long since lost any reservations about getting her hands dirty. She pushes the flour into a little mountain and pours a bit of egg over it—just a little, Mama had taught her. Baby steps. The dough can only handle so much egg at a time, and we must respect that.
It had taken her time to get used to the new kitchen at the Avengers’ Compound. Going from the cramped space she’d had at home, to no kitchen at all when she and Pietro were on the streets, to the enormous space filled with appliances she wasn’t sure she was even allowed to touch. . .
She takes out her rolling pin and flattens the dough until it’s maybe a quarter-centimeter thick.
There had been a lot to adjust to, those days. Those first few weeks, she felt like she could hardly muster the strength to get out of bed. TV, her old love, was no comfort to her—whenever something funny happened, she’d look over to Pietro to see if he got the joke too, and then her laugh would die in her throat as she remembered. Food tasted like dust in her mouth, and it was so very easy to let herself go numb, drifting in her sea of sorrows.
Thunk.
Thunk.
Thunk.
The glass cuts the dough into even circles until there’s nothing left.
Wanda grabs a new cutting board and starts preparing the filing.
She starts with skinning and chopping the potatoes. She and Vision had made it a game between themselves to see who could do it fastest, those nights at the Compound when it was their turn to prepare dinner. Safely, of course, though watching Steve freak out that one time she’d nicked herself had also been entertaining. They’d kept doing it even when they were on the run and she was anyone but Wanda Maximoff—it had been comforting, one of their few holdovers from the life they’d had before. She knows Vision must have kept score, though he’d never gotten around to sharing the final tally with her.
The knife screeches against the board as she scrapes the chunks of potato into a bowl.
The skins land in the trash with an inglorious thump!.
Now for the cheese—her own personal touch. Mama had never used it, kosher cheeses being too expensive for their meager budget then, but Wanda likes the tang that the sharp cheddar adds. The first time she’d tried the cheese, it had been back in the early weeks, when Steve kept pestering her until she’d eat something.
(You’re such a mother hen, she’d complained, laughing. Just like P—
And then she’d stopped, grief choking the rest of his name before it could escape her mouth. Steve had paused before sitting down beside her, still holding the plate of apples and cheese.
I didn’t have anyone to do this for me, after I lost Bucky, he’d confessed. But I wish I had. Alone. . . it’s easy to spiral. Get sucked into everything you’re feeling. Drown in it. So I figured. . .
Wanda had looked down, then, unable to muster anything in reply. So Steve had just nudged her shoulder and offered her a cube of the cheese.
If you don’t eat this, I’m going to, he’d said. So you might as well try it.
Wanda had taken it, and—
It’s good, huh?
Wanda had nodded eagerly, and Steve had smiled.
Tony splurged, after we found out Thor was a cheese fan. Now we’ve got a whole fridge full of the good stuff. And before she could sour at the mention of Stark, Steve was already gesturing at the TV, changing the subject. C’mon. What’re you watching?
Sitcoms, Wanda had replied, taking another piece of cheese off the plate on his lap.
Sitcoms. . . I missed those. Mind if I watch?
Don’t you have more important things you should be doing?
Making sure my team is doing okay isn’t important?
. . . You can stay.)
The last of the cheese falls from the grater like dust to the ground.
Wanda grabs an onion from the counter and begins to mince it.
As she cuts, her eyes begin to burn—from the onions, she tells herself, not the memory of the second home she’d almost had. She should have seen it coming, really, that everything would fall apart like it had. Nothing good ever lasts near her—not her home, not her brother, not the Avengers, not Vision, not even her children were safe from her in the end—
Wanda swears loudly as the knife clatters to the cutting board. Blood begins to well from the gash on her finger, and she grits her teeth. With a wave of her other hand, the blood has vanished and her skin is knitting back together, but the pain doesn’t fade for another few moments. Wanda clutches her hand to her chest, letting her magic mix the filling together while she closes her eyes and banishes the last of her tears. She can almost hear Mama’s voice, whispering for her to let me help next time, baby, you don’t want to hurt yourself, but then she opens her eyes again and she’s alone in her kitchen.
There is no sun coming through her window.
Wanda looks at the food on her counter for a moment before turning away. She’ll have to take care of it later to keep it from spoiling, but right now, she can’t bring herself to care. Her front door slams behind her as she sits down on the steps, looking out at the mountains she’d built her lonely cabin among.
She always had liked cooking.
But that was when she’d had someone to cook for.