"Such is the fate of a star: to burn too brightly, to collapse, to begin anew."

- (destroy to be reborn | r.h)

SEPTEMBER 6th, 2015.

Blood seeps from skin, warm and slow. It trickles down her thigh, all the way down, leaving little spots on the blue tiles around her feet. She can taste it in her mouth, too. It's strong and bitter and it lingers, even when she spits a mouthful of crimson into the sink the taste still hangs around. In her reflection—which is something messy, and tired, and half-blurred from the street lights that blare in through the window—she sees a stranger, maybe even a shadow. There's a cut across her bottom lip, that is jagged and messy and she doesn't know how she will hide it. Maybe that deep shade of red lipstick in her room will help conceal it in the morning. But the worst of it, the graze along her jaw-line and cheek, can't be hidden so easily.

Sva bol nestaje na kraju, their mother used to say, and once she believed it. All the pain disappears in the end, she would tell them, and Wanda's not sure when she stopped believing in it but she doesn't anymore. Not all pain disappears, not always, not really. In time it fades but it always stays, and she already knows that tonight will always be with her. She sucks in a breath and begins by unpeeling her stockings from around her thigh, wiggling them off slowly. They're torn now, ruined. She doesn't want them anymore.

Wanda strips the stockings off, discards them out of sight, and then carries the damp cloth down to her thigh. It aches as the water trickles across it but she keeps going. She wipes at the patches of dried blood and carefully navigates her way around the graze there. Her fingers are careful and soft when she applies a little cream to it, then she covers it up with a bandage and leaves it for the night. The stranger is still there staring back at her when she looks up a moment later. Wanda ignores it and tries to focus on other things, tries to focus on anything except the pain and how her hands are still shaking.

It's cold in the bathroom tonight. Everything is still, and quiet, and so cold, and she knows why. It's almost 3 AM, it's always like this. Except it's not always like this, it's never really been like this before. Wanda lifts her gaze away from the mirror and over to the window, to where the glare from the street lights seeps into the bathroom. It's the only light in the small space until Wanda moves a moment later. She flicks on the light by the door, returns to the mirror, and spits into the sink again. It doesn't work, doesn't rid the taste from her mouth, so she lowers her head, swallows a mouthful of water, then spits it out again.

It works at rinsing most of the bitter taste away, but it doesn't really work the way she needs it to. So she lights a cigarette. Wanda pushes the bathroom window open enough to let the smoke out then she takes a seat on the edge of the tub, slowly letting her feet touch the tiles. The bathtub is long and green, with brass handles and a pale shower-curtain pushed to one side. It's hers, all of this is. From the purple mat near the door, to the flowers by the window, the make-up scattered along the sink, and all the products and boxes stacked away in the cupboard underneath it.

It's all hers but tonight it doesn't feel like it, tonight it doesn't feel like any of this is hers. She soon looks away, down to the cigarette burning out between her fingers. Orange embers burn out from the end of the cigarette. She stares at it quietly, realizing now that there's a slight tremble to her hands, that they never really stopped shaking. She tenses and closes her eyes.

Her thigh still aches, even after the care she's given it, and the banged up side of her face doesn't feel so great. It feels tight and sore, and there's probably more she can do for it but she can't summon the energy. Wanda stays where she is and lets her eyes fall shut—only partially, only for half a beat—while she inhales on the cigarette and tries to steady her hands. Then her eyes open and she's left staring down at the soft glowing embers again.

It's too quiet in here. She stands soon, stubs the cigarette out in a bowl, then returns to the sink to take care of everything else. Wanda begins with the jagged cut over her lip. It's puffy and split, and all she can do is rinse it with a little water because there's really nothing else she can do for it. It's nothing, not compared to the graze on her cheek. That's on the right side of her face, one of her worst wounds from the night. The pavement tore up the skin there, scraping it harshly and causing it to bleed, and now as she leans closer to the mirror she realizes that there are tiny bruises forming on her face, along her cheek and underneath her eye.

She curses again and lifts the cloth back to her face, leaving it there to ease the pain. It feels new, feels raw. There's not much she can do, she knows the pain will fade. Wanda knows this, that she's felt worse, that in the morning she will feel better. It's more that the memory of the pain stays with her, it always does. She feels it now, the little pieces of pain that are already deep inside her. That kind of pain, already deep inside her, never really leaves.

A moment later she turns on the tap again, fills the sink, and scrubs away the blood from where it's stained on her skin. Scattered across her torn up palm, her wrist, and underneath her nails from when she tried to slow the bleeding. It only really dawns on her now how bad it is and what she will need to do next. In her mind she quietly starts to work out the details of her story for her brother. It has to be done, there is no other choice.

There is no telling him the truth because if he learns what happened he won't react well. He can't know what happened tonight, that on her way home from closing the bar she was stopped and attacked for her money and the contents of her bag. Pietro can't carry this, it would break him. He will overreact, and he break, and she can already imagine him desperately trying to find who did this to her. She knows that there is nothing that he can do, and that the police will have to be the ones to fix this.

