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ginnsbaker · 1 year

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In Flames I Sleep Soundly (2/2)

Chapter Summary: The aftermath.

Word Count: 9k+

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Chapter Warnings: Angst, Non-graphic depictions of violence

Author’s Note: Thank you for your patience, I hope... I don't know what I hope. I'm just grateful that you guys took the time to read this piece and leave comments in my inbox. I do have more to say later, but for now I just needed to post this.

Let me know if you have some questions or clarifications. (yes, I wrote this sentence after sending a work email)

AO3 / Part One / Masterlist

Part Two

You’ve always thought that life is like a train ride.

And as a passenger, you know only two things: the direction of the course and its scheduled stops. And so, it’s like this: get born into the world, take your first steps, go to elementary school, go to high school, go to college, get a job, get married, have children, have grandchildren, and then die in your sleep. If there’s an afterlife, perhaps get resurrected into a young version of you, and move into another train. And then begin another journey.

But what the passenger doesn’t know is that a train can only move forward when it’s on its rails. And this is where the helplessness of every individual in that train becomes apparent. Your life–or at least how you want it to go–is not entirely in your hands.

For you, a single phone call managed to completely derail your train from its tracks. And then, as if still unsatisfied, it plucked you violently from it and left you on your own in the middle of nowhere.

You didn’t know where to go, only where you’ve been. Like a diamond blade that cuts through steel, it segmented your life into just two parts: Before and After.

Before was going home to your wife after a tedious day, resting your head on her lap while she threads her fingers through your hair.

After is knowing those same delicate fingers raked through someone else’s tufts of blonde in throes of passion.

Before was her telling you she loves you and feeling it to your bones.

After is her telling you she loves you and only hearing a lie.

Split in the middle, you presume you can simply choose to live in one or the other.

***

“Love’s a fucking bitch.”

Inside your car, you’ve been quiet the whole time, just staring at the photos in Natasha’s phone. You stare at Wanda walking out of the theater, hand-in-hand with a tall, lanky man you don’t recognize.

“His name is Victor Shade. Goes by ‘Vision’. The only son of a high-profile neurosurgeon on the East Coast.” Natasha tells you, eyeing you closely.

You brush your thumb against the image of the laughing woman in the picture. She wore your wife’s face and smile, but all you see is a stranger.

“What are you going to do?” Natasha asks.

Briefly, you consider this could all just be a prank. Maybe Wanda is watching you fall apart right now, giggling in hiding because she got you this time. At least it’s the sort of cruelty you’d fight over for a day or maybe a week, and then laugh about in ten years.

“Y/N?” Natasha tries again.

You finally look up at her and immediately hate the look of pity on your best friend’s face.

“I don’t even know where I’m sleeping tonight.” you say, handing back her phone.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. You should talk to Wanda.”

The laugh that bubbles up your throat is nothing short of deranged. For almost a minute, you laugh into your steering wheel until tears begin to prick at the corner of your eyes. Natasha watches you with a worried expression, her hand hovering over your back hesitantly. She thinks about the beautiful person she met in kindergarten, the girl who gave her own blue crayon so Natasha could color the sky properly while she was left to color hers with a red one. It hurts her to witness the light snuff out of the person who was her own light in her darkest moments. And when your laughter subsides into muffled sobs, she cries with you.

When you’re done, you systematically wipe the tears and snot off your face with the sleeve of your shirt. Natasha patiently waits for your next move.

“Did you get his address?” you ask with a surprisingly steady voice.

“Yes, apparently it’s in one of the luxurious apartments near the university.” Natasha says as she texts you the exact address.

“Good,” you say, then turn your attention to the empty roads ahead of you.

You lied when you had implied to Natasha that you didn’t know what you’re going to do.

***

A Victorian style of housing is unheard of in this part of New Jersey, but here you are, standing outside of one. His rental is on the second floor at the end of the street where a sports car is parked carelessly in its spacious garage–an august flex coming from a college kid. Wanda crosses your mind once again as you take in this grandiose lifestyle before you. Was it money that attracted her to him? You never pegged her for a gold-digger, but then again you also didn’t peg her for a cheating whore. You screw your eyes tightly shut at the unpleasant adjectives you now associate with your wife as you lose some of yourself in the process. There’s something frightening and unfamiliar threatening to consume your entire being, and you have no clue what to do with it.

With a deep breath, you walk to his doorstep and ring the doorbell. A few moments later, you jerk in surprise as the door swings wide open towards you, the lock stile of the wooden panel narrowly missing your forehead.

“Sorry, I keep meaning to get that fixed and it’s easier to push,” A man in his early twenties with yellow blonde hair comes into sight.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

You have to tilt your head back slightly in order to meet his cerulean eyes.

“You’re Vision?” you ask.

“Actually, it’s Victor Shade. But yes, everyone calls me Vision.”

“How old are you?”

Vision shuffles his feet, uncertain if he should answer your question. It’s rhetorical of course, a question you didn’t mean to actually come out of your mouth. You could guess–but truthfully, you’d rather not now.

“Who are you?”

“Y/N Maximoff.”

He raises his eyebrows quizzically, your name not ringing a bell.

“Wanda’s wife.” you supplement domineeringly, as if declaring it would stake your claim on her once and for all. He drops his gaze at the mention of your wife’s name, like a child that has been caught doing something he shouldn’t. It doesn’t matter that he’s at least half a foot taller than you are. He isn’t quite a man. Not to you.

“May I–May I come in?” you ask as politely as you could.

After a second of doubt he smirks, and then says, “Sure.” You can sense the shift in his stance. He knows you’re onto him, and this is a showdown. Like any Alpha male scrambling to be on top of the food chain, he finds you to be an exciting piece of challenge. It makes you wonder if he was looking forward to this moment as much as you were dreading it.

You didn’t notice before that he’s barely covering his naked torso with a peacoat, and you try not to think about what brought on his current state. If by chance, you had just narrowly missed one of your wife’s regular visits.

Once you’re inside his apartment, you immediately scan your surroundings. There are papers and books scattered all over the floor. You can make out a thin trail of smoke coming from an unfinished cigarette in his living room, where the couch is covered by a tarpaulin smeared with ink and acrylic paint.

On an easel beside it is a painting covered by a dirty towel you assume he’s been working on before being disrupted by your presence. “Can I look?” you point at it.

“No. Sorry,” he says, before taking the painting from the easel and bringing it to his room. “It’s not done yet. An artist’s rule.”

You nod, and then noticing the only thing that he has organized, you say, “Nice vinyl collection.”

“Thanks.”

You stare at each other for long seconds. It feels ridiculous to expect an apology from him, but it’s something you think you deserved at the minimum.

“So, tell me. How did you meet my wife?” you ask when it becomes apparent that he doesn’t have any intention to be an active participant in this meeting.

“Art History 101. I’m one of her–”

“Students.” You complete his sentence with a grimace. Somehow that just makes things more fucked up than they already are. Jesus fucking Christ, Wanda, you curse in thought. Yet in a twisted way, it also kind of makes sense now. What they have is the stuff of sexual fantasies–a goddamned kink show is what it is. You’d never guess she’s capable of this.

“Yeah, and she was really knowledgeable in the subject. Not to mention, a natural teacher. Everybody in the class was awestruck by her.” Vision continues to talk about Wanda as though he’s talking about her to a person who didn’t know her down to the ground. You don’t need to be told how spectacular your wife is. You knew better than anyone. How dare he?

“How’s it going?” You cut him off before he could accidentally trigger something fatal inside of you.

He looks at you, bewildered at the random question. He waits for the punchline that never comes, and then chuckles, “It’s been swell.”

“This is where you meet?” you ask.

“Yes.”

“And she likes it?” You mean this place that looks like it’s been ransacked ten times over.

“Well, I guess. She never complained.” he says, and then cowers at the dirty look you throw his way at his callous comment.

“Do you stay in all the time or do you go out too?” you ask.

“It depends. We actually like to drive to new places in and out of town. Especially in the first week since she’s never ridden a convertible.”

“She likes that? She likes…aimless drives with no particular destinations?”

“Oh, yeah. More exciting than being stuck in a routine, I guess.”

It’s an obvious jab at a lifestyle he thinks you saddled Wanda with.

Heat rises to your cheeks and you walk closer to him. “Did you know that we’ve been married for five years? And before then together for six?”

That you have a dog. Plans to have kids in the future. Plans to retire in a beachfront property. The rest of your lives together. Does all that mean nothing?

“I know,” Vision replies, his tone devoid of any sign that he might be sorry for fucking a married woman. “She also told me you asked to move here because of your banking aspirations.”

“My aspirations? You…talk about me?” You manage to blurt out incredulously. Vision shrugs at that, and actually regards you with mild concern when you start blinking rapidly behind your glasses. You can hear your heart hammering in your chest as all the blood in your body suddenly rushes to your head.

He doesn’t answer “Would you like a drink?”

“Yeah, why not.” you say and lean against the closest wall to you for support.

“I have water, orange juice…”

“Got anything stronger?”

“I think I have some vodka left.” Vision mutters and then disappears into the kitchen. You take his absence as an opportunity to sneak into his bedroom. It’s smaller than you’ve imagined. A huge mirror is hanging across the foot of the bed and you instantly know what it’s for.

Is this where it all happens? Where they happen? Did they watch themselves fuck? Did Wanda watch herself fuck someone who isn’t you and felt guilty about it?

Did she think about you at all?

You sit on the mattress and stroke its silky sheets with shaking fingers. The bed is unmade, and you know there’s evidence on them if you try to look for it.

A framed painting peeking out from his dresser takes your attention. You walk over to it and pull it out of its hiding.

Your eyes go round in recognition. It’s the painting Wanda asked you to retrieve in Soho. You turn the painting over and discover a small piece of paper plastered on it.

‘To Vision, the only secret people keep is immortality.’ - W

You crumple the note tightly in your fist. Suddenly, all of it becomes more real than you can envisage: on a Tuesday morning, you’re perched on the exact spot your wife’s been betraying you over and over. You can almost smell Wanda from where you’re sitting–can feel her damp, soft skin, can hear her little sighs as she catches her breath.

You’re not prepared for the overwhelming rage that consumes you next, as you abruptly get up and walk the small distance to the kitchen.

You come to thirty seconds later, to broken pieces of porcelain and an unconscious man lying on a puddle of blood on the floor.

Your first instinct is to call Natasha. She picks up on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Nat,” you say in a rush. “I need your help. I-I didn’t mean to–”

“Hey, hey. Slow down. What happened?”

“I’m at Vision’s. I did a horrible thing a-and I’m so sorry, Nat, I–”

“Focus, Y/N,” Natasha’s voice is eerily collected. “Is he still alive?”

You scramble to place your index and middle finger on his neck, and let out a sigh of relief once you find what you’re looking for.

“I got a pulse. Should I call 911?”

“Don’t, I’ll handle this. Just grab a towel and wrap it around something cold like frozen vegetables or ice, then apply it gently to the area of the injury.” Natasha says.

You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment to absorb the instruction. Getting a grasp of the situation has started to feel like an impossible task.

“Did you hear what I say?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Natasha says. “You’ll be fine, okay? I’m on my way.”

And then she’s gone. And you’re left to deal with the vestiges of your crime. You have no idea how much longer Vision will have a pulse. You try to do what Natasha told you to, but you find yourself unable to move a limb, stuck in the loop of wanting him dead and wanting to do what is right.

That is, until you hear the familiar tone of a message notification. It came from the rear pocket of Vision’s bloodstained cargo pants. You fall to the floor and dig out his phone. To unlock it, you take his cold hand and press his thumb against its screen.

There’s a new voice message from a certain ‘W’ in his contacts.

Wanda.

You hit play.

“I hate to do this here,” Wanda’s voice is tremulous and you can easily tell that she’s been crying. “But this is the only way I can trust myself to go through with this decision. This needs to end. I can’t live like this. I’m tired of lying and hurting Y/N. She’s my family. Whether you believe it or not, she’s everything to me. I’m sorry. And I hope,” Wanda’s voice breaks on a choked sob. “I don’t know what I hope. I’m sorry.”

You listen to it again before making the decision to delete the message. You slip the device back into Vision’s pants.

Afterwards, you try to save his life.

