Chapter Text
You don’t hear her approach.
The wind tears through your sweater, hissing through the gaps in the threadbare jacket you’d thrown over it, the metal railing biting into your palms and rain dribbling down your neck. Up here, the wind is sharper, colder, whipping your hair across your face—a chill settles in your marrow, heavy and numb, as if the sky itself has seeped into your bones.
Seven stories down, the streetlights bleed into the pavement like smudged watercolours. Amber in the rain, wind ripping through greenery. It reminds you of a kaleidoscope, except you can’t pull your eyes away from the sight and there’s no telescope clutched between your hands.
Your throat burns, but not from the cold or rain.
The cross around your neck burns like a brand. You deserve this, your thoughts hiss, sounding so much like your mother that it stings. There is something wrong with you.
“Mind if I join you?”
The voice is low, calm, edged with an accent you can’t place. Go away, you think, but the words won’t come. Footsteps, deliberate and unhurried, edge closer, and you hold your breath, waiting for the pleas, the “Don’t do this,” and “You have so much to live for.”
It doesn’t come. Instead, a woman steps closer. Your fingers tighten around the railing, knuckles bleaching white.
Go away, you want to snap. You’ve never wished your voice worked as much as you do now, standing on the ledge of a seven-story drop with a woman approaching from your flank.
“Natasha,” she says, joining you anyway, close enough that you can catch the faint scent of leather and vanilla. Out of the corner of your eye, you see her—her hair a muted copper, an umbrella clutched in one hand and the other tucked into the pocket of her leather jacket. She stands on the edge like it’s a park bench rather than a drop that would leave you with more broken bones than years you’ve lived.
You wait for her to ask for your name—it doesn’t come. Neither does a, “What’s wrong?” or “Come down from there.”
“Cold tonight,” she continues, as if you had spoken. “My knees haven’t ached this bad since ’09. You’ve been up here a while.”
The words sting; you wonder how she knows. The truth is blunt, painful, aching like the bruises on your ribs. You can only imagine how you must look, soaked to the bone, looking all the part of a drowned rat. Filthy, your mother had muttered last week. I don’t know what to do with you anymore.
Finally, somehow, you find your voice. “You should go.”
It’s the first thing you’ve spoken in hours—perhaps days, and your voice sounds foreign to your own ears. Fragile. Pathetic. You stupid little girl.
Natasha tilts her head. “Probably,” she agrees, before tipping the umbrella towards you. The rain comes to a stop, splattering dully against the fabric. “My wife thinks I’m out getting bread.”
Wife. The word is a nail in your ribcage, needles under your skin. The cross around your neck tightens like a noose and you breathe in a shuddering breath, daring a glance at her outstretched hand. A silver band glints from her fourth finger and you see your father’s face in the reflection, the Bible on the kitchen table.
You remember how he looked at you, his brow downturned in disgust. Filthy, he would say. There is something wrong with you.
The downpour worsens. Even under the shade of the umbrella, your sweater clings to your skin, a rosary bunched up in the pocket of your jacket, the cross a brand against your sternum. You want to peel off your skin; you want to rip off your nails. You want to dig out your heart and squeeze it between your fingers until it stops beating.
Yet, your hands don’t move. The woman—Natasha—shifts, stepping a bit closer. So close, you can smell her perfume, the faint scent of her shampoo—
“My wife worries about everything,” Natasha begins, softer this time. “The weather, the man who owns the bakery on 23rd—strangers, especially.” The wind howls in your ears—you tremble, tears pressing dangerously against the back of your eyes, and resist the urge to haul yourself over this stupid ledge once and for all.
“Come inside.”
It’s an invitation, not an order. Your feet remain glued to the concrete—you think, dully, how if she had ordered you to step back, you’d have obeyed on instinct.
Natasha continues, gently, like she’s coaxing a wild animal into a cage, “The ledge will be here in the morning.”
Somehow, you find yourself stepping away. A coat is draped over your shoulders—it smells like leather, vanilla, and something else, something bitter. It’s warm in a way it has no right to be, in a way that makes your knees weak.
The whole way down, Natasha’s hand hovers near your elbow, close, but never quite touching. You stand in the entryway, dripping onto a cozy welcome mat as she fishes through her pockets for a key. The apartment Natasha leads you to smells like cinnamon and the same vanilla that lingers on her coat. Your body sways, shivering violently under the sodden coat, and the door clicks shut behind you firmly.