So she decides that it was a bar accident. Wanda decides to spin a story to Pietro about three drunk men at a bar, arguing and escorted out of it. She will tell him that it was an accident, that she was a casualty in the chaos on the pavement outside of The Green Tides, and how that's all it is. It needs to be done because she knows how he'll react and there's no hiding this, no hiding the graze on her face, not from him. It doesn't sit too well with her to lie to her brother, to tell him a story and keep the truth to herself, but it's her way of protecting him from doing anything reckless.

The sink is tinted red when Wanda is finished. It feels like it's tainted red, like she is. She empties it, dries her hand on a towel by the basin, then starts to peel off her clothes from the night. It all feels too bright suddenly, too warm. She takes everything off and puts it all in a basket by the door, where she'll collect it in the morning and wash it, and then she finds a towel to covers herself up with. But before she pulls it on, before she wraps the soft towel around herself, she waits.

There's a chilly breeze coming in from the window. It's cold and gentle, slips in through the half-cracked open window, and it soothes her aching body. It almost feels nice, almost feels peaceful, but she feels as if she's forgotten what peace feels like. Is this is? she wonders if it is, if a cool rush of air soothing aching wounds can really be peace. It doesn't feel like it and it doesn't last for very long.

Outside of her bathroom, somewhere in her bedroom, there are footsteps. Heavy, and sudden, and too close. Wanda stops and listens, her chest tightening as she hears a loud crash, followed by the familiar noise of Pietro cursing. It sounds like he turns on a light, curses again, then leaves, and by the time that she hears him return she's wrapping a towel around herself.

The door rattles when Pietro tries, unsuccessfully, to get into her bathroom. Then it sounds like he walks into it, because there's a distinctive thud followed by another curse.

"Sestra?" he shouts out. "You are home?"

He sounds tired and mildly frustrated from walking into the door. Wanda lets out a breath at the sound of her brother's voice and stays by the sink, one hand propped against it, the other holding the towel in place.

"What do you want?" she calls back. "Why are you in my room so late?"

"Clint is over, he stayed after dinner." comes her brother's reply. "He is taking too long in the bathroom. Please, hurry up. I need yours. What are you doing in there so late anyway?"

Wanda sighs and lowers her head, almost wanting to tell him, to open the door and let him hold her. But her throat feels tight, and it feels like there's not enough air in her body to find the words to tell him. So she says nothing and leans back into the sink, her eyes squeezed shut as she wills this moment to end soon. She just wants to be alone.

"What did you break? Nothing important, I hope."

Pietro huffs, annoyed. "Does it matter? It can be glued back together again. Why are you not listening to me—"

"I am in here." Wanda's quick to answer, her voice strained. "You can't come in right now. So go away."

But he doesn't leave. Instead of leaving, Pietro leans against the bathroom door. He presses himself against it, grabs the handle, rattles it.

"Wanda, please." he whines. "Do I have to go outside? Or somewhere else? What about the sink? Just think about it, the sink you—"

"Go away, Pietro. I'm not well. Go away."

3 AM is too late to tell him the truth, that she isn't unwell, that she's more than just tired. Wanda almost wants to tell him but it's far too late. Right now she only wants to pull on clean clothes, climb into bed, and escape her mind for a little while. It's too loud right now, too heavy, too red, and it feels like tonight is weighing down on her. She can't stop thinking about it, can't stop replaying it, over again.

It's not that she isn't used to violence, she is. She's seen it, they've both survived it, lived through it, before tonight—but this time it's different and it's too late to explain any of it to her brother. It's something that she needs to keep to herself. So she forces it away, pushes it down somewhere deep inside of her where it will never be found. Then she lifts her head, exhales a breath, and listens as Pietro suddenly stops rattling the bathroom door.

"You're not well? Why?" he asks, voice quieter, not annoyed anymore. "What's wrong? Do you need anything?"

Wanda sighs and combs a hand across her face, slowly brushing the long strands of hair out of her face and away from the puffy gash on her cheek.

"I'm fine, I just don't feel great. Ok?" she lies, lets out another breath. "Will you leave, please. I am sure Clint is finished now, so. Go, please. Goodnight, Pietro."

He hovers, uncertain. "Are you sure? That you are okay?"

She wants to tell him no, that she isn't, that she isn't sure she ever will be. There's still blood left in the sink, her body aches from tonight, and there's really not much that she feels okay about right now. She takes a step over to the door, followed by another, and soon she's standing by the locked door and she's considering saying something. It's quiet between them still. Wanda keeps the door closed, keeps it locked, as she leans her head against it and closes her eyes. It doesn't make a sound, doesn't creak or let her brother know that she's standing there, but somehow she feels like he knows and it's why he waits, why he doesn't say anything until she does.

"Yes. Trust me. Please go. Everything is fine."

Half a beat passes before he steps away.

"Okay, okay. I am leaving now." Pietro says, there's a pause. "I will be in my room if you need me. Goodnight."

Then he leaves her.

Pietro isn't exactly quiet as he leaves, but he doesn't break anything on his way out and nothing else comes crashing down. So that's something. She waits a minute after he's gone just to be sure that he really isn't out there anymore. She waits one minute, then another, until she loses track of time. Wanda just stays there in the bathroom, her head pressed against the door, a hand stretched out on it, like if he'd stayed for just one more minute then she might have opened up. She might have let him in, let him hold her, but he's gone now and that moment went with him.