***

Five Days After

You wake up with a start. The clock on the nightstand reads 4:34 A.M.

The dreams are more vivid now, and they have progressed to you jabbing a kitchen knife into Wanda’s chest as Vision takes her from behind.

In reality, Wanda is lying half-naked beside you, snoring softly. She looks like the Wanda from Before, but your mind knows better. You want to trace her outline with your eyes and your lips, as you’ve done countless times whenever you’d wake up first. You want to kiss her temple and whisper how you love her even if she can’t hear you. You want, and want, and want. But you know what she’s done and with what little dignity you have left, you don’t fall into the trap of your remaining feelings for her.

In reality, her ex-lover is in some hospital in New York with his family waiting for him to wake up.

The first two days were the hardest after finding out about your wife’s infidelity. Wanda could read you like an open book, but for some miracle she didn’t see past the calm demeanor you put forth. You still comment nice things about her cooking, hug her goodbye, kiss her good night.

And then the nightmare starts all over again the minute Wanda leaves the house. Because when she’s near you, you don’t have to wonder where she is or who she’s with. You don’t wonder if she notices the empty seat in her classroom that used to belong to Vision. You don’t wonder if there are another pair of eyes like his, looking at her intrepidly with desire. The longer you carry on with your life as if nothing’s happened, the more you realize how much of your existence the past several months were built on lies.

Maybe the wife next to you is no longer yours, but how do you reconcile that with the truth that you’re still hers?

“Y/N?” you hear Wanda speak as you get up from bed. “Where are you going?”

Wand hugs the comforter to her more securely. You want to scoff at her question.

“Going out for a run.” you say after a beat.

“Want me to come with?”

“No, thanks. Just go back to sleep.”

“Oh,” Wanda glances briefly at the time and then says, “It’s still too dark outside.”

You shrug. “So?”

“Could be dangerous, don’t you think?”

“It’s Westview,” you repeat the same thing she said to you the first night she came home late without calling. The night in which she probably fucked him for the first time. “What’s the worst that could happen to me?”

“Be careful.” she acquiesces softly. “Do you want anything for breakfast?”

“No.” you say, grabbing your running gear from the dresser.

Sparky tries to follow after you but you lock him in the bedroom with Wanda, and head out to change in the guest bedroom.

There’s a slight itch at the back of your throat and you’ve stopped sweating just a while ago. Nevertheless, your tired legs refuse to stop their strides as you reach your tenth mile, and end up in a deserted farmhouse where Natasha is waiting for you.

“He still hasn’t woken up,” Natasha announces, handing you a bottle of ice water. “And while I got rid of the paintings, we’re not out of the woods yet.”

You take a swig from it like someone who’s been left in the desert for days, before leaving just enough of the water to pour over your head.

“What do you mean?” you ask after you recover from your run.

“His family is suspicious. They refuse to believe it’s an accident. You should expect cops to visit your house soon. Don’t panic. I scrubbed that kid’s apartment, they won’t find any traces of you.”

“How many years are we looking at?”

“It’s too early to worry about that. We don’t even know if he’ll ever wake up.”

“If he doesn’t, then I’m a murder, Nat.” you say candidly, like you’ve already accepted the monster that you now see yourself to be. “If he does wake up, then it’s attempted murder. Again, how many years are we looking at?”

“Even if he dies, you’re not going to prison. I promise you.”

“I don’t need you to promise me anything. Just answer the question, Nat.”

“Up to twenty years in the state of New Jersey.”

It figures. Despite it being more than half the amount of years you’ve been alive, you deem it a short punishment for the years you’d be taking from the boy. In twenty years or less, you’d be stepping out of prison to live out the rest of your life, and Vision would still be six feet under and being mourned by his parents.

You look down at your dirty shoes, and say, “I see.”

Natasha puts her hands on your shoulders and ducks her head, trying to meet your eyes.

“You’re not going to prison. I won’t allow it.”

You step back and out of her hold.

“Now, about that other thing. I already contacted this lawyer who owes me big time. You’ll just have to pay 30% of her regular rate for the entire divorce process.”

You look at your best friend, considering it. You could give Natasha the go signal now to hire this lawyer, but in the end all you say is, “Thanks, Nat. For everything.” as you turn your back on her.

Natasha’s brows snap together. “Where are you going?”

“Home.” The word leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, knowing that for so many years ‘home’ was a person you felt the safest, a person who you could be with as you are. Wanda didn’t just cheat on you, she left you homeless. Home, in every sense, no longer exists.

“On foot?”

“Yup.”

“You’re being ridiculous. Just get in the car, I’ll drive you.”

But you’re already bouncing on your feet and moving in the other direction.

***

The next day, you sleep on your alarm again. It’s the second consecutive week you’re calling in sick late in the morning, and your immediate supervisor at work is understandably worried. He offers you take the rest of the week off, partly fearful for anyone at your branch catching whatever illness he assumes you have. Ironically, broken marriages are arguably endemic in this country. So perhaps, you really should stay away from people for a while.

The blinds were shut, so that as little light as possible dances through the gaps between them. You are encouraged to stay in bed by the lack of sunlight, but as your mind starts to wake up, something about the gloominess of the room urges you out of bed. It’s a Monday, so that means Wanda should be gone already. If you’re missing work, then you could make use of the time to think about your next course of action.

You’re halfway down the stairs when the sound of Wanda’s voice reaches your ears, making you stop in your tracks.

“This will be our little secret, okay? Y/N can’t find out.”

You nearly miss a ladder in your step at the implication of her words, only to see she’s speaking to your dog.

Wanda is sitting in the living room with Sparky who is thoroughly enjoying the morsel of cheese she’s feeding him with. If this was any other day before, you’d already be walking towards her to give her a morning kiss, and she’d complain that you didn’t brush your teeth long enough. You’d impishly lock her in your arms while you blow puffs of breath on her face, and she’d squirm and fight you off until the both of you are nothing but a blur of two idiots happy and in love.

“Wanda,” you blink at her in confusion. “Aren’t you late for your morning class?”

You watch Wanda’s eyes light up before she could spot you at the foot of the staircase.

“Hey, sleepyhead. Actually, I quit my job.” Wanda declares, wide-eyed, her green pools swimming in starry fervor that you almost squint.

“Since when?”

“Since today.” Wanda shrugs, and you can see that she was hoping for a different reaction and not the mild indifference that she’s currently getting from you.

“Why? Did something happen?” You ask as you pick up Sparky and bring him to the kitchen for a proper meal. You hate to see Wanda give up something she seemed so passionate about. But then you recall her recent affair with a student, and there’s really no telling where that passion was truly directed at.

“Honestly, I’ve been meaning to for some time.” she muses while playing with her wedding ring. You leave a generous amount of boiled chicken in his food tray, before moving to sit on the opposite end of the couch, conscious to put much distance between you and Wanda.

“For a while it looked like I finally found a worthwhile career that isn’t so ambitious,” Wanda says. You glower at her allusion that her prior dreams were too extravagant to come true. “But in the process, I also lost myself to it. I sort of left you behind, while you always brought me to every milestone of your achievement. And for that, I wanted to apologize.”

It’s the closest thing to a willing confession you’ll ever get from Wanda. Her quitting her position at the university is her way of burying this and moving on. Maybe it would’ve been better if you simply waited for your marriage to fix itself instead of snooping around for her secrets. You wish you weren’t so addicted to the truth. If grace exists in this world, then it comes in the form of ignorance to all of the things that bring so much suffering.

You’re thinking of something to say, but you’re afraid that the dam inside you will burst if you open your mouth.

“I’m sorry it took a while for me to really comprehend how I feel about you.”

“We’ve been married for years, Wanda,” you remind her in disbelief. “That’s something you should’ve comprehended fully before you decided to say yes to a life with me.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to say,” she hurries to explain. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. Please, Y/N, don’t get mad. Of course I know how I feel about you. I simply didn’t care to explore the magnitude of it, because I was complacent. And selfish.

“And when it comes down to it, you’re all that matters.” Wanda says and scoots closer to you. Then she takes your hand and kisses your knuckles. Your eyes close in their own accord, sighing at the contact. This might be the only thing that stops you from falling further apart. Even through the worst thing she's ever done to you, you crave to be this close to her.

Wanda tries to read into your thoughts, and then says, “I know, I know. Acta non verba.”

“What?” you ask distractedly.

“It’s what you always used to say back in college: deeds, not words. I’m going to show you. I’m going to make you feel how you make me feel.” she smiles at you tearily.

This isn’t how things are supposed to go. You’re to wait it out until the matter with Vision is resolved, and then serve her the divorce papers. She’s not supposed to declare her love for you and for those words to still have a substantial effect on you.

“Wanda, I–”

“Here,” Wanda retrieves a box from underneath the pillows and pushes them into your hands. “An advanced anniversary gift.”

You try to stop your hands from shaking as you stare at the box in your lap.

"Wanda, there's something we need to talk about."

"Later, baby. Please, just open it." Wanda says and you try not to cringe at the pet name.

You're about to pull the lid off when the doorbell rings and Sparky comes rushing to the door, yapping away.

"I'll get it." You mumble and yank your hand from Wanda's grasp. The haze in your head instantly clears up the moment you’re no longer touching her.

You open the door to two gentlemen in a dark suit. You remember Natasha’s warning yesterday, not really expecting them to show up this soon.

"Wanda Maximoff?"

"No, I'm her wife, Y/N. Can I help you?"

The taller one with blonde hair makes the introduction with, "I'm Detective Rogers and this is Detective Barnes.”

You wipe your hands on your pajamas before shaking their hand and inviting them to come in.

“We're here to ask your wife a few questions about Victor Shade." Rogers says.

You hesitantly glance back to Wanda who suddenly looks so stricken.

"They're here for you." you tell her.

"Mrs. Maximoff, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Rogers walks over to her and introduces himself and Barnes to her.

He gets on straightaway with the questions. “Where were you last Tuesday afternoon?"

"I was at work, attending a departmental meeting. Did something happen? Is something wrong?"

The two men look at each other. Then the shorter one, Barnes, says, "Your former student, Mr. Shade was involved in a serious accident."

Wanda gawks at their news. "I–I was told he dropped out of school for reasons that were not disclosed to me and the class. I had no idea. My god, that's... That's terrible."

“Yes, we’re aware. His family wanted the whole thing in the wraps in case it turned out to be more than just an accident.” Rogers explains with

“Why would they–” Wanda tries to ask but Barnes interrupts her abruptly.

"Were you close?" he asks.

He watches your wife as you do–closely, and observing every crease in her features that would give her away. But after months of lying, it's evident how she’s become so good at it.

“Uh, no,” Wanda shakes her head and smiles through her absolute lie. A strange feeling creeps at you at having to see your wife display such confidence in front of authorities. “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can share apart from how he performed in my class.”

Rogers and Barnes exchange even-handed looks again. Barnes glances at you briefly, before nodding at his partner to continue.

“Here’s the thing, Ma’m,” Rogers takes out a small notebook from his pocket and flips through it. “We found your name and contact in Mr. Shade’s call history. There are dozens of back and forth calls between you and him. This is actually the reason why we wanted to get in touch with you, because you’re the only one aside from a classmate of his that he’s spoken to for the entire semester. We want to know if he ever confided in you or if you knew someone he might have had a disagreement or altercation with.”

You can feel Barnes studying you again, but you refuse to meet his gaze, trying to keep your face as neutral as possible with just a tinge of curiosity.

Wanda remains unfazed and says, “We do communicate over the phone. But again, it’s strictly about his studies.”

“What about his studies?”

“He was having a hard time with his final project. It can be any form of art–a sculpture, a painting or maybe even a video, and they need to emulate their deepest and darkest desires to it. H-He needed my input every now and then.”

“Sounds quite a challenge,” Rogers mutters as he writes on his pad. “And have you seen his painting?”

“No. I highly discourage them from showing me their works in progress. Why?”

It’s Barnes who answers her this time. “There was no painting found in his apartment.”

“Oh, he must have kept it someplace else then.” Wanda says, more to herself.

They don’t comment on that.

“When did you see him last?” Rogers again.

“Monday of last week. He came in late to class. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.”

“May we ask why ‘it doesn’t matter’, Ma’m?”

