I'm attempting a new series of one-shots for a fic request, centred around the relationship of Steve Rogers and Wanda Maximoff from the Marvel Cinematic Universe. I aim to make these able to be interpreted as either romantic or platonic, so, whatever floats your boat. Prior warning that I make no promise that these will be posted with any sort of regularity.
One: The Dreams Make it Hard to Sleep
If the building wasn't so big, he'd have heard her screams.
As it is, he only realises someone else is awake when he sees the light on in the kitchen. Curious, Steve approaches, recognizing the girl from the long dark hair billowing down her back.
"Can't sleep?" he asks, sitting down opposite her on a counter stool.
Wanda nods, and he notices her eyes are sad as she stares down at the empty mug in front of her. She shakes her head slightly as if trying to shake dark thoughts away.
"The room felt too...enclosed," she mutters, still not meeting his eyes. "I needed some space, so I came out here." An airy hand waves, uncertain, attempting to finish her sentence for her. "The dreams...they make it hard to sleep."
Steve swallows. Of course she's having bad dreams. He knows about the dreams, all too well, knows about the way they make one desperate for reprieve and yet afraid to fall asleep. He's never seen her without her makeup on before, and under the unforgiving white light of the kitchen she looks young and tired. "You okay?" Warmth tinges his voice, and he reaches out a hand to her, but she flinches and he draws back.
"Ya, I'm okay." The girl rummages through the tray of tea bags as if her life depends on it, and then gets up to find the hot water. Steve stops her, slipping off his chair too.
"It'll be even harder to sleep if you drink that," he admonishes, taking the tea bag away from her and opening a cupboard door. His hand hovers for a moment before he picks out the jar of hot chocolate mix. "There. How about some hot chocolate?"
"Hot chocolate?" Put out by the loss of her tea, Wanda pouts slightly, but then relents. "Okay, thank you."
So Steve makes the hot chocolate, stirring the mix into warm milk and topping each cup with a trio of marshmallows. He sets one cup in front of her and takes one for himself, then takes his seat again.
Wrapping her thin hands around the mug, Wanda smiles slightly as she inhales the rich sweet scent. A distant childhood memory stirs: falling snow outside the window, steaming mugs of chocolate, an eight-year-old Pietro stealing marshmallows when their mother isn't looking and giving her half.
As he watches her face, Steve notices the smile, hesitant and enigmatic. "You wanna talk about it?" he offers, knowing it does no good to keep emotions bottled up when they beg to be let out.
The smile fades. Her first instinct is to say no, then she thinks of returning to a dark and lonely room haunted by nightmares and something in her shrinks at the thought. Finally she speaks, unconsciously gripping the cup in her hands more tightly. "They're about Pietro," she admits. "Sometimes about my parents, but mostly about Pietro." That much must be obvious to Steve, but she doesn't want to elaborate.
She doesn't want to tell him about the times she sees Pietro's death in her head. All the different ways he cries out and the different ways he falls, each time ending up limp and lifeless on the ground. Clint told them how he died, but characteristically only offered a brief and factual report, his mask only slipping at the end to tell them that the Sokovian boy died a hero. And while Wanda is grateful Clint spared them the details, it also means that the scene is left to her imagination, and her imagination is a part of her that cannot be trusted.
She also doesn't want to tell Steve about the other kind of dream. The kind that starts off good, perfect even. In those dreams Pietro is with her. He laughs, he shakes his hair out of his eyes, he shoots her that roguish smile of his and presses a kiss to her head, and her fears drift away like black balloons cut loose. But then he jerks unnaturally, the light goes out of his eyes, and he falls to the floor, terrible spots of crimson slowly growing on the fabric of his shirt. Her dreams always end the same way, but this kind of dream is worse than the first, because for a tiny moment it gives her happiness before snatching it all away.
She doesn't want to tell Steve any of this, but she hasn't spoken for a long time, only stayed unmoving like a statue, and he's peering at her with his cerulean eyes concerned. Uncomfortable, she shifts in her seat. Voices a single thought.
"I should have been with him when he died."
It's a thought that has weighed heavy on her ever since that day, and even letting this single regret out seems to ease something in her heart. Wanda glances up at Steve, then drops her gaze again. In that moment she sees genuine sympathy in his face.
"You couldn't help it, Wanda. You were doing what you had to do, and I'm sure your brother understands."
"Yes, but--" Wanda gulps down the lump in her throat, and takes a careful sip of the soothing liquid. This Captain America may be sympathetic, but he will never quite understand, and that certainty should stop her from confiding further--yet she goes on. "I know--I know he was thinking of me when he died. He wanted me there with him."
What could be worse than being born together and dying apart?
Her shoulders droop, and she says in barely more than a whisper: "I miss him."
Steve doesn't really know what to say. He knows what it is to lose a brother, but not a twin, not a world, not a part of your soul. Still, he can see she's tired and hurting and needs help, even feeble help like his.
"I know it's hard," he tells her, earnestly. "It never really gets easy. But it gets better. I promise you that."
Wanda is tempted to laugh, a short, bitter laugh. How can it get better when half of her is gone? Steve means well, though, so she keeps the laugh inside of her, where it curls into a cold, hard ball.
They've both finished their hot chocolate, and Steve takes the stained cups, rinsing them in the sink. Wanda feels the exhaustion seeping in, and she stands, signalling the conversation is over.
"You go on and get to bed," Steve says, his voice kind. "Try to get some sleep."
Mutely, the girl nods, reluctant to once again lose herself in fearsome dreams. "Thank you," she manages, her tone unnecessarily formal.
She finds her room and crawls back under the covers, bracing herself for hours more of nightmare-plagued sleep, and hours more of staring blankly at the ceiling and fighting closing eyes.
Don't be fooled, she instructs herself. Even if Pietro is there it is just a dream, and the dream will hurt you.
But for some reason--whether it's the hot chocolate or the light still on in the kitchen or the few thoughts she doesn't have to keep to herself anymore--she sleeps through the night, and when she awakes it is morning.
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