It's dark in her room when she steps inside, but there's an orange glow from the streetlights that seeps in through the windows. Wanda pads across the floorboards gently, her feet bare and cold as she walks over to her door and gently closes it. The door creaks a little but she moves quickly, makes sure that she locks it, before she hangs her towel up on the hook behind the door and reaches for her dressing gown hanging there next to it. The robe is soft and familiar, dark blue and emerald green, with pretty flowers stitched into it and it feels nice against her skin.

She slips it on carefully, walks over to her side of the bed, and opens up the drawer next to it. The small drawer is old and vintage, something they found shortly after moving here. It's something she hasn't been able to part with since she first laid eyes on it, not just because it's old and tells a story but because it is beautiful. Made of wood and carved with intricate little patterns, it is very special to her and it's also the place where she keeps most of her favorite things and treasures. Little things that she keeps to herself, that she doesn't want anyone else to find.

The rest of her room—well, it's hers now. It wasn't really at first, it was just a room then, something to fill with the pieces of the new life they created here in New York. But now it's definitely something that's hers. It's something that she doesn't really like to share with anyone else, not really, not even Pietro sometimes.

It's just hers.

The bed is large, bigger than any bed she's ever had anyway, and it's covered with thick blankets, soft pillows of different shapes and colors, and a bunch of, as Clint calls it, junk. It's really not junk, just the things she uses through the days and the long nights. Things like books, pens, half-finished sketches and old drawings. She collects all of the junk on her bed, puts it down it on the floor, then steps away to open up the window a little more.

Her bed is by the window, in the perfect spot that gets all the sunlight in the mornings and the cool breezes in the nights. Wanda opens the window slowly, turns on the shaggy pink light by her bed, and stops to glance her room over again. The lamp is hers but it's not something she'd pick out. It's usually something she would find hideous and stay far away from, but her brother once persuaded her to get it. From the moment he saw it he loved it, and then he started dating Clint and he hated it and begged her not to put it out in the open space where anyone important (like his new boyfriend) might see it, so now it sits in her room and it's something that's grown on her with time.

It's hers now, like everything else. Her room really isn't big but there's a lot in it. Sometimes it feels much bigger than it is and tonight is one of those nights. There's a pile of clothes at the end of her bed, waiting to be put in the dresser against the far wall. She doesn't feel up to it, doesn't even think about it. She stops by the bookshelf on her way to bed, wondering for a moment if reading might help. She already knows the answer, that it won't, that there isn't much that could help her tonight. Still she looks, letting her gaze sweep over the room, over to the bookshelf by the door where she keeps little ornaments, and plants, and stacks of journals.

Tonight she looks there and realizes that the small gray dragon she once kept there is gone. Wanda walks over to the shelf quickly, spotting a few pieces of the broken ornament on the ground from where her brother broke it and then attempted to pick it up. She scoops up the pieces, cradles them in her hand, then discards them. It can't be glued together like he said but it doesn't really matter. It's just a thing, she tells herself, as she makes her way over to the chair at the end of her bed. It's more like a bench, soft and cushioned, where she often spends hours sitting and getting ready. She just sits there tonight, pulls her feet up, props her chin up on her knees, and lets out a breath.

Her hands aren't shaking anymore, she realizes, and that's something. It almost feels good, almost feels like progress. She isn't so easily convinced. Her hands aren't shaking anymore but it feels like everything else is. It feels like her mind is shaky, like it is distracted, and shifting, always moving back to thoughts of tonight. She's desperate to focus on something else and quickly scans the room, her attention briefly settling on the rug by her bed, near the canvas she was painting on earlier and all of her other art supplies that she keeps there.

Wanda lingers for a moment, pretends to consider painting to distract herself, but she is too weary and she knows it. So she lifts her gaze away from the paintings on the floor and over to the vanity near the bathroom. It's old and faded, the paint is chipped and peeling in places, but it's where she sits most mornings. It's where she'll be sitting in a few hours when she's getting ready for the day and trying to find a way to hide her bruises from her brother.

She stares at it for too long, gets lost thinking about what lipstick she'll have to wear to hide this from him. She intends on telling him, she just needs time, just wants to control what he sees and what he worries about. He's been through enough, he doesn't deserve to be burdened by this, not when he is so happy. This is the last thing she lets herself thing about, as Wanda decides that she is done looking around the room. She is done with being here, and alert, and so aware of it all. She drags herself back on her bed and collapses against it, sinking into rows of soft pillows as her eyes shut.

It's still too quiet, it still doesn't feel peaceful. And her face still stings. So she moves, sits up, and ties her hair back into a bun to keep it off her face. Then she turns on her side and looks out to the window, to the view she can see from her bed. It's all dark and starry, with a few lights from the city lingering close by. It will be light soon, she thinks, as she rolls over to reach the drawer by her bed. Her vapor pen is there, ready to be used when she needs it, but it feels like it's too much of an effort tonight. She digs around inside the drawer, searching for the joint instead, and she soon finds it tucked away in an old tin box painted with bright stars and flowers.