“I no longer work at Westview Institute.”

“Really,” Rogers lifts an eyebrow, taken aback. “Since when?”

“This morning,” Wanda answers. “Personal reasons. You can talk to the dean for the details if you want.”

Rogers simply nods and scribbles on his pad some more.

“Have you ever been in his neighborhood? Ever been to his apartme–” He badgers on but you interrupt him.

“I think that’s enough,” you say with authority. “I don’t see what other questions could be relevant to your investigation, but my wife’s told you everything she knows.”

Barnes tries to protest but Rogers signals to him.

“Very well. Thank you both for your time.” Rogers says as you usher him and Barnes to the door.

“Wait!” Wanda yells, chest heaving. They both look over their shoulders, waiting. “Is he… is he okay?”

You catch the knowing smirk on Barnes, but it goes away as soon as Rogers warns him with a look.

You weren’t expecting she’d ask about him despite their obvious suspicions on what kind of relationship they had. It hurts you in a way that you can’t even begin to describe.

“Last we’ve heard he’s stable. But I’m afraid he’s still in a coma. For all we know he might never wake up. But let’s hope for the best, shall we?” Rogers says, and then with a polite nod, leaves with Barnes in tow.

“I, uh, I forgot that I need to formally file a resignation letter.” Wanda says after you close the door behind them. She frantically grabs her purse, all the while avoiding your gaze. She’s not appropriately dressed to go outside, but you don’t point it out to her as you continue to act the part of the oblivious spouse.

***

Wanda returns home three hours later. A nostalgic smile finds its way to the corners of her mouth, when she spots the note you left for her on the fridge.

Went to the park with Sparky, it says.

The post-it notes were a long-standing tradition. Sometimes you’d put one on her rearview mirror, something along the lines of “have a great day ahead, I love you” written, and Wanda would stick one on your lunchbox that said “don’t skip on the vegetables”.

And while she blames herself for your recent aloofness, she was hoping to remediate it on your anniversary. She already booked plane tickets to Hawaii and made reservations at a 5-star hotel. Your boss and probably the entire staff of your branch already knows about it, when she filed a week of vacation leave on your behalf. And then she put all the documentation and details of the trip in the box she gave you this morning.

She planned for everything, except the part where two cops showed up at her house to talk about Vision. Admittedly, he was another thing that was never a part of her plans. Wanda used to deride people who make mistakes, and when asked to explain, could only say ‘it just happened’. She’s heard it too many times in the past, mostly from her ex-boyfriends.

It just happened. There’s no better way to put it should you ever find out what she did. She wasn’t lonely or unsatisfied or neglected. The only struggle she could think of about her marriage is thinking about what to have for dinner, because you neither complain nor you ever know what you’re in the mood for.

In actual sense, her life was perfect. Because of you. Because you work for her happiness. The guilt eats at her everyday. But she knows what she’ll lose if she comes clean. And she can’t afford that. She’d rather confront her demons than risk losing you. She tells herself she can’t put you through this kind of pain.

Wanda pulls herself out of her thoughts. She needs to focus on you. She truly hopes Vision would make it, so he can go on to live his life and she’ll live hers with you.

Wanda pads through the bathroom to run herself a bath. While waiting for the tub to fill, she pensively walks around the bedroom, noting how the room still smells of you. That’s when she finds her gift on your work desk, next to your laptop. It’s still wrapped in a bow. Wanda frowns, wondering why you didn’t bother to open it.

All of a sudden, your laptop makes a sound. Acting on impulse, Wanda unlocks your computer with your password–her birthday–and then opens your email account.

There’s a new email from Natasha. The subject reads ‘in case you need them’.

An odd, overwhelming feeling consumes her, and without thinking, clicks on the email.

Wanda waits for the message to load with its attachments and then–

She freezes and her stomach drops.

***

About four pairs of couples attend your small dinner party that you have planned several weeks ago. Your boss, Scott Lang came with his wife and daughter all the way from New York just so he can, in his own words, ‘taste your wife’s famous Paprikash’. Wanda reminded you that you were hosting, and you had spent the rest of the day shopping for ingredients and red wine. She asked if you should cancel, but you figured an evening with seemingly elementary lives would do some good for the both of you.

And you’re right. It’s not a nuisance as you thought it’d be when you were roped into it. In view of the recent episodes that no doubt defined the lowest point of your life, it feels nice to experience a little normalcy in your home. Your introverted nature makes you a disastrous host to these events, but Wanda is the opposite–she’s a natural at hospitality. She’d go around and entertain people, exchange gossip, and make them take shots. She’d dance in the middle of the room, with that devil-may-care attitude of hers, attracting people to her like moths to flame. But at the end of the night, she’d go home to you and sleep in your arms, because she’s yours. As you and Wanda grew older, you became a more exclusive sort of couple. But on rare occasions like this one, Wanda would put on the old party hat while you’d watch her be the best part of it.

The only problem right now is that Wanda went away. Physically, she’s in the receiving room with everyone, nodding and smiling at whatever warrants a nod and a smile, but you can tell that her mind is off somewhere faraway.

“So, Y/N, what’s the first thing you wanna do in Maui aside from stuffing yourself with Poke bowls?” Scott asks.

“I’m sorry?” You tilt your head at him.

“You know, the…” he starts doing what looks like a hula dance, but you shake her head, still not getting any of it.

“Wait, what? Wanda hasn’t–” Scott looks at Wanda, in panic. “Oh, god, I didn’t mean to spoil it.”

Wanda’s been keeping to herself the entire night. And she’s been drinking a lot, the contents of her glass never quite reaching the bottom before it gets another refill.

“It’s fine, Scott.” Wanda says.

You look at Wanda expectantly, but she just studies her drink. Increasingly annoyed, Wanda downs the rest of her wine and then says, “I was planning to take us to Hawaii on our anniversary.”

“Oh, that’s… that’s pretty awesome.” you say.

Wanda huffs out a mirthless laugh, before standing up and telling everyone she’s going to take a nap.

“Good idea, dear. You’re looking puffy around the eyes.” Emma, another co-worker of yours that Wanda never really warmed up to, quips at her.

Wanda clenches her jaw tightly, but chooses not to engage.

You excuse yourself from the group and follow her out of the room. Wanda feels your presence behind her and spins to look at you for the first time tonight.

“I’m okay. Just go back to your friends.”

“They’re not my friends and you don’t look well.” you say.

“I just need a few minutes to myself,” Wanda offers you a smile, but it’s wobbly. “Please.”

You can’t deny her anything and you can’t stop caring about her. She heads to the stairs before you can utter another word.

***

After Wanda sees the last of the pairs to the door, she finds you in the bedroom with all the lights off. She can only make out your silhouette–shoulders hunched and perfectly still, while you look out the window to watch the couple trade playful kisses before getting in their car and driving off into the distance.

From your peripheral view, you watch Wanda approach you slowly, cautiously, like a hunter stalking its prey. It’s easy to guess that she already knows. She has her arms wrapped around herself as a defensive stance, probably afraid of what you might do to her. You nearly let out a laugh at the absurdity of it, because you don’t think you could ever hurt her the way she’s hurt you.

“What happened, Y/N?” she asks as she stops a few feet from where you’re standing.

“What did you do? Did you cause his ‘accident’?” she carries on with the questions despite your refusal to even acknowledge her existence.

“Y/N?” Her voice is frantic and presumptuously privileged.

You don’t owe her anything. Especially answers. Anger burns in your chest like a candle–fragile but with the potential to burn an entire field. You imagined the many ways she’d beg you when you discover each other’s skeletons in the closet. You imagined she’d be on her knees, clinging at your ankles, insisting she loves you and that it will never, ever happen again. You imagined you’d kiss her for one last time, right before you’d tell her that you’re done.

You hate yourself for allowing her to beat you to a confrontation. For coasting through this mess until Wanda takes the mantle of the interrogator herself. She gets to nag you with questions as if after weighing each other’s transgression, yours turned out to be worse than her cheating.

“Did you hurt him? You did, didn’t you? Jesus, Y/N. Talk to me,” Wanda pleads, and then out of desperation she screams, “Tell me what you did!”

“No. You tell me what you did.” you whisper menacingly, finally letting go of the restraints you placed yourself in for her sake.

You abruptly turn on your heel in her direction, and then stalk towards her in quick, menacing strides. Wanda cowers, but doesn’t yield. She stands her ground like the courageous heroine of her own movie.

“How you fucked him over and over and over! How you lied to me…” Your chin begins to tremble and your vision begins to blur. “...over and over and over.”

“Y/N, please–”

“Don’t. You don’t get to talk to me now.”

Wanda bites the inside of her cheek, the weight of her sin materializing in the form of your bared teeth and the vein pulsing in your neck and temple.

“You didn’t think I’d know? I wouldn’t feel it? I knew from the very first night. Because I know you, Wanda. Every thought. Every look. Every fiber of your being. I know you and I fucking hate you!” You hear yourself yell, as real as the wetness you feel running down your cheeks.

“I didn’t want to hurt him, I wanted to hurt you!”

“Oh my god,” Wanda sobs out in anguish, cupping a hand around her mouth. “Y/N…”

There was a time, from long before you were married to her, when loving her broke your heart more than it made it whole. You didn’t think it’d happen again, but even if it did, you thought you’d find a way. You’d always find a way for Wanda.

You were happy together, weren’t you? Before this happened, she never gave any indication that she wasn’t. She made plans with you. Five-year, ten-year plans that meant she wanted to continue being with you. In return, you gave it everything you have and more. You turned the dreams into blueprints, and from blueprints into milestones.

The arbitrary nature of her infidelity is what shocked you the most. It meant you couldn’t have done anything to prevent this. It wasn’t up to you. Love is a gamble and you’ve lost.

You’re both on the floor now. You, leaning against the side of the bed, and Wanda, hugging her knees to her chest as sobs continue to rack her body.

When both of you can breathe again, it’s Wanda who breaks the silence.

“I’m so sorry.”

As much as you need to hear it, an apology now is just a drop in the ocean. Wanda can’t unfuck Vision. You can’t un-crack his skull.

A thought suddenly occurs in your muddled brain.

“Was there anyone else aside from him?” you ask.

“No.”

“He must be really special then.”

She shakes her head furiously, denying it.

Against your better judgment, you ask the one thing that’s been plaguing you since you learned of her lover’s name. “Do you love him?”

“No,” Wanda mumbles without a second thought. “I thought I did, but no.”

She didn’t love him. But it still kills you to know that it definitely crossed her mind that she might’ve felt something for someone else.

“Did you…” You stare intently at the ceiling, willing gravity to pull back the tears threatening to fall from your eyes. “...ever love me?”

“I love you,” Wanda says, her voice low and trembling, though she dares to look you in the eye. “I know how fucked up that sounds to you right now. But I do, I love you, Y/N.”

“You know,” You wince at the way your voice falters. You’re so tired and dehydrated, and your head is starting to hurt. Your lips quirk up in a bitter half-smile. “You have such a lovely way of showing it.”

Wanda lets her legs slide straight in front of her as she openly weeps into her hands. Under different circumstances you’d be out the door right this second, getting all her favorite snacks and a bouquet of flowers. You have loved her for so long.

“You should’ve just killed me. I don’t see any difference. At least there’s no pain in being dead.” you say after some time.

“Baby, don’t say that.” Wanda hiccups, struggling to control the spasms in her chest.

“You don’t get to call me that anymore. Even hearing you say my name makes me sick.”

Wanda looks away, like she’s been slapped.

“You can stay,” you say, and Wanda looks up at you with hope. “In this house. For as long as you want. But I’m leaving.”

“No. Don’t leave.”

But you’re already pulling your wedding ring off your finger even as she rushes to kiss you roughly. Wanda pours everything in this one kiss. She has played all the cards she’s dealt with, and this is her final, desperate move.

As for you, you take it for what it is: a goodbye. It’s messy and salty, and everything anyone could ever hope for in a last kiss. When it’s over, Wanda ducks her head under your chin. She finds purchase in the area just above your heart, trying to commit to memory the rhythm of your heartbeat.