As if on cue, footsteps pad down the hall, quick and light. “Natasha,” a woman’s voice calls out, melodic and sweet, ”Draga mea, you took forever. I was about to send out a search party—”
The woman freezes in the doorway. Like Natasha, she’s older than you, her hair a deep auburn. The sleeves of her sweater are rolled up to her elbows, an apron thrown over her front, tied tightly around her waist. Her eyes dart from Natasha to you—small, drenched, hunched in on yourself like a wounded animal—and you realize, suddenly, that you recognize her.
Wanda Maximoff. You recognize her, not from magazines or news articles, but from the community center two blocks down from your parents' church. Last spring, she’d led a workshop for foster teens—you still remember the sound of her laughter, bright and kind as you hid nearby, hood up, and prayed she wouldn’t see you.
This time, though, there is nowhere to hide, not when you’re standing at her front door dripping water all over the floor.
“Hello,” Wanda offers, her voice gentle, coaxing, exactly as Natasha’s had been when she invited you in, as if you’re a startled bird she’s trying not to spook. Her eyes linger from your narrow shoulders to the pale pallor of your face, taking in how Natasha’s coat swallows your frame. There are bruises beneath your sweater, hidden from view, but when Wanda looks at you like that, you’re almost certain she can see them.
Trauma trained. A social worker’s gaze. You’ve seen that look before, when you were still too small to understand that you would never be worthy of your parents’ love. You feel naked under her gaze, like she has sunk her fingers into your chest and pried open your ribcage.
Wanda looks at Natasha, communicating something through looks alone, before returning her attention to you. “You’ll catch your death in those clothes,” she states. “Let’s get you dry, hm? The bathroom is this way. Towels are under the sink.”
She doesn’t touch you; she doesn’t even reach out. Just waits, certain you’ll say yes. And like the predictable creature you are, you do, helpless against the gentle authority that radiates off her frame.
You find the towels exactly where Wanda claimed they’d be. You dry your hair silently, unable to look at your reflection. You already know what you’ll see. You remove Natasha’s jacket and lay it across the porcelain countertop, wondering if you’ve ruined the leather.
When you open the bathroom door, there’s a pile of folded clothes at your feet. You stare at them for a long moment, contemplating, considering whether you’d be better off cracking open the tiny bathroom window and throwing yourself out. You feel like a stray cat, all ribs and matted fur.
The feeling only grows when you crouch down, pick up the bundle of clothes, and step into the bathroom once more to change.
The sweater you change into is soft, smelling faintly of lavender, and the sweatpants pool at your feet. You have to cinch the waistband as tightly as you can just to keep them up. The socks are thick and woollen. Hers, you realize, guilt bubbling in your throat as you fold your soaked clothes into a neat pile, fishing the rosary from the jacket pocket, and slide it into the pocket of the sweatpants before stepping out.
When you shuffle back to the living room, Wanda is exiting the kitchen, a steaming mug clasped between her hands. Natasha sits at the table, a pen tucked between her fingers as she shuffles through the documents in front of her—the domesticity of it aches. “Chamomile. Good for nerves.” Wanda orders gently, nodding at the chair across from Natasha, “Sit.”
You do. The mug is placed down in front of you, steam furling from the cup and warming your chilled skin. As Wanda moves, your eyes catch on the ring wrapped around her fourth finger, identical to the one Natasha wore. Wife, you think, recalling how Natasha had said the word, like it wasn’t a phantom that had haunted you since you were old enough to know what love meant.
“Good. There you go,” Wanda murmurs, and you almost burst into tears then, your breath hitching. It lingers like the pin of a grenade, shame, hunger, and something else warring in the hollow of your ribs.
Praise.
Praise feels so good.
You had yearned for praise your entire life—from your parents, from your teachers, from friends and family. It had only ever been a weapon, honeyed and corrosive, a way to control you. Wanda’s praise, however, lacks that venom. The words themselves feel like a hand on your cheek or a pat on the head, something sinful you weren’t allowed to touch.
Natasha watches over her paperwork, her green eyes clawing through your defences like paper. You don’t know what to say, if you should thank her or scream at her. You should be plummeting off the edge, not sitting in a warm kitchen with tea.
Finally, Wanda settles in the seat beside Natasha. Close, but not too close. You can still breathe at this distance. “What’s your name?”
You hesitate. Then, “… Y/N,” you mumble hoarsely.
“Y/N,” Wanda repeats, like it’s something precious. “It’s nice to meet you. How old are you, honey?”