Wanda retrieves the joint swiftly, scoops up her lighter, then sinks back into bed. It's not a habit, not really. It's more like an escape on the nights she needs to get out of her head and away from here, or it's just something she does on the nights she wants to feel something good. She knows that she can't do this forever, just like she knows Pietro would scold her for doing this, but she doesn't have to worry about that too much. In the last six months or so, Clint's been a pretty good influence on him.

They all have their things that make them happy and grounded. This is just Wanda's thing. She's been using the vapor pen recently because she likes the way it feels and there's less of a smell, but tonight she feels like getting high without any of the effort. She doesn't always do this, doesn't get high all of the time, because lately things have been better. Her brother's been happy, happier in these last months than he's been since they were kids, and she gives most of that credit to Clint but not all of it.

It's something that Pietro did for himself. He found a way to start again from the life they had, before this one, back in Sokovia. It's more than they ever thought they could have and this—Pietro's job, his boyfriend, his new life here in the city—is all that Wanda's wanted for him ever since they were little. His happiness has always mattered so much to her, sometimes more than her own.

Wanda thinks that mostly his happiness has always mattered more than her own, and there's never been any complaint from her about that. They're twins, yes, but sometimes she feels older and more responsible for him and for both of their lives here in New York. It doesn't bother her, doesn't weigh heavy on her, that she is more concerned with his future than her own. Wanda doesn't mind all that much, it's her own happiness, her own life, that she can't seem to carry well at times or even work out, but that's just another thing that she keeps to herself.

She carries all of it; the riots, the blood, the home they left behind. They saw so many people die there, they lost everything, and it's always with her. It was their home until it wasn't, but somehow it still is. Wand recalls it clearly like it was yesterday, like it was only moments ago that everything was shattered, and bloody, and broken beyond repair. But it wasn't.

It's been years now. Years and years. It doesn't feel like it yet but maybe one day it will, or maybe that's just another lie that she tells herself. It's the same one that she used to tell Pietro to keep them going, that one day it would be over, that they could be happy again.

Sva bol ide dalje, na kraju, dragi brate, she would tell him, and he would believe it. He would always believe her and her promises. Wanda just never really did, not enough, not like her sweet brother did. But there's still a part of her that wants to believe it, or maybe that's just the part of her that is desperate to have something to believe in again.

Once, she used to dream of good things. Wanda recalls those dreams vividly; purple skies lit up with stars, deep rolling waves ebbing and flowing along endless shores, and quiet paths that led to new and beautiful places. In those dreams she remembers seeing her brother there. Her parents were there with them sometimes, too. She used to dream of them, of the life she wanted when she was little. Now she doesn't dream all that much, but when she does her dreams aren't like that anymore. Her dreams are of smoky skies, piles of rubble, and an angry fire that destroys everything, leaving nothing but ash behind.

Her parents are there, sometimes her brother is with them. It's endless and it always feels like she's back there, living through it again. It's real enough that she can feel the flames licking her skin, can taste the smoke filling her lungs, and she can always hear Pietro's voice. In the dreams he is always so young, so helpless, and he needs her. He needs her. That's when Wanda wakes, sweaty and panting, and desperate to hear her brother's voice. She needs to hear him, to remember what he sounds like, and eventually she does. It comes to her slowly, as she closes her eyes and tries to pull herself together.

It helps to remind herself of the things that she knows: they're here in New York together, in their apartment in the West Village, far away from Sokovia. They're far from all of the death that followed them here, there is no fire, her brother isn't dead, and she isn't stuck in a hole or buried deep under bricks and rubble. She wakes free of it all, free of the red skies and streets, and all of the other things that pin her down in her dreams. But it doesn't feel like, doesn't feel like she's free.

It feels like something else entirely.

Wanda pulls herself away from the covers quickly and swings her legs over the side of the bed, where she sits for a moment and tries to steady her breathing. It's here on the edge of her bed that she lets herself feel it. The pain in her head isn't great. A migraine, combined with last night's fall. She remembers that quickly, in vivid flashes of blood, concrete, and silver. When she finally stops reliving it, she realizes that there's music playing out in the kitchen.

The clock on the nightstand tells her it's 10:03 AM, which is fine because she's not working today. She's got the day off to do whatever she wants, not that she feels up to much today. Wanda leaves the bed a moment later anyway, pulling on a pair of socks and slipping away into the bathroom to wash her face and look at her injuries in the daylight.

It isn't better in the morning. If anything, Wanda's face is worse. Much worse. She stares at her reflection for a while, trying to take it all in. The bruises scattered along the right side of her face are all purple, and black, and spotted. They don't cover her whole face, just a part of it, and she finds a small relief in that. The row of bruises on her face are restricted to just along her jaw, parts of her cheek, and then there's just the nasty looking bruise underneath her eye. So there's really not much relief to be found here, she realizes, as she steadies herself against the basin and wills herself to stay calm.

Her eyes stay on her reflection, on the stranger staring back at her, while she begins to wonder how much she can cover with make-up. There's no hiding this, not really, there's only minimizing it and that's exactly what she plans to do. She decides to start with a shower and slowly removes her clothes while the water heats up. She's half-naked when she hears a knock on her door. It's more like three consecutive thuds, followed by the sound of Pietro shouting out something inaudible and loud about breakfast being ready soon and how if she isn't there in time they might eat her breakfast too.