You don’t have it in you to push her away, but you take the hand of hers that’s still cupping your face, and put the cold metal that once symbolized your commitment to her, in her fevered palm. And then very gently, you force her fingers to close around it. Albeit the numbness in your legs, you manage to push yourself up into a standing position and out of Wanda’s grasp.

“This isn’t over. It can’t be over.” you hear Wanda speak, but you’re not sure if it’s to you or to herself.

Out in the hallway, you examine the finger where your wedding ring had been. It’s going to take some time before its mark on your skin completely fades away.

***

A Week Later

“He’s awake.”

Natasha sits across from you in the diner. She’s back in town to pick you up and drive you back to her condo in Manhattan, where you will be staying for a while until you find your own place.

You swallow and take a breath, poking at your scrambled eggs.

She’s wary of you–this zombie-esque version of you. And it’s not only apparent in your behavior, the gauntness of your cheek is more noticeable, and your clavicle more protruded. You look like you’ve aged ten years overnight in as little as two weeks.

“He doesn’t remember anything.” she adds and this gets your attention.

“How convenient.” you say.

“Look, Y/N. You don’t need to act tough around me. Because I can see right through every mask you have on. You want me to prove it? Let me prove it.”

“Nat, just–”

“You’re more relieved to know that he’s woken up, than him not remembering anything. You’re compassionate to a fault. There can’t be a purer soul than yours.”

Your best friend’s impassioned speech puts a small but genuine smile on your face. Natasha does a little victory dance with imaginary pompoms, and the laughter comes easily to you.

“I know I have no right to say this, nor do I really understand what you’re feeling right now. But, Y/N, someone will come along and take every broken piece of you back together. They will love you so hard, you’re gonna have to actually beg them to ease off.”

You humor her. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

In all honesty, it’s hard to think about the far-off future without the stinging reminder that Wanda is not in it. But as you sit idly in diner for a very late brunch–and might as well call it lunch–you realize that you’re not left entirely empty-handed. You have Natasha. You have the rest of your friends back in New York, although you haven’t talked to them much lately. You have your career that is getting a fresh start at a new company. Wanda has gotten custody of Sparky. As much as you love him, you have a feeling that she needs him more than you do.

The point is, you’ve already seen the bottom of the sea, and it’s time to break the surface.

“As much as I hate your wife…soon-to-be ex-wife… or whatever,” Natasha shoots daggers at someone behind you. “She’s here to talk to you.”

“Did she put you up to this?” you ask, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“She called me to collect a favor, and this is the best bargain we managed. She’s not going to contact me anymore after this.” Natasha says, and then she gets up from her seat and takes her plate of bacon and eggs to enjoy at another table.

You hear tentative footsteps approach the booth and brace yourself to face Wanda.

Much to your chagrin, she looks as immaculate as ever in her parka over a simple white v-neck and high-waisted jeans, her glossy red hair cascading in perfect waves past her chest.

“Hey,” she says and slides into the booth with you.

You take a huge bite of your Reuben sandwich. “Hi, Wanda.”

“Sorry for cornering you like this. You rarely return my calls and it’s been almost impossible to match our schedules.”

You concentrate on chewing your food, trying to appear perfectly disinterested in what she’s saying.

“Natasha told me you’re already talking to divorce lawyers,” Wanda pauses to catch your eye, and you see no traces of sharpness in them. Her green eyes are bright with determination. “If you’re decided that it’s what you really want, then I’ll give it to you. I’ll cooperate.”

You look at her from beneath your dark lashes. “Okay.”

Wanda swallows nervously and interlocks her fingers on top of the table. You can’t explain it, but your eyes automatically search for the wedding band in her left hand.

It’s still there.

“I, uh, got something for you.” she says.

“No, thanks.” you say.

“But it’s yours.” she argues softly, digging for something in her jacket. You watch her pull out a ring box and place it in front of you.

“What’s this?”

“Your wedding ring.” She says matter-of-factly.

“I don’t want–”

“I don’t care. I’m giving it back to you, and I’m keeping mine. You can do whatever you like with it. But I can’t keep it for you.”

You consider it momentarily, what she’s asking of you. In hindsight, it makes sense that she wouldn’t want to hold onto the residual love you have for her that the ring represents.

“Fine.” You reach for the small box and Wanda heaves a sigh.

“So, you have your ring back, and I’ll sign the divorce papers when they’re ready.” Wanda recites mechanically, her voice thinning towards the end of her sentence, as if she’s not at all prepared for what she needs to say to you next.

“Then, I’ll come for you.”

You almost spit out your coffee. Some of it actually dribbles past your lips and you quickly grab a napkin to wipe your mouth. She tenderly smiles at your little accident, finding your clumsiness endearing.

You gape at her, unable to think of a response.

“I didn’t want to believe you when you told me that night that you hated me. But I guess that’s better than indifference.” Wanda’s smile turns into a sad amusement at herself.

“I don’t hate you, Wanda,” It’s the truth. Even though anger is the only emotion you can process most days, you’ve only ever hated the way she makes you feel.

“You have no idea how much that means to me,” she laments. “Thank you.”

You can tell she has more to say and you wait.

“I’m not going to give up on you, Y/N. On us. What we have, and I’ve thought a lot about it, is something I’ll never find in another.” Wanda says, giving you a long, level look.

“I’m not telling you this to get a reaction out of you. I know you’re not exactly thrilled at the idea of me pursuing you, but,” she falters, the first sign of her vulnerability. “This time, I want you to know everything. I don’t want you to be blindsided by my intentions, so I’m giving you a heads-up.”

“Wands,” The nickname rolls off your tongue before you can stop it. “You can’t torture yourself like this.”

“I’m not,” she assures you. “I just refuse to give up on my dream.”

You’re my dream, Wanda had written in her vows. You remember it, clear as day.

Wanda gets up to leave. “I’ll see you soon.”

As soon as Wanda exits to her car, Natasha returns to the booth with a strawberry milkshake in hand.

“Is it over?” she asks offhandedly, referring to your conversation with Wanda.

You hesitate, then look at her with an unreadable expression on your face. You give her the only answer that feels right to you:

“For now.”

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x vision #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #ifiss #my writing #category: angst #natasha romanoff #marvel #elizabeth olsen

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ginnsbaker · 8 months

Text

Rivers and Roads (Til I Reach You)

Summary: The best(and worst) ways to fall in love with your best friend's younger sister.

Word count: 11.3k+ | Warnings: Angst, Smut, Underage Sex, Minor Violence | Ship: Yelena x Female Reader

A/N: Takes place before "In Flames" but can be read seperately ; Requested by anon: Would you write about Yelena and Reader's first attempt at a relationship? How they saw each other as more than just Nat's little sister or best friend? ; Hope you like it, anon :)

Masterlist

Your father's funeral ends the same way these things always do: friends and family approaching you and your mother, one by one, each offering condolences like they're reading from a script. The words are polite, rehearsed, almost mechanical, and though you nod and thank them, each sympathy feels more hollow than the last.

Like a zombie, you go through the motions, detached from everything around you.

The crowd eventually thins, and that’s when Natasha approaches with Yelena in tow. She hugs you tightly, her body trembling with emotion. “I'm so sorry, Y/N,” she whispers, her voice catching in her throat. “If there's anything I can do, anything at all, just let me know.”

You feel her warmth, but your response is cold, almost automatic. “Thank you,” you say flatly.

When you step out of Natasha's embrace, Yelena steps forward, a look in her eyes like she's ready to do the same thing. But as she moves closer, she hesitates, her mouth parting as if to speak, but the words remain trapped inside. Without waiting for her to say anything, you excuse yourself and head up to your room.

Downstairs, Natasha tugs Yelena to go home. But Yelena's gaze is fixed on the ceiling, right where she knows your room is. She silently declines, and Natasha, reading the situation, gives her a knowing nod without pushing further. With a quiet goodbye, Natasha exits, leaving Yelena with her eyes still fixed on the ceiling, lost in thought.

The minutes feel like hours as she sits there, a battle raging inside her. She wants to be there for you, to offer comfort, but she's paralyzed by uncertainty and fear. Finally, a decision forms in her mind, and she rises from the couch, her heart pounding.

Slowly, she makes her way up the stairs. When she reaches your door, she stops, her hand hovering in the air. She hears the soft, unmistakable sound of crying, and her heart aches.

Softly, she places her hand on the door, pretending it's you, pretending she has the ability to comfort you. But she doesn't, and it's one of the most painful experiences of her young life. To stand there, helpless, listening to the person she cares about hurting, and not being able to do anything about it.

Tears well in her eyes as she leans her forehead against the door, feeling the barrier that separates her from you, a barrier she's unable to cross.

And so, she waits, trusting that someday, when you're ready, she'll be able to step through that door, reach out, and stand by your side when you need her most.

She doesn’t see you for the rest of the summer.

She tries to ask Natasha about you, but even your best friend seems guarded, telling her she hasn't heard from you much either.

Around the same time, a boy from her class, Jeremy, starts dropping by her house. His visits are unexpected but not entirely unwelcome. He's friendly, outgoing, and he makes Yelena laugh—something she hasn't done much of lately.

But as the weeks wear on and Jeremy's interest in her becomes more apparent, Yelena can't shake the feeling that something's missing. Her thoughts keep drifting back to you, to the sound of your crying behind that closed door, to the pain in her chest that she feels every time she thinks of your suffering.

Jeremy tries to get closer to her, invites her out, sends her messages, even brings her chocolates and flowers, but Yelena finds herself holding back. She likes him, but she doesn't feel the connection she longs for, the connection she feels with you.

One evening, as she's aimlessly scrolling through her phone, avoiding yet another message from Jeremy, she stumbles across a picture of you and your father. The memory hits her like a physical blow, and she can't help but wonder how you're coping, if you're healing, if you even think about her at all.

The very next day, she kisses Jeremy for the first time.

III

When she does see you again, it's at a party before the school year begins.

You're alone, clutching a bottle of Jim Beam like a lifeline. You bring it with you, taking long swigs ever so often, not caring who's watching. You look just like the last time she saw you—uninterested, vacant, a shell of the person that used to be filled with so much good energy.

The crowd around you is lively, laughing, celebrating the end of summer, but you stand apart from it all.

Yelena's concern deepens, and she quickly sends a text to Natasha, hoping that she might have some insight or guidance. “She’s here at the party,” she writes, her fingers trembling. “Drinking alone. Looks lost. What should I do?”

The response from Natasha comes quickly, and it's clear from her words that she's as bewildered as Yelena. “What? I didn't know about this. Keep her there. Don't let her leave. I'm coming.”

Yelena looks up from her phone, her eyes scanning the room to find you again. Her heart aches at the sight of you, standing alone, your face a mask of emptiness.

She takes a deep breath, steeling herself to approach you.

But before she can make her move, a voice calls her name, and she turns to see Jeremy coming towards her with a smile.

“Hey, beautiful,” Jeremy says cheerfully, closing the distance between them with a warm smile. He leans in and plants a soft kiss on Yelena's cheek.

Yelena forces a smile in return, her thoughts still consumed by the sight of you across the room. She appreciates Jeremy's presence, but at that moment, she can't shake the nagging worry she feels.

“Are you enjoying the party?” Jeremy asks, taking her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Yeah, it's good,” she says.

Jeremy doesn't seem to notice Yelena's lack of focus. His eyes are alight with excitement, and his grin is infectious as he exclaims, “I've got a surprise for you. Come upstairs with me?”

Her attention is pulled away from you momentarily. “A surprise?”

“Yeah, I think you'll love it,” Jeremy assures her, tugging on her hand gently. “Come on, it'll just take a minute.”

Yelena hesitates, glancing once more in your direction. You’re looking worse by the second, but she also knows that she can't ignore Jeremy, especially when he's clearly made an effort to do something special for her.

With a sigh, she gives in to Jeremy's urging. “Okay, but just for a minute,” she agrees, allowing him to lead her toward the stairs.

You don’t remember much of what happened when you come to.

Your fist is clenched, throbbing with pain, and the skin is turning an unnatural shade of blue. Jeremy—Yelena's new boyfriend—is clutching his arm, his face twisted in agony. Yelena is kneeling next to him, her eyes wide, her face pale, looking up at you in shock.

“What...What happened?” you stammer, the room spinning around you.

You hear a gasp from the doorway. Turning, you see a tall, lanky man with tousled hair and a startled expression. He's holding a drink, the liquid sloshing slightly from the sudden movement.

“Everything alright in here?” he asks, eyebrows raised in concern.

Yelena's gaze shifts to the man, then back to you. Panic flits across her eyes. “It's nothing,” she says, her voice trembling slightly. “Just a...misunderstanding.”

He hesitates, eyes darting between you, Jeremy, and Yelena. He doesn’t look entirely convinced. “That doesn't look like 'nothing'.”He nods towards Jeremy's arm and your bruised fist.

“You should leave,” Yelena hisses at you, her voice low and threatening. She rises to her feet, seemingly towering over you despite the fact that you’re taller than her. “Now.”

You're still disoriented, the pain in your hand and the weight of the situation pressing down on you. “Yelena, I didn't mean–I thought he was forcing himself on you–”

She cuts you off. “I don't care what you meant. Just get out.” Her voice trembles with a mix of anger and fear.

Mark steps aside, allowing you a clear path to the door, but his eyes remain fixed on you, filled with curiosity and suspicion. As you stagger past him, you can hear Yelena's voice, softer now, murmuring words of comfort to Jeremy.

The next time you see Yelena, a week has gone by and the purple and blue on your knuckles has substantially faded.

It’s the weekend and you find yourself in the public library while the rest are hanging out in malls or anywhere that doesn't carry the smell of books. It wasn’t always like this—you’d normally be in the Romanoffs’ house by now, playing video games with Natasha or discussing art and literature with Yelena.

You're browsing through the contemporary fiction section when you spot her. Yelena's back is turned to you, her blonde hair pulled into a messy bun, strands escaping to frame her face. She's engrossed in a thick book, fingers tracing the lines as she reads. The library's tall windows drape her in a warm, sunlit glow, making her look almost unreal.

For a moment, you contemplate turning around and making a silent retreat. The memory of that night at the party, of Jeremy's pained face and Yelena's horrified eyes, still leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. But instead, your feet seem to make the decision for you, carrying you closer until you're standing just a few feet away from her.

She doesn't notice you at first, so engrossed in her reading. Taking a deep breath, you muster the courage to speak. “Yelena?”

She startles, the book nearly tumbling out of her hands. When she turns and meets your eyes, there's a flash of surprise, quickly replaced by guardedness. “Hey,” she says, voice cool and measured.

“I'm sorry,” you blurt out, the words spilling forth in a rush. “For that night, for everything. I never meant to hurt anyone. I went upstairs to use the bathroom and I heard…sounds…coming from that bedroom and I…it didn’t seemed consensual to me, what was happening–”

Yelena interrupts you, her voice rising in defense, “It was consensual.”

You look deep into her eyes, searching for any sign that she’s not telling the truth. “Are you sure?” you ask gently.

“Yes,” she replies firmly, but there's something flickering behind her gaze.

Not convinced, you press on, “How many times?”

She looks taken aback. “What?”

“How many times did you give your consent?” you ask, emphasizing each word.

She hesitates, her mouth opens to say something, but no words come out.

The few seconds of her silence feels like hours, and then you finally break it. “I just wanted to make sure you're okay," you mutter, pressing your lips together into a tight line.

“Why do you even care?” Yelena scoffs, her eyes narrowing slightly.

Almost reflexively, the truth tumbles out, “Because you're Nat’s little sister.”

For a brief moment, something akin to disappointment crosses Yelena's features, a shadow over her usually bright and fiery eyes. You catch that subtle shift and, for reasons you can't quite place, you're filled with a sudden urge to retract your words.

She exhales sharply, her voice laced with frustration. “So, it's always about her, isn't it? Can't I just be Yelena, without being 'Natasha's sister'? Why does everything I do or whatever happens to me always get linked back to her?”

You swallow hard, realizing your mistake and at the same time, confused as to why it seems like the wrong reason to come to her rescue. “I didn't mean it like that,” you quickly say, fishing for the right words. “I care about you too, Yelena. But yes, knowing Nat makes me more protective. I'm sorry if it came out wrong.”

Yelena simply studies you for a moment before she starts to walk past you as she says, “You say you care, but when your father passed away, you didn't seem to need either of us. Natasha and I tried to be there for you, but you shut us out.”

Your gaze drops, and you quietly fall in step behind her, knowing that she’s right. They both had a bond with your father and felt his loss deeply. While they reached out, you had inadvertently left them in the cold.

“It wasn't that I didn't need or want you both. I just... didn't know how to reach out, how to let anyone in,” Your voice is so faint that Yelena almost misses your words. Abruptly, she halts and, against her better judgment, draws you into a secluded aisle between towering bookshelves for a moment of privacy.

Her hand then reaches out, fingers lightly brushing yours.

“Don’t shut us out. You don’t have to say anything. Just… don’t be alone. Because you’re not,” Yelena says. “Nat and I are here for you.”

You take a moment, a quiet sniffle escaping before you subtly dab the corner of your eye. Though your face remains composed and your eyes shimmer, they betray the strength you're trying to project—a strength Yelena wishes you didn’t feel compelled to display around her.

“I–I know…” you say. You squeeze her hand in gratitude before releasing it. Yelena tries not to sigh at the loss of your touch. “Is Nat upset with me?”

Yelena hesitates, keenly aware of the proximity between you two in the tight aisle. “She's... waiting, you know. We both are. We've missed you, Y/N.”

Your lips curve into a small, bashful smile. “I've missed you guys too.”

As a rosy hue tints Yelena's cheeks, she wishes, if only for a moment, that those words were meant just for her. She quickly deflects, her voice slightly uneven, “I was about to borrow this and head home,” she gestures to the book she's clutching, placing it as a barrier between you.

“Are you planning to stay here awhile longer?” she asks.

You ponder on it for a moment before saying, “Can I come with you?”

Yelena smiles.

“Always.”

“I’ve decided to enlist” Natasha tells you one afternoon after school.

“The military?” you ask, trying to maintain focus on the screen. Your fingers dance over the game controller, securing a win against Natasha yet again. You can't help but suspect that she's using this to divert your attention from the game.

“Not exactly the military,” she clarifies. “It's... well, it's for a government project. Details are classified, even from family.”

You pause the game, finally turning to give her your full attention.

“You're serious,” you say.

Without missing a beat, Natasha resets the game, her casual demeanor juxtaposing the gravity of her decision.

“Does Yelena know?” you ask, eyes flickering towards Natasha.

She hesitates for a moment, her fingers momentarily stilling on the controller. “Not yet,” she admits, her voice softer. “But I'll tell her soon.”

“Where is she anyway?”

Natasha's gaze drifts before she answers, “She's with Jeremy.”

Your eyes harden instantly at the mention of his name, a reaction so visceral that Natasha picks up on it right away.

“You don't like him,” she observes with a smile.

“No, I don't,” you reply tersely.

Natasha's brow furrows with concern. “Did something happen at that party a little over a week ago?”

“Why do you ask?”

She exhales slowly, rubbing her temples. “Just a feeling... Yelena's been... different since then. I thought maybe you'd know why.”

You’re torn. You feel an urge to warn Natasha about this boy that Yelena’s been seeing. But the look on Yelena’s face after you hit him still haunts you to this day.

She’s obviously smitten with him. Going behind her back won’t help.

“Could you, maybe, talk to her?” Natasha asks. “She always listens to you, you know?”

You smirk, trying to lighten the mood. “That’s because I’m the voice of reason.”

Natasha lets out a soft laugh. “That you are.”

VII

Talking to Yelena proves more challenging than you have anticipated, because you can’t seem to find her these days.

Each time you're at her and Natasha's place, she’s not home. Her room remains untouched, bed made neatly and no signs of recent activity. Natasha assures you she comes home, but always at odd hours, usually when the city's asleep.

It's surprising to learn that she's consistently invited to parties that neither you nor Natasha know about.

The girl who keeps to herself most of the time, hiding in bookstores and libraries, has now become the talk of the town and the life of the party. You wonder when and how this transformation took place.

And because she’s Natasha’s little sister, you can’t help but worry about her. Can’t help but think about the kind of people she surrounds herself with these days.

Can’t help but feel protective of her.

Which is why, when you accidentally run into Jeremy after scouring Yelena’s usual hunts in the East Village, you don’t hesitate to approach him even though you're painfully aware he might have every reason to retaliate for that night at the party.

He's leaning against a graffiti-splashed brick wall, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. As you draw closer, his eyes lock onto yours, recognition igniting an unmistakable spark of animosity.

“Look who it is,” Jeremy sneers, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “What do you want?”

“I'm looking for Yelena,” you reply evenly.

He chuckles darkly and then holds the cigarette between his lips as he says, “What, are you in love with her or something?”

Your jaw tightens, trying to keep your emotions in check. “She's a family friend, okay? My best friend's sister.”

He raises an eyebrow skeptically, taking another drag from his cigarette before exhaling slowly. “I find that hard to believe, especially after the way you came at me.”

Lifting his sleeve, he reveals a dark, mottled bruise, evidence of your previous altercation. “All this for a family friend?”

“I'm protective of the people I care about,” you retort, your gaze unwavering. “Now, where is she?”

Jeremy smirks, the smoke from his cigarette curling between you two. “Why should I tell you? Maybe you should deal with your feelings first.”

You sigh, your patience waning fast. “Are you going to tell me or not?”

Jeremy takes a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly. His smirk falters for a moment. “She dumped me that night,” he finally says, a hint of bitterness in his tone. “Haven't seen her since.”

You’re surprised (and mildly relieved) to learn that Yelena ended things with him that quickly.

“Then why are you still hanging around her usual spots?” you ask.

He shrugs, falling back against the brick wall, looking more dejected than you would have expected. “Hoping she'd change her mind, I guess. But if you're really desperate to find her, there's this place she mentioned once. A quiet spot by the Brooklyn Bridge, where she goes when she needs to think.”

You nod, processing the information. “Thanks for the tip,” you say reluctantly.

He spits out the blunt and then crushes it with his heel. “Whatever.”

VIII

The sun has begun to set when you arrive in Dumbo. Facing the river, with no buildings within its immediate vicinity, the wind moves freely in its playground. The East River shimmers with colors, and the Brooklyn Bridge stands out against the sky. It makes sense to you why Yelena would choose this peaceful spot in the city for solitude.

You find a series of benches scattered along the promenade, some occupied by people absorbed in their own worlds, either gazing at the river or lost in the pages of a book.

As you walk further along the riverside, you spot a familiar figure perched on a low stone wall. Yelena, with her hair being toyed with by the wind, is staring at the water with a distant look in her eyes. She's so engrossed in her thoughts that she doesn't notice you approaching.

“Hey,” you start softly, not wanting to startle her.

She turns to look at you, surprised at first before it gradually morphs into wariness.

“Are you stalking me?”

“No, of course not,” you answer quickly. “I was just... worried about you.”

“Worried? Why?”

“Jeremy told me you two broke up. And with you being... distant lately, I just wanted to make sure you're okay.”

Her eyes drift back to the river for a moment, and then she sighs, her shoulders slumping a little. “I didn't expect him to spill our business to you, of all people,” she mutters, sounding more hurt than angry.

“I ran into him while looking for you,” you explain, trying to ease the tension. “He suggested you might be here.”

Yelena crosses her arms, looking a bit skeptical. “So, you're here out of concern, not because you're trying to... I don't know, gloat or something?”

“Gloat?”You blink in confusion. “Why would I gloat?”

She looks away, avoiding your gaze. “Never mind.”

“I just want you to know,” you start, choosing your words carefully, “That whatever is going on, you don't have to deal with it alone. Nat is worried about you, too.”

Yelena lets out a humorless chuckle. “Nat sent you?”

“No,” you clarify, the sort-of lie coming out easily for you. Technically, she did send you, but she mentioned it in passing, hoping you’d help her get through her sister. “But she's concerned. We both are.”

Yelena hums, seemingly unsatisfied with your sentiments.

“What are you doing here anyway?” you ask, plopping beside her.

She glances at you, then focuses on the water again. “Thinking... about everything. Did you know Natasha is leaving by the end of the month to join some weird government program?”

Your head whips around to face her, surprise evident in your eyes. "She told you?"