It makes her smile, sort of. It's more of a half-smile, that tugs on the corners of her lips then disappears without really forming. After it's gone Wanda undresses, steps into the shower, and tilts her gaze down to her bruised and bandaged body, staring at the marks for a moment. Then she ties her hair back off her face and starts to wash, using the new cherry blossom body-wash that Pietro picked up on his way home the other day. It actually smells pretty good and it feels nice to be clean, but she doesn't spend long in the shower today. It just doesn't feel that nice, doesn't feel like the kind of morning where she wants to spend too long in here. And then there's the thud against the door that reminds her that breakfast is ready.

Wanda swiftly steps out of the shower, dripping water everywhere, as she returns to her room to get dressed. She pulls on an old dress, something baggy and blue, with sleeves long enough to cover her palms. She dresses carefully, her body still sore, tender in places. Once she's dressed she returns to the bathroom to tend to her wounds. It's bright enough in here now that she doesn't need a light, the daylight coming in from the opened bathroom window lets plenty of light in, so she finds a spot by the sink, puts the bandages down there, and rolls her dress up to her thigh to look at the wound from last night.

She doesn't let herself look at it too closely, not for any longer than she needs. Wanda repeats the same steps from last night. She cleans the wound, dabs at it until it's dry, applies cream, then covers the small graze up with a bandage. It stings but she doesn't let herself feel it, not here, not yet. When she's done she spends a minute staring down at the bruises on her thigh, only aware of them now. She didn't see them last night, must have missed them in the dark. She sees them now, they're small and purpled, like the ones along her forearm and her wrist.

Her palms hurt, too. She turns them over slowly, examining them from afar. Her right hand and wrist hurt the most, it's where she hit the ground first. She quickly rolls her sleeves down, covering her palms, before she lifts her gaze back to the mirror. All that's left to do now is decide if she's going to wear make-up or leave it all to breathe. She leaves it in the end, deciding that no make-up is going to cover it and it will all just end up stinging and feeling worse. She doesn't want that so she leaves it, or most of it. She adds a little concealer to the bruise under her eye, just to hide it, to make her brother worry less, and then she does the same to the bruises on her cheek.

The last thing she does is put on a little lipstick. It works, better than everything else, and when she's finished she takes out her hair and combs her fingers through the knots. She's almost done when her brother comes back, knocking on her door, louder now than he's been all morning. He leaves quickly and she follows, slipping on a pair of flats by the door before she stops and reaches for the handle. She takes a minute, just one, to prepare herself to see him, to prepare herself for how he will feel to see her like this. Then she makes herself go out there, because she knows that if she waits another minute that she won't go at all.

Wanda is quiet when she steps out of her room and into the rest of the apartment. It's not small, not really, but she likes that it feels small sometimes. It feels nice, feels like home. Next to her bedroom there's a room with a washer, dryer, and sink to clean their clothes in. On the other side of that is her brother's room. The laundry room between keeps the distance between their bedrooms, giving them space to continue their days separately while also not feeling like they're too far away from each other.

Outside of Wanda's room, just to the left, there's a large area that is always filled with her things. There's a red rug on the floor, a stack of her paintings against the wall, and an easel near the window for whenever she finds the inspiration to paint. The kitchen is close, just a few steps from her little art area. It's an open layout, big enough for the two of them, more like the three of them since Clint spends most of his time here. There's a long curved bench again in the kitchen that's shaped like an L and has two bar-stools standing on one side of it. They don't really sit there for meals though, they sit at the dining table that is long, wooden, and only a few steps from their bedrooms and the kitchen.

So it's not a very big apartment but it's theirs.

And there's a little more left in it. There's the TV area, over to the right of apartment, away from everything else. It's more than that though, it's a a little hideaway. The TV is against the wall, the two couches are opposite, and behind the couches are two wide bookshelves filled almost completely (with books, DVDs, keys, and more junk) that box the area in, making it feel like a place to hide away from everything else. She wants to go there now, to curl up on the couch, cover herself with a blanket, and hide for a few hours but she can't.

She's not alone here and she remembers that now. Wanda's gaze sweeps over the apartment quickly, away from their TV area, and the coat-rack by the door, back over to the kitchen where there's music playing on the stereo and breakfast cooking on the stove. Pietro is in the kitchen, wearing an apron that brightly reads 'KISS THE CHEF' in big, bold, pink letters. He's sitting on one of the stools by the bench, dangling his legs over the side while chewing on a strawberry. And he's so blissfully happy, so unaware of her, of everything that is about to come.

Clint's in the kitchen with him, just as oblivious as Pietro is. He's actually doing the cooking too, not just sitting down, wearing an apron and chewing on berries. For a moment they are both so happy, so peaceful, and she wants it to stay like this because these are the moments that she cherishes. The ones she wants to file away, where her brother is free, and happy, and staring adoringly at a man he cares very much about. It makes her smile now, more than she could before. She smiles and takes a small step closer, arms tightly folded around herself, as she allows herself another minute to watch them. Wanda just wants one more minute before everything changes.

Then Clint sees her. His eyes flicker up to her, away from Pietro and the breakfast cooking on the stove, and that's when her smile drops. It fades away, crumbling into nothing. Because of the way he looks at her, it crumbles. He's looking at her like something's not okay and then she remembers it, remembers why she feels like she might crumble at any moment.

Pietro's gaze soon follows Clint's and he turns to Wanda, his smile fading moments later. He's not happy, not anymore. He's here, and he's aware, and he can't stop staring at her. And it's not that she doesn't understand it, or doesn't know why he's looking at her the way he is, because she does. Her face is bruised and scratched up and she feels small, so unlike herself, and it doesn't look good. She just wishes that it wouldn't have happened, or that she could have let him be happy for just a little longer.

Her brother is with her in a second. Pietro rushes to her side, reaching out for her, and suddenly there's no space between them anymore. Clint stays behind, over in the kitchen, and quickly pulls the pancakes off the stove. He hesitates and then looks back over at the two of them, not sure if he should come over or if this is something he shouldn't be a part of. He comes over anyway, following Pietro but staying back a few steps, wanting to give them space, and as Wanda looks between them she finds the same look in both of their eyes.

It's amplified in her brother's eyes, so much harder to read. She thinks that there must be hundreds of thoughts and emotions swirling through those soft eyes of his.

"O moj Bože. Wanda. Što se dogodilo?

She shakes her head and keeps her arms locked tight around herself, because nothing is wrong, nothing happened last night. It's the story that she wants them to believe, needs them to believe, especially her Pietro. He is suddenly so focused, his light eyes filled with so much rage, and concern, and fear, and she can't let this burden him. She won't.

"Nothing. It was an accident. I'm fine."

Pietro's hands find her soon, gently reaching out for hers. His touch is soft and careful, despite the rage that lingers in his eyes. He puts his hands on her shoulders and holds her there, while he frantically begins to search her over. For answers, or signs, or anything he fears that he missed. It's quiet between them when he looks over her, silent except for the old song still playing on the stereo. Wanda ignores it and swiftly looks away, back up at Pietro who isn't looking at anything else, only her.

"Ne laži mi. Tko je ovo napravio?" he whispers.

It makes her sigh and she knows she shouldn't. Wanda knows she shouldn't try to step away from Pietro but she does. He stays close anyway, his hands protective and soft as he holds her close, muttering something to himself that she doesn't quite catch. Then he reaches out, brushes a piece of hair away from her face, and tucks it back behind her ear. Her gaze stays on him as a sadder, softer look fills his eyes, drowning out the rage. He pulls her to his chest suddenly, holding her as closely as he can.

"Ja sam dobro, ljubavi." Wanda promises him.

But it doesn't feel like enough. She knows that it isn't enough, there's just not much she can say to him right now. Not yet, not when she is so consumed by how warm her brother's embrace is. Wanda sinks into, almost letting her eyes fall shut, almost letting it all fall out of her, and then she hears Clint's voice from over in the kitchen and she is reminded that, for the moment, they aren't alone.

"I think, uh—I think I'm gonna step out for a smoke." Clint calls out, clearing his throat. "I'll be on the roof if you guys need me. Back in five."

Wanda catches a grateful look dart over her brother's face and then it's gone, and so is Clint, and afterwards it's just the two of them again. She pulls herself out of his arms slowly but he doesn't step away, doesn't really let go of her. Pietro's eyes stay on her, still searching for more, and even if there's a part of her that wants to give him that she can't.

So she lies.

"It was an accident."

"What happened?" he manages to ask. "Tell me, who did this. Who hurt you? What happened—"

"I did it to myself." Wanda lies, her voice breaking on the words. "There was an accident at work, it was no one's fault."

Her promises mean nothing to him now though, not because he can tell that they are really lies but because there's a rage inside of him that can't be calmed. He wants more, needs it more than anything else, and she still wishes that she could tell him. Wanda wants to comfort him, to ease some of his anger, so she tries to find a way to do that. She reaches out, places her hand on Pietro's shoulders, and gives them a soft squeeze, and it seems to relax him for just a moment.

"Pietro, calm down." she whispers. "It's fine, please. It's okay."

"What? Look at—look at you. You are so hurt. Look. This is not okay." he exhales shakily, his eyes wet. "This was last night, mm? When you did not want me to come in? Wanda, this is not ok. Please, you must tell me who—"

She silences him by placing her hands on his cheeks, her touch soft, calming. It only works for a moment but it is long enough to calm him, to bring his gaze back down to her and get him to focus. Pietro stills, his body tense, eyes filled with rage. But he stills and looks down at her like he's ready to listen, to hear her, and for now this is enough.

"Listen to me. Piet, listen." Wanda struggles, forces herself to go on. "It was an accident, it was my fault. It was nothing and it is over now, I promise."

"But I don't—but why did you not tell me?" Pietro stammers, jaw tight again. "If it was nothing, why keep it from me last night?"

"How could I? When I knew—" she stops, her hands slipping from his cheeks. "I knew you would feel like this. I didn't want you to worry."

If he believes her, he says nothing. Pietro doesn't let it show, he just glances her over slowly and then meets her gaze again. In his eyes she discovers a silent curiosity that lets her know that he is still looking for more. He needs answers, needs the truth, and her heart aches to keep this from him but she is determined to not burden him with this.