Yelena looks even more surprised–and a little hurt–that you already know.

“You knew?”

You nod grimly. “But I didn’t know she’s leaving so soon.”

Yelena shakes her head, her expression souring slightly. “I found out accidentally while using her laptop the other day. There was an email opened.”

The two of you sit there in silence, both lost in thought. You miss the days when things were simpler, when the three of you would hang out without any secrets or looming departures hanging over your heads.

“I don’t want things to change,” Yelena murmurs, her voice revealing traces of the reserved young girl who once hid behind her older sister’s more confident demeanor.

You wish for the same thing, but the truth is, a lot has already changed.

Starting with the death of your father.

And now, faced with the prospect of losing your best friend too, you don’t hesitate. You instinctively pull Yelena into a tight embrace. She stiffens momentarily but then melts into the hug, her breath warm against your shoulder, as your bodies fit together in a new and uncertain way.

Natasha’s up and left by the end of September, and as a new month rolls around, you and Yelena both find yourselves spending time together without the balancing force of her sister. Those first few meetings are stilted, almost as if you're dancing around the elephant in the room. There are fumbled greetings, exchanged in hallways and awkward silences over cups of coffee.

During one of those brief encounters, Yelena mentions her struggle with math. It's a subject you've already navigated, being two years her senior. “I remember going through that topic,” you muse one day, sketching out a problem for her. She squints at your notebook, and you can see the cogs turning.

Your sessions become regular, and soon, the two of you are spending longer stretches of time together. The rhythm is slow but steady. There's a mutual understanding that neither of you want to discuss the glaring void Natasha has left behind. Instead, you bond over shared experiences, inside jokes, and little adventures in the city.

Late night study sessions turn into spontaneous pizza runs. Movie marathons evolve from strictly academic films to cult classics and cheesy rom-coms. There's an unspoken agreement that you both desperately need a distraction, and slowly, you become that for each other.

However, in the crowded hallways of school, things aren't as seamless. You have your established group, a band of friends who’ve known you for years, and their expectations of you are set in stone. Yelena, on the other hand, moves in different circles. With her distinctive style and entourage of artsy friends, they occupy spaces you rarely venture into.

Moreover, your schedules hardly ever line up. While you’re leaving for advanced courses or student council meetings, she's typically heading to the arts wing for a drama club rehearsal or a literature symposium. Those stolen moments in the library or quick nods across the cafeteria become your only connection, otherwise you’d be total strangers from an outsider’s perspective.

One day, during lunch, your friends jokingly mention the budding ‘friendship’ with Yelena. “So, tutoring the sister now? How's that going?” one of them teases. You just smile and shrug it off, but you can't help but feel a pinch of guilt for not integrating Yelena more into your world.

There are also times when Yelena's friends shoot curious glances your way, probably wondering about the nature of your relationship with her. There are whispers, but you both ignore them, focusing on the close friendship you've built, especially with Natasha gone.

It’s your senior year, and you’re just starting to see just how much you and Yelena have in common.

You can't help but wish you'd realized this earlier, especially since you'll be heading to New York University next year.

One night, after you both finish watching “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” in your room, Yelena glances over at you, a kernel of popcorn held precariously between her lips.

“Have you ever been in love?”

You almost choke on your soda, before recovering to shrug and say, “I don’t think so.” You watch as Yelena smirks and slowly chews on the popcorn before licking her lips, your eyes following the movement.

“Got a crush on anyone, then?”

The word 'crush' makes your heart race for reasons you’re still unaware of. You find yourself briefly lost in the depths of her green eyes, and there's something about the way her lips curl that grabs your attention. Shaking your head subtly, you rally your thoughts.

“What about you?” you counter, turning the question back on her in an attempt to keep the spotlight away from you. “Ever been in love?”

Yelena pauses, a playful glint appearing in her eyes. She drags out the silence, clearly enjoying the suspense she's creating. “Maybe,” she finally admits with a sly smile.

That simple word instantly has your undivided attention. “Who is it?”

She bites her lip, a move that draws your gaze and makes your heart beat a tad faster. “It's a secret,” she says teasingly.

“Do I know them?”

Instead of answering, she just gives you a mischievous smile and, in a swift move, pulls the covers over herself, hiding underneath. You can hear her giggling, leaving you with more questions than answers.

You chuckle, grabbing a flashlight from your bedside table and diving under the covers alongside her, illuminating both your faces with its soft glow. The confined space brings you closer, close enough to notice the details of her face and the nervous twinkle in her eyes.

“Is it Jeremy?” you ask hesitantly, the guilt from the incident at the party still weighing on you. “I'm so sorry about that night. I never should've–”

“No, it’s not him,” she cuts you off, shaking her head emphatically, her hand lightly touching your arm. “It’s someone else... someone I've felt this way about for a while. For a long time, just loving them from a distance felt enough. But now...” Yelena trails off, her eyes searching yours, for something that might hint that you know who she is talking about.

That she’s talking about you.

“...now I’m not so sure it is,” she quietly finishes.

But your eyes give away your confusion, showing her you can't quite pinpoint who she's referring to. Moreso, when you say, “I hate that they’re making you sad.”

“It’s complicated,” Yelena says. “Sure, the thought of her not feeling the same way stings, but she brings me so much joy. The happiness she offers is greater than the pain. That has to mean something, right?”

“She?”

Yelena freezes at her slip-up.

“Yes... she,” Yelena drawls. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself. “Nat doesn’t know. I haven't exactly been open about it. Not with anyone, really.”

You shift closer to her, ensuring she feels your presence and support. “Hey, I'm really honored you trust me with this. You never have to change or hide who you are around me. I love you just the way you are.”

She turns her head, her expression simultaneously hopeful and uncertain. “You love me?”

Without hesitation, you nod. “Of course. Yelena, between you, Nat, and my mom, you're the most important people in my life. I've always felt that way.”

She bites her lip, absorbing your words. “Oh,” is all she manages initially. The silence stretches between the two of you, heavy with something you both can’t put a name to. Then, in a voice so soft you almost miss it, she murmurs, “I love you too.”

You weren’t expecting to feel anything differently when she says it back, but you do–

So much, that you consciously maintain a safe distance between your bodies as you both eventually fall asleep.

Days go by, and you start seeing Yelena differently.

Little things about her catch your eye, like how the sun hits her hair or the way she laughs. You find yourself thinking about her more often than not, even during lectures.

One afternoon, you're studying together, and you realize you've been staring at the way she holds her pen for far too long. There's a song playing in the background, its lyrics vague and unimportant, but you can't help thinking how it's something she'd love.

But it’s those quiet nights, when the world is asleep, that your thoughts become more personal, more intimate. On one of these nights, as you’re ensnared in those thoughts, warmth spreading all over your body, your phone suddenly rings.

It’s Yelena. Hastily, you pull your hand away from your soaked underwear and try to sound casual as she asks you about a school project that you’ve tackled before. You can’t help but notice how huskier her voice has gotten recently, and as soon as the call ends, you’re shuffling your pants down your legs and fucking yourself with two fingers, coming to the name of your best friend’s sister on your lips.

What follows after is a deep-seated shame. You bury your face into your pillow, trying to muffle the self-reproach that threatens to spill over.

Now, each time your mind drifts to Yelena, there's a budding warmth, but it's quickly doused by guilt and the looming shadow of Natasha. The trepidation of how she might react to your burgeoning feelings for her younger sister haunts your every thought. Would she see it as a betrayal? As you, taking advantage of Yelena? Or would she understand that feelings, often unexpected and inconvenient, have a way of creeping in?

Days turn into weeks, and you do your best to suppress these emotions, to lock them away and throw away the key. But they have a pesky way of resurfacing when you least expect them to, making ordinary interactions with Yelena charged with a tension you can't shake off.

It's during one such interaction, when you're helping Yelena with a school project at her house, that she catches you staring a moment too long. Her eyebrows knit in confusion, and for a second, you think she's going to question you. But she doesn't, and you're left wondering if she feels it too. Feels a surge of current coursing through her body at any point of contact between your bodies.

XII

The air in Montauk is usually so soothing, but not today.

Walking through the front door, you immediately notice the empty spaces, corners that were once filled with your father’s belongings. Bewilderment strikes you first. Your eyes dart around the room, trying to take in the enormity of the situation. His jackets are no longer on the hook, his books absent from the shelf. That worn-out armchair where he used to sit with a cup of coffee every morning is no longer there.

The sound of paper crackling captures your attention, and you follow it to the backyard. Your heart plummets when you see your mom tossing pictures into a growing flame. It feels as if time has stopped, as you watch memories being consumed by fire. Each photo that curls, blackens, and disintegrates feels like a piece of your heart being pulled apart.

A scream of anguish and rage leaves your mouth before you can think.

“What are you doing?!” you shout, rushing forward to snatch what remains of the photos. But the damage has been done.

Your mother's face is a complex mosaic of pain, anger, and a little lunacy. “It's time,” she retorts, her voice brittle but resolute. “Time to move on.”

“How could you?” Your voice breaks, kicking the bench where your father used to lounge in, enjoying a cup of coffee.

Feeling the walls of your house closing in on you, you snatch a small box of photos, the only things that haven't met the flames yet, and storm out.

XIII

The Romanoffs’ residence automatically becomes your refuge.

You don’t even knock, you just barge in, your breaths coming fast, tears streaming down your face. It doesn't take Yelena long to figure out that something's wrong, and she envelops you in a warm, solid embrace.

Her fingers run through your hair soothingly, her voice a gentle murmur in your ear. “It’s okay, let it out,” she whispers, guiding you down the hallway towards her bedroom. Posters of classic horror films adorn her walls, giving the space a uniquely edgy feel. By the side, a stack of books teeters precariously, evidence of her voracious reading habits and an already overflowing bookshelf. Now that you've spent more time in it over the past few months, Yelena's room feels even more familiar than Natasha's ever did.

Before you know it, you're lying down, with Yelena sitting beside you, her hand never leaving yours. Overwhelmed and exhausted, sleep claims you amidst your tears.

Later in the night, you’re woken up by the clinking of a tray. Blinking your eyes open, you see Yelena by your side. She’s holding a plate of something warm and there's a pill and a glass of water on the tray beside her.

“Figured you’d have a killer headache from all that crying,” she says, handing over the pill. Her voice is soft, teasing even, trying to inject some lightness into the heavy atmosphere.

“You made dinner?” Your voice is a croaky whisper.

“Didn't want you starving on me,” she says, shrugging with a smile before setting the tray on the night table beside you.

And then she starts to ramble, her cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment, “I really don't know how to cook, so I just tried frying some spam. Then I ended up burning one side. I swear, every time I try to cook, I just—”

But you're barely hearing her. In that moment, it hits you just how much she's wormed her way into your heart. In an impulsive moment, powered by emotions running high, you reach out, cupping her face in your hands, and pull her towards you.

The kiss is a sweet, brief meeting of lips, but in that fleeting moment, it communicates more than words ever could. When you pull back, the air between you is thick and your lips are tingling and all you can think about is how much you want to lean in and kiss her again. Yelena's eyes search yours, both of you realizing that things may never be the same again.

Yelena seems to be processing, her green eyes wide and a little unfocused. The softness of her lips still lingers on yours, and the magnitude of what just happened starts to sink in.

Panic flares in your chest.

“I... I need to go,” you stammer, your mind racing for a reasonable excuse. You can't stay, not now. Not with the desire to push her down the bed looming over your head.

Before she can say anything, before she can even move, you're out of the room, leaving behind a dazed Yelena, clutching the tray she had brought for you, the scent of the burnt Spam still lingering in the room.

XIV

You avoid Yelena at all costs.

For the first three days, your phone buzzes constantly with her calls and texts, and you muster the will to ignore every single one.

At school, you find yourself darting through hallways and taking longer, circuitous routes just to dodge the places where you might bump into her. The hangout spots you both frequented over the past months—the tiny café by the library, the secret alcove behind the gym—are now places you avoid like the plague.

You switch up your post-school routine, taking a completely different path home, even if it means walking an extra mile. Friends begin to notice the lengths you're going to just to not see her and they shoot you questioning looks, but you shrug them off, not ready to talk about it.

There's even a wild, desperate thought about dropping out of school. But every time it comes to the forefront of your mind, you push it away. You're in your senior year; leaving now would mean throwing away all the work you've put in. Plus, you're on the cusp of moving away, starting anew. You just need to endure a little longer.

Every day feels heavier. On one hand, you want to duck and dodge, stay out of Yelena's path until you've figured what it means for you, for her, for your friendship with Natasha. On the other, you're missing her like crazy. More than once, you've caught yourself about to call or text her, only to stop, unsure and overwhelmed.

And when she stops calling and texting, every time your phone lights up with a notification, a part of you wishes it's her, another hopes it isn't.

And the worst part? The gnawing feeling inside that tells you that the longer you avoid her, the greater the risk of losing her for good. And you're not ready for that. Not by a long shot.

You hide in your room. No one is answering because your mother is still at work, so you just listen to Yelena ringing the doorbell until it stops. You press your ear against the door of your room, straining to hear any signs of movement from downstairs. But there's no one.

And when the ringing stops–for a good ten seconds–you let out a quiet sigh of relief. But just as that thought that she’s given up crosses your mind, there's a sudden thud against your window. Jumping, you pull back the curtain a tad and spot Yelena, a frown carved deep on her face, a couple of pebbles in her hand.

“Come face me, you coward!” she yells, making you wince.

Flustered, you motion frantically for her to head to the front door. After making sure you’re decent enough to receive her, you take a deep breath and head downstairs.

When you open the door, Yelena stands there, eyes boring into you. She’s clearly angry and frustrated, and regardless of those, she still manages to take your breath away.

Yelena steps closer, into the little space you’ve unconsciously provided by opening the door, narrowing the gap between the two of you. Her proximity makes it difficult to think clearly.

“Why did you run that night?” she asks pointedly, the confusion and hurt undeniable in the way her voice thickens and shakes. “And why have you been avoiding me ever since?”

You look down at your feet as she tries to chase your line of sight. “It's not that I don't want to be around you, Yelena,” you start. “In fact, I want to be around you all the time.”

Yelena’s breath hitches at that. She frowns, trying to decipher your meaning. “So, what’s the problem?”

You muster the courage to lift your chin and finally meet her gaze. “I like you. A lot. So much, in fact, that I'm terrified of what could happen next. I'm scared I won't be able to hold back from falling in love with you.”

She blinks, taking in your confession. “You're such a stupid idiot,” she mutters, more to herself than to you.

“You know those are synonyms, right?” you retort, trying to inject some levity into conversation.

She arches an eyebrow, “Dense.”

“That's just another synonym,” you mumble, meeting her challenging stare.

But before you can come up with another witty retort, she closes the gap between you two, whispering, “Shut up and kiss me.”

XVI

It’s getting harder and harder to control yourself around Yelena. Being around her has started to feel like you're navigating a minefield.

There's that time you're lounging in her bedroom, reading a book while she goes to shower. The sound of water running and the muffled hum of her voice singing a familiar tune combine to become your favorite music. The soft sheets of her bed, the faint scent of her on the pillow next to you, and the intimate setting conspire against your self-control. You have to consciously remind yourself to breathe evenly, to focus on the words in front of you, and not on the vision of Yelena in the shower.

Even small moments become loaded. Like when she's talking to you, and she tilts her head, exposing the soft curve of her neck. The light catches on her skin just right, and all you can think of is how it would feel under your lips. How she might shiver at your touch, how the pulse beating beneath her skin might race under your caresses.

Then there's the way she's been touching you more. A brush of her fingers, lingering hugs, those almost-too-close moments that send shivers down your spine. It feels like she’s playing a game, seeing how far she can push before you crack.

The dreams aren’t helping either. Some nights they’re tender, others they’re, well, a bit more heated. Waking up from them leaves you flushed and out of sorts.

One balmy afternoon, as the sun's rays filter through the slits of your bedroom curtains, the two of you find yourselves tangled once again. Suddenly, as you're catching your breath, Yelena pulls back slightly, looking deeply into your eyes, the desire evident. “I want you,” she whispers breathlessly, her voice shaking with want.

You freeze, her words threatening to make you combust. “Yelena,” you start, throat dry, “I don't think we should. Natasha doesn't even know about...this.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes with an exasperated sigh. “This isn't on us. Natasha's off at some super-secretive training camp. How are we supposed to tell her?”

You try a different approach. “You’re sixtee–”

“You’re seventeen,” she cuts you off quickly.

You smile softly at the pout forming on her lips. “I’m turning eighteen next week.”

“Semantics,” Yelena argues.

Your chest tightens, and you finally admit, “There's something else. I've... I've never been with anyone like that before.”

To your surprise, Yelena's confident demeanor falters. She looks away, biting her lip, “Me neither.”

Your eyes widen. “But... Jeremy?”

She looks away, biting her lip. “That night you punched him? That night, it's supposed to happen. But…” She takes a deep breath, her eyes searching yours. “All I can think of is you being outside that room. I can't do it. I've always... I've always wanted it to be you.”

The fact that she hasn’t been with anyone makes you even more nervous. You want her first time to be memorable and good.

“Yelena, uhm,” you start, fidgeting under her gaze. “I have no idea what to do.”

Her thumb brushes over the back of your hand, a soothing gesture. “Neither do I. But that's okay. We have each other.”

“And if we mess up?”

She smirks a little, that playful glint returning to her eyes. “Then we mess up together.”

XVII

It’s a mess, but neither of you would call it ‘messing up’.

When you’ve removed the final piece of clothing off her body, you find yourself staring at the juncture between her legs, your mouth watering at the sight of it.

It’s a beautiful mess.

Yelena shifts slightly, drawing your attention back to her face. Those brilliant eyes of hers are watching you, filled with understanding and the smallest hint of amusement. “First time seeing one up close?” she teases gently, breaking the tension.

Your cheeks warm, but you don’t look away. “You could say that.”

She reaches out, her fingers gently lifting your chin, guiding you to meet her gaze. “It's okay. Remember? We're learning together.”

You nod, kissing her fingers before she lets go of your chin.

“But please, touch me already,” Yelena husks out, arching her back and lifting her hips closer to your face in offering. “You’re driving me crazy.”

With that, you let go of your reservations, letting instinct take over.

But you take your time.

You slide your hands under her buttocks, palming her cheeks and keeping her place just in case. The heady scent of her arousal draws you in closer, a fresh wave of wetness collecting between your own thighs.

Tentatively, you stick your tongue out to touch its tip against the hood of her clit. The sharp intake of Yelena's breath and her subtle tremor give away her anticipation, making the corners of your mouth lift in a fleeting smile. It’s such a small action, and you can’t believe how responsive and needy she’s become.

“God, you're perfect,” you murmur, before flattening your tongue against her core and licking the entire length of her. Your eyes fall shut the moment you taste Yelena for the first time. She tastes as good as she smells, and you can’t help but repeat the act again and again. Each pass draws a deeper reaction from her, coaxing more wetness to cover the lower half of your face. As Yelena's responses intensify, you're grateful for your foresight in keeping her grounded, especially when she instinctively tries to pull away from the overwhelming sensations you're giving her.

Opening your eyes, you’re met with the most gorgeous sight of Yelena–her fingers clutch at the pillows, pulling them close, while her body arches and writhes–a pure picture of ecstasy.

Emboldened by her reactions, you focus your attention on her clit, drawing the sensitive nub into your mouth, letting a gentle suction build. The sound Yelena makes is sharp and unguarded, her fingers weaving into your hair, pulling you closer, urging you closer to her heat.

The flush on Yelena's face intensifies, painting a path from her cheeks to her collarbone as you continue your ministrations. The squelching sounds created by your eager mouth intermingle with her breathy moans, the rustle of the sheets beneath, and your own low sounds of appreciation.

Sensing her impending climax, you momentarily cease the gentle suction, prompting a desperate plea from Yelena, “Please…” But before she can voice her needs, you plunge back in, your tongue swirling insistently around her sensitive nub.

With a final, muffled cry into the pillows, Yelena's body convulses, waves of pleasure coursing through her. You ease your movements, allowing her to ride out the aftershocks of her climax.

Gradually, Yelena's breathing steadies. The vibrant flush of arousal is gradually replaced by a more relaxed hue. Still nestled between her thighs, you place gentle kisses on her inner legs, giving her time to come down from her euphoric high.

Her fingers, previously tangled in your hair, begin to relax, though she doesn’t release you entirely. Instead, they trace delicate patterns along the nape of your neck and your shoulders. A contented sigh escapes her, and you can feel her legs relaxing around you, the earlier tension now but a memory.

Taking this as your cue, you wipe your mouth and chin and gently climb up, situating yourself beside her, pulling her into a close embrace. Her head rests against your chest, listening to the thud of your heart, which beats just as erratically as hers.

“You okay?” you ask softly, brushing stray strands of hair from her face.

She nods, her lips curving into a small, satisfied smile. “More than okay,” she murmurs, snuggling closer. “Thank you.”

You both lay there in comfortable silence, enjoying the warmth of each other's presence. The outside world feels distant, irrelevant.

After what feels like hours but is probably just minutes, Yelena tilts her head up to meet your gaze, her eyes turning a darker shade of green again.

“My turn,” she whispers, her hands already exploring.

A soft chuckle escapes your lips as you arch an eyebrow, the sudden role reversal causing a thrill of anticipation to snake through you. “Impatient, are we?" you tease, the hint of a smirk playing on your lips.

Yelena grins, her fingers deftly tracing a path along your collarbone, down your chest, eliciting a shiver from you. “Maybe I've just learned from the best,” she counters playfully, pressing her lips briefly against your neck.

She doesn't rush, taking her time, soaking in every one of your reactions. The softest of kisses to the inside of your wrist has you inhaling sharply. Yelena watches, a glint of mischief in her eyes, before repeating the action, this time lingering longer. Each delicate press of her lips feels like a brand, and you're aware of the rising heat that courses through your body, centered where you want her most.

The press of her thumb against your pulse point, just beneath your jawline, elicits an unexpected moan from your lips. She chuckles softly, clearly pleased with the discovery. “Found a new spot, did I?” Yelena whispers, her voice husky.

Your response is lost as her mouth travels down, her tongue painting a trail down your collarbone, causing you to arch into her touch. “Yelena…” your voice is a breathy plea, laced with desperation.

Her fingers splay across your abdomen, her touch light, almost ticklish. It's a stark contrast to the firm press of her lips against the soft flesh of your thigh. Your hands find her hair, urging her closer, but Yelena pulls away, teasing.

Her eyes meet yours, filled with a playful defiance. “Patience,” she chides, her hot breath against your skin sending another shiver down your spine.

The build-up is excruciating, driving you to your limits.

When her lips finally meet the wetness between your thighs, the sensation is electric. She starts by laying a series of soft kisses there, each one making your hips jerk slightly, seeking more of her. Her tongue dips into you, tasting, exploring, teasing.

Her fingers join in, sliding through your wetness, gathering it before pressing into you. The combined sensation of her fingers moving inside while her mouth focuses on your clit is almost too much to bear. The slick sounds of her mouth on you, combined with the rhythmic thrusting of her fingers, fills the room. The dampness between your legs grows with each pull and push, with every flick and suck she delivers.

As Yelena works her magic, she surprises you by letting her fingers wander further back, teasing the rim of your other hole. The unexpected sensation causes you to gasp sharply, eyes widening in surprise and a new sort of arousal.

“Trust me?” she murmurs against your heated skin, her voice a low rumble that sends another jolt of pleasure through you.

All you can do is nod, your usual articulateness lost to the whirlwind of sensation. With the slickness from your arousal aiding her, Yelena gently applies pressure there, testing, probing, adding a new layer to the pleasure. The combination of her mouth, fingers inside you, and this new, intimate exploration has you spiraling.

Your fingers clutch her head, guiding her, even as your back arches, pushing yourself further into her touch. Yelena, sensing your nearness to the edge, doubles her efforts. The world blurs out, every nerve ending centered on the wet slide of her fingers and the firm, insistent press of her mouth against your most sensitive spot. With a final cry, you come around Yelena’s fingers, leaving you trembling, soaked, and sated beneath her.