"What happened?" he asks gently, moments later.

It comes to her in pieces. A blur of memories, and silver, and the feeling of the concrete tearing her skin open. Wanda feels herself flinch from the memory but she hides it well, hides it enough that Pietro doesn't seem to be aware of it. She keeps it in, keeps it together, and reaches for her brother's hands, to comfort him and to feel something steady, something real.

"It was at work, outside of the bar. We asked these men to leave." Wanda tells him slowly. "It became violent. I got in the way, swept up in it, I didn't mean to. That is all it was, I promise. It looks bad but it's okay. Everything is fine."

It still isn't enough for Pietro and she knows it. She knows him well enough to see it all over his face. He wants more, needs more than just an explanation. He wants names, and answers, and a way to fix this. More than anything else, he wants to save her, to keep her safe from all of this. Pietro wants to protect her from the pain that's been following them since they were ten years old.

But he can't save her from this. Wanda knows this but she can't dwell on it. She embraces him instead, winding her arms around her brother and pulling him into a soft hug. Soon he's hugging her back, holding her protectively, and as he holds her she feels some of that rage and tension slip away from his body. It stays like this for a while and even when they pull apart they stay close, holding each other's hands in the quiet.

"Sva bol nestaje na kraju, dragi brate." Wanda says, offering him a smile. "Remember?"

He nods first, then sighs. "You understand why I was worried, yes? I see nothing, then I see this. I expect something bad, that someone has hurt you. But if it was an accident then I will have to accept that."

Softly she lets out a breath, it feels like her first since she stepped out of her bedroom this morning.

"Good, because I think the pancakes will be cold soon. And Clint has probably had too many cigarettes in these last minutes." she smiles, squeezes his hands, then lets go. "Go and find him. It is a bad habit, tell him that. And tell him that we are ready for breakfast now, if he is ready."

"You are sure? He wouldn't mind leaving." Pietro hovers, staying close. "It could be just us if you need to talk about it. I want to talk about it, if this is what you need."

"I don't, I am sure."

He nods and there's a moment when she thinks that Pietro will leave now, to fetch Clint so they can have their pancakes, and orange juice, and carry on as if this is just another morning. But he doesn't leave. Pietro exhales a sigh, holds out his arms, and gestures for Wanda to come closer, to come back to him.

"Come on, come over here." he says, quieter than he's been all morning. "Come here, sister, please."

Then he's hugging her again and somehow it feels closer than the last one. Closer and warmer. Pietro wraps his arms around her gently, until Wanda's face is buried into his chest and her eyes are shut, and for a minute she lets herself feel it. She lets herself soak up all of his warmth and love, and she lets herself think about how safe she feels here. It lasts for a while, until she sends him off to find Clint again and she retreats to the kitchen to pour herself a cup of coffee.

The moment that her brother is gone, it all floods back in. The music, the memories, the pain. Wanda ignores it, trying not to think about how quiet the apartment is, how quiet last night was. It makes her wonder how long she will be able to keep this up for, how long she will be able to lie to her brother for. If the cops get involved in the future, he will learn the truth. She reported it, gave a description of the man, and then she left, but it's something that could come up again on day, which means it's something she may not be able to keep from her brother, not forever.

Maybe it's something she should have been honest about. But at the time, lying felt like the best and only solution. It still does. She knows that this isn't a real solution, just a temporary one, but she doesn't want to deal with it right now so she doesn't. Wanda distracts herself, with her coffee and yesterday's newspaper sitting on the bench. She's still over by the kitchen, pretending to read it, when she becomes aware of the hushed conversation outside of the apartment door.

She glances over her shoulder just as Pietro comes in, still dressed in that silly apron. Clint follows quickly, wearing PJs similar to the ones her brother has on underneath the apron. They close the door behind them, share a look, and then Clint returns to his spot in the kitchen like nothing happened. They're acting like nothing is different, just like she wanted. So why doesn't this feel like what she wanted?

"Who's ready for breakfast?" Clint calls out, glancing between the two of them. "Pancakes sound alright to you, Wanda? I don't wanna brag, but I've heard they're pretty good."

"Yes." she nods. "Sounds delicious."

"Apparently they are famous pancakes." Pietro calls out teasingly. "Or so Clint says."

"Hey, buddy. That's not wise." Clint laughs, heating up the stove again. "You might want to try and be nice to the guy cooking your breakfast. You never know what could end up in there."

It's something her brother considers for half a second, maybe less, before he speaks again.

"Did I say that? What I meant was definitely. They are most definitely famous pancakes. But whether we like them or not, we will soon see."

With a smile, her brother settles at the kitchen table. Wanda joins him there soon, carrying her coffee over with her. It's effect is almost instant and helps her feel a little better. She takes a small sip then sits down at the table, where there are already plates set out for breakfast, next to smaller bowls and plates filled with strawberries and chopped up pieces of fruit. Wanda picks up a piece, pops it into her mouth, then sets her coffee down. And she's almost good to go, until she realizes that she's looking around her room for her bag that is gone now.