For a moment, there's nothing but the two of you—the heavy breaths, the shared warmth, and the intoxicating scent of your combined arousal.

Then, with a tantalizing slowness, Yelena extracts her fingers from within you. You can feel their absence keenly, the cool air hitting the warmth they've just left behind. As she brings her fingers to her face, the wetness on them catches the dim light, making your heart race even faster.

Her eyes, dark with desire, lock onto yours. You're held captive by that gaze, and then with a smirk, she slides her fingers into her mouth, sucking on them deeply, audibly. The sound, the sight of it, is almost too much.

“Yum,” she murmurs, her voice dripping with mischief and satisfaction. The single word breaks the spell, sending another jolt of heat through you.

You don't even get a moment to process her bold move because, in the next heartbeat, you're overcome with a renewed surge of desire. Drawing Yelena closer, you can feel the slick heat of her pressing against you, the intimate wetness of your arousal mingling together.

The sensation of her clit, swollen and sensitive, rubbing against yours elicits deep, guttural moans from both of you. Your hands grasp her hips, guiding and urging her into a rhythm that sends sparks of pleasure ricocheting through your body. The room is filled with the sounds of skin on skin, punctuated by the wet slide of your clits moving together, and the heady scent of sex.

Yelena's eyes, half-lidded and wild, fixate on yours, capturing every reaction, every moan that slips past your parted lips. Her fingers dig into your hips, anchoring herself to you, as your bodies grind together, lost in wild abandon.

Your hands cradle Yelena's face, bringing her mouth to yours. As your lips meet, the kiss is all-consuming—a frenzied mix of passion and urgency, the taste of you still on her tongue.

Your hips falter, and you can't hold back the whimper that escapes when you feel that familiar sensation above your groin. The sensation of Yelena's body moving against yours, combined with the feel of her lips and the taste of her mouth, pushes you closer and closer to the brink.

Your focus narrows to the point where the only thing that matters is the tantalizing friction between the two of you. Yelena's rhythm matches yours, her hips moving urgently against your own.

“God... don't stop,” Yelena breathes into your ear, her voice shaky with need.

Your reply is caught by a moan as the coil in your belly tightens even more, threatening to snap. “Yelena…” you manage, voice raspy and broken.

Suddenly, her teeth bite down into your shoulder, making you gasp. “Sorry,” she mumbles against your skin, but you can hear the edge of ecstasy in her voice.

“It's okay,” you manage, voice strained with pleasure. “Feels... good.”

Yelena's hips grind unevenly against yours, the slickness between you both growing with each movement. Every thrust sends ripples of pleasure through you both, wetness mixing and coating your inner thighs, creating a deliciously slippery friction. You can feel the warmth of her arousal as it mingles with your own, the combined sensation dizzying.

“God... can you feel that?” Yelena gasps, her voice ragged and desperate.

“Yes,” you breathe, nearly overwhelmed by the sensation. The raw intensity of the moment, the feeling of her wetness against yours, is almost too much to bear.

“I'm close,” she warns, her voice strained.

“Fuck, me too,” you whisper back, lost in the sensation.

Suddenly, Yelena's body stiffens, her muffled cry against your shoulder sending vibrations straight to your core. The feeling of her release, warm and wet against you, combined with the bite of pain from her teeth, triggers your own climax. Your bodies shake together, still feeling the rush of pleasure even after the most intense moments have passed.

The room falls silent except for the sounds of your labored breaths and the gentle rustling of sheets. The rawness of the moment makes your skin tingle, and you become acutely aware of the warm stickiness between your thighs and the pulsating ache where Yelena had left her mark on your shoulder.

She pulls back slightly, her green eyes, now softened, searching yours. The corners of her lips tug upwards in a tender, adoring smile. “That was…”

“...unreal,” you finish, still catching your breath.

She chuckles lightly, shifting her weight to lie beside you. “Yeah, I didn't think... I mean, I hoped, but that was…”

“Beyond words,” you murmur, pulling her closer until she’s resting on top of you.

You both lay there for a moment, bodies intertwined, enjoying the afterglow. Yelena reaches out to caress the bite mark she left, a look of concern crossing her features. “Did I hurt you?” she murmurs, lips brushing against the reddened skin.

You wince slightly at her touch but shake your head. “It’ll bruise, but it's okay. Kind of like it, actually,” you say with a sly grin, making her laugh.

She leans down, pressing a gentle kiss on the bite mark, her lips lingering against your skin. “Sorry, I got carried away,” she mumbles against your shoulder.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” you reassure her, tilting her chin up to capture her lips in a soft, languid kiss. “But maybe we should clean up a bit.”

She nods in agreement, and the two of you untangle yourselves from the sheets. The air feels cooler against your flushed skin as you help each other clean up, using damp cloths to wipe away the evidence of your shared passion.

Afterward, Yelena snuggles close, her head resting on your chest, listening to your heartbeat.

You drape an arm over her, fingers absentmindedly playing with her hair. “I’m glad it was with you,” you whisper, pressing a kiss on the top of her head.

“I love you,” she says, tightening her grip around you. Those three words nearly bring tears to your eyes as a surge of affection for the girl in your arms envelops you.

“I love you too.”

XVIII

You want it to last forever.

More than exploring each other’s bodies nearly every night, you want each moment spent with Yelena to last forever. You might think it's too soon, but honestly, it feels like you've known her forever.

She’s it.

She’s the one.

Time, however, has its own pace. Before you know it, you and Yelena are receiving an email from Natasha herself that she will be coming home in two weeks. You can't help but feel a growing tension, a deadline looming over your idyllic world. But at the same time, you’re excited to have your best friend back.

One evening, as you both lay in bed, the soft glow from the streetlights outside illuminating the room, you broach the subject.

“When Nat comes back,” you start, tracing patterns on Yelena's arm, “I want to make us official. Tell her about us.”

Yelena's gaze meets yours, and though she nods, there's a hesitation in her eyes, a shadow of doubt. “Of course,” she replies, but her voice lacks the enthusiasm you'd hoped for. But for now, you pull her close, not wanting to read much into things especially with how perfect the past few months have been.

XIX

The atmosphere feels different since Natasha’s unexpected return.

A few days have passed, but the three of you continue to circle around each other, resembling planets in an unsure orbit. Yelena and Natasha seem wrapped up in their own reunion, while you tread carefully, waiting for the right moment to bring up your relationship with Yelena.

This evening, you find your opening. Yelena has stepped out, leaving you and Natasha alone in the living room, sitting at opposite ends of the couch.

“Has Yelena told you anything recently?” you finally break the silence, your voice betraying a hint of nervousness.

Natasha tilts her head, narrowing her eyes slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Did she mention something big? I mean… you were gone for quite some time and I understand if you’re shocked, but–”

“Uh, yeah, she did mention something,” Natasha interjects softly. “She got accepted to a program in Leeds.”

The world seems to tilt off its axis. Leeds?

“What?” you ask, failing to keep your voice down.

This is news to you. What’s going on?

“She’s leaving in ten days,” Natasha continues, looking at you curiously. “You didn’t know?”

You only realize Yelena's been distancing herself when you hear about Leeds.

Even though you still see her every day, she's managed to avoid spending time alone with you. Every time the topic of informing Natasha about your relationship comes up, she finds an excuse to divert or leave. Now, she consistently includes Natasha in your plans, turning what were once dates into casual hangouts.

As school ends one afternoon, you spot Yelena's familiar figure quickly exiting the building, her pace hurried, as though trying to escape. It's evident she's avoiding running into you on her way home. You remember the desperation that had led you to skip your last class, just so you could finally confront her.

Taking a deep breath, you quickly catch up to her.

“Yelena!” you call out.

She pauses, her shoulders tensing, and then slowly turns to face you. There's a hesitance in her eyes, but you're determined.

“Why Leeds?” you blurt out, all your emotions hinging on that single question.

She exhales sharply, looking as if she's been cornered, her gaze darting around. “I... I applied a while ago. Before everything between us started.”

Your heart sinks. “Were you planning on just disappearing without saying anything?”

Yelena's eyes shimmer with unshed tears. “I was scared,” she admits. “I didn't know how to tell you.”

“That's not fair,” you say, your voice choked.

She nods, biting her lip. “I know. I'm sorry.”

“I just...when did you apply?” you ask, trying to make sense of the timeline in your head.

“After Natasha told me about her own plans,” Yelena whispers. That was before you saw her in this new, intimate way, before everything between you two began. “I thought it would be best if I too had something to focus on.”

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion. “So you applied because Natasha was leaving? Why didn’t you tell me? We could have figured something out together.”

She sighs, her gaze drifting downwards. “It was a spontaneous decision, a way to cope with the changes, I guess. And then, you and I happened... It all went too fast. Before I knew it, I was accepted and suddenly, telling you became the hardest thing to do.”

The realization stings. All those moments, all those memories, and all the while, there was this looming secret she hadn't shared. “So,” you mutter, a tremor in your voice. “This was all just... a distraction for you?”

Yelena's eyes snap up, wide and filled with panic. “No! Never! It wasn't like that at all. What we had, what we shared, it was real for me. More real than anything I've ever felt.”

Your eyes blur as tears gather around your eyes. “Then why Leeds? Why not tell me? Why not give us a chance?”

You find yourself repeating the questions, hoping that if said enough, they might somehow reshape the truth, making it easier for you to accept and move on.

“I didn't want to put you in that position," she confesses, her voice breaking. “To make you choose or feel tied down. I love you too much for that.”

You exhale deeply, gritting your teeth in order to hold yourself together. “Yelena, love also means being honest and facing challenges together."

“I know,” she whispers, unable to hold back her own tears. “I'm so sorry.”

The world around you seems to blur. “So, is this it? Are we just... done?”

She hesitates for a moment, searching your eyes for understanding. “I don’t want to hold you back, and I need to focus on this new chapter. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.”

Nodding slowly, you muster the strength to say, “Goodbye, Yelena.”

XXI

For several days, your room's four walls become your entire world. Natasha, sensing something amiss, checks on you with growing concern. When she questions your seclusion, you blame it on a virus, claiming it's safer for you to stay isolated. But the truth is, your heart is shattered, and you can't bring yourself to share the painful reality with your closest friend.

At first, Yelena's messages are filled with apologies, each one dripping with regret. But as the days go by, her tone shifts. There's worry evident in the string of texts that asks if you're okay, questions about your health, pleas for just one response.

Then, as silence from your end persists, the messages take on an edge. “Is this really how you want to handle things?” one of them reads. “After everything, you're just going to shut me out completely?”The accusations sting, but you're in so much pain already that it hardly makes a difference.

A particularly scathing text catches your eye one evening: “I thought we meant more to each other. Is this really how you want us to end?”

The screen blurs in front of you as tears threaten, leaving you torn between reaching out and honoring the goodbye you've already given.

XXII

Seven long days of silence later, something shifts within you.

Distance can't be an end. You can't let it. You decide it's time to act, to see Yelena, to tell her that you’re willing to put in the work despite the long distance.

Pulling on a jacket, you make your way to her house. Your mind races, framing and reframing the words you want to say, the assurances you want to give, the hope you want to share.

As you approach the house, you immediately notice the absence of music from the living room. Yelena always ensured a playlist was playing in the background, a comforting constant whenever they were home. That familiar comfort is missing now, replaced by an unsettling silence. A knot of unease forms in your stomach. You knock, hoping against hope.

The door opens, and there stands Natasha, mildly surprised to find you at her doorstep.

“Hey! Wasn't expecting you today,” she greets with a lightness. “You here for Yelena?”

You nod, trying to find your voice. "Yeah, I wanted to talk to her."

A puzzled look crosses Natasha's face. “Oh, she said she talked to you a couple of days ago. I thought... Anyway, she took an earlier flight this morning. I assumed she told you?”

The ground seems to fall away beneath you. You manage a weak smile, masking the wave of emotions threatening to overwhelm you. “I must've missed that. Thanks, Natasha. Maybe I’ll just text her…I think I left something on at home. Better head back.”

You retreat before Natasha can ask any more questions, literally running out of the house before you fall apart in front of her.

Reaching your place, you shut the door behind you, leaning against it as if trying to barricade yourself from the outside world. Your phone buzzes with a message notification. It's from Yelena:

I'm sorry.

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