The man last night took her money, her phone, and everything else she kept in her bag. It's difficult to even know what's missing, she just knows that there was a lot in there and it's all gone now. She doesn't know what it is but a strange feeling settles over her in the next few minutes. Wanda sinks back further into her seat, her mind adrift with thoughts of last night, as she waits for breakfast, and for her coffee to be a little cooler to drink. She wraps her hands around the cup to warm them and stays there, faintly listening to the conversation going on around her.

Today feels different. Not like something she hasn't experienced before, not a new day. It's the kind of day where everything except her mind is quiet and she's already gone, lost in her head, in her thoughts of tonight and getting high to escape all of this. She's already looking forward to it, when Clint drops a pile of pancakes on the table in front of them and she watches Pietro's expression change. He pretends to sulk, then he lets himself smile and he proudly looks up at Clint. After that, she doesn't pay all that much attention.

Wanda drinks her coffee, watches as her brother piles five pancakes onto his plate, then almost smiles as he drowns them in maple-syrup and fruit. It looks good, she thinks, but she isn't hungry. Still she picks up a pancake, drops it down on her plate, and scoops up a few strawberries to chew on.

"You were right." she says, after a bite. "They are very good."

It pleases Clint, as much as it can when things are like this between the three of them. It isn't awkward, not really, but there's something lingering in the air. She doesn't dwell on it, she just watches as her brother's face lights up. She knows why. He wants her to like his boyfriend, and he wants his boyfriend to like his sister, and he's lucky that they do. Clint is nice enough and seems like a good man, and he's better for Pietro than anyone he's ever dated before.

Wanda sometimes gets the feeling that for Pietro, it doesn't get better than this—better than this man who loves, and adores, and protects him. It works both ways, she thinks, that they are perfect for each other and it won't get better than this, that they won't find anyone more perfect for each other. They are meant to be, or something like this, and she sometimes finds joy in watching them together, in the little moments, even if she feels disconnected from it all.

"See?" Pietro wiggles an eyebrow. "Did I not tell you they were famous, Sestra?"

Then Clint's laughing again, in that warm and amused way of his.

"This one, hey?" he smiles and nudges Pietro's side. "He's always got to be right, doesn't he?"

Pietro grins, takes Clint's hand and kisses it, and then starts to eat several larges bites of the pancake in front of him. She's not really listening as they go on, and only catches bits and pieces of their conversation.

"This is not something that you will win, love. Remember? We talked," Pietro pauses, between bites, and smiles slowly. "Ask Wanda, if you don't believe me. She knows everything."

Clint turns to her, expression soft. "Does she?"

"Yes, sometimes I am sure she can get into my head." Pietro nods quickly and flashes Wanda a bright smile. "She reads my mind so well. Go on, ask her. She knows the answers to everything, I think, or almost everything."

Wanda looks up, half-way through chewing on a pancake, feeling as if she has missed most of their conversation.

"I'm sorry. What was the question?"

"This one was just telling me that I won't win that conversation." Clint grins, picking up a strawberry on his fork. "The one where I said he always has to be right. Pietro said to ask you if that was true, because he thinks you can read his mind. He said that you have all the answers. To everything. No pressure though."

She sets the fork down gently, then the knife. They make a distinctive noise against the side of the plate. Wanda only half-listens. She slides the plate away, suddenly not hungry anymore, not that she was ever hungry at all. The coffee is enough for today, so she swallows a small sip then looks back up at the expectant pair of eyes, watching her and waiting.

"No, not always. But sometimes I do."

Pietro makes a quiet noise, a hum of disagreement.

"Okay, so no, she does not always have the answers." he points out, slowly smiling. "And maybe she can't read minds, but she acts like she can and that feels real enough. And that is the same thing, isn't it?"

"That is the trick." Wanda says eventually. "To act like you know it all, even when you don't."

It's something Pietro spends a moment thinking about, then he moves on. He's chewing on his pancakes, eating berry after berry, while promising Clint that he won't know what hits him when he tries his 'famous' Chicken Paprikash (which is really Wanda's Paprikash, a dish they often cook together but the recipe is hers) and then that's it. That's all it takes for Wanda to feel like she's slipped out of their conversation and back into a memory.

This time it's not the memory of last night that comes back to her, and it's not any blurry pieces from last night's dream. It's a different memory, of the two of them in their old home back in Sokovia before it was blown to pieces. They're sitting together in the kitchen, watching and learning so many new and wonderful things from their mother, while their father sits nearby, watching them with a smile. The house smells of spices, the walls radiate warmth, and everything is lit up in a soft golden light.

She decides to stay a while.

note: hiii! so winterwitch surprised me (in the best way) and this story is a result of that. I plan for this to be a very long, slow-burn fic and I hope that you guys will enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Also since Sokovia isn't real, Wanda and Pietro will speak Croatian in this fic and I'll always include the translations at the end of the chapter in the notes. Thank you!

Hope you enjoyed reading! x

Translations:
Sva bol nestaje na kraju - All the pain disappears in the end
Sestra - Sister
O moj Bože. Wanda. Što se dogodilo? - Oh my God. Wanda. What happened?
Ne laži mi. Tko je ovo napravio? - Do not lie to me. Who did this?
Ja sam dobro, ljubavi - I am good love
Sva bol nestaje na kraju, dragi brate- All the pain disappears at the end, dear brother