You know this song and dance. She’s trying to lower your guard, to tear down your defences until you let something slip. Something dangerous, something deadly. You knew her type—social workers—and the games they played. Yet, you answered anyway, the echo of, “Good,” lingering like a phantom in your head.
“Nineteen.”
Her face does something complicated, a myriad of emotions playing across her face. Before either of you can say anything else, Natasha tells you, “Feel free to tell her to shut up. She works with foster kids—doesn’t know how to quit.”
Wanda’s eyes narrow, and she swats Natasha’s shoulder lightly. “Says the woman who sued the city twice, this month alone.”
Natasha smirks, an easy quirk of the lips. “What can I say, they make it too easy.”
Wanda rolls her eyes, but her smile is fond. “I’m sure they do.” Her hazel eyes slide back to your face, taking in the expression on your face. “Are you a student, Y/N?”
Mutely, you shake your head. You dropped out last semester, upon realizing that the future held nothing for you.
Wanda fills the silence when you don’t, unbothered by your reticence. “That’s alright. I didn’t go either, not until I was twenty-three. Natalia helped me study—just about drove me mad with flashcards.”
Natasha snorts. “You drove me mad, crying over every exam.”
“I did not—”
“You sobbed during your HBSE final.”
“It was a hard exam, Natalia—”
Their bickering is warm and effortless; a dance that you don’t know the moves of. You stare down at your tea. This is what sin looks like; warm and filled with laughter.
You don’t belong here. You’re nothing more than a ghost, haunting someone’s life.
Suddenly, a hand brushes across your shoulder—you jerk back, the chair screeching against the floor, your heart pounding in your ears. You brace yourself for the pain—a hand slamming across the back of your head, fingers around your wrist—
“I’m sorry—I-I should go. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Wanda’s expression softens with pity, and the tears from earlier resurface like poison. “It’s okay,” she soothes, her hands tucked far away from your face. “You don’t have to apologize. Stay as long as you need, okay?”
You want to scream—to ask what’s wrong with her, why her kindness doesn’t come with claws. Nothing in life is free, your mother had always told you. Everyone wants something.
“The couch folds out,” Wanda adds, her wedding band glinting under the kitchen lights. “Or I can make up the guest room. Whatever you prefer.”
It’s not a question—not like the offer to come in had been, or the offer for tea. You’re too tired to argue.
As she leaves, Natasha leans forward, her elbows folded on the table. “She’s like that,” she tells you. “I meant it when I told you to tell her to knock it off, if it becomes too much. She doesn’t always know how to take a hint.”
You swallow hard. The words should sting—they should be tinged with violence and anger. You have never seen a couple love each other, much less two women. Only in movies—stories—fairytales with a happily-ever-after.
You want to ask why they’re doing this. Instead, all you croak out is a feeble, “Okay.”
The rain batters against the window; you can all but feel the chill under your skin. You look down at your hands, bone-white, nails gnawed down to nothing and nailbeds that have been peeled away.
You’re certain you’ll regret this in the morning. But for now, all you can do is lift the mug of chamomile to your lips and take a drink.
The morning light filters through the curtains, soft and muted. You don’t remember falling asleep—you don’t even remember leaving the kitchen. At some point, you must have, but when you try to remember when, you come up blank.
The world feels … different, as you wake. Duller, less immediate. The mattress beneath you is firm, but comfortable, the blankets wrapped around your shoulders heavy and warm. It smells faintly of lavender, like the sweater you’re wearing.
You don’t move, not yet. For a long time you just lay there, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the apartment. The rain has stopped—outside the window, you can hear the chirp of birds, the sound of cars in the street. It’s peaceful.
It makes your chest ache.
You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve this warmth, this softness.
You don’t deserve to wake up at all.
Yet, you did, and now you’re here, in a stranger’s apartment, wrapped up in a blanket that isn’t yours, wearing clothes that don’t belong to you. The guilt is a weight in your stomach, heavy and unrelenting—you should leave. You should find your clothes and slip out of the door before anyone notices.
But you don’t. You can’t. Your limbs feel like they’re made of lead, much too heavy to move. The closest thing you can manage is rolling onto your side and burying your face in the blankets, breathing in the smell of lavender detergent.
You hear dishes clattering in the kitchen, followed by the murmur of voices, Wanda’s melodic and Natasha’s low and steady. You can’t make out what they’re saying—but you don’t have to. The tone of their voices is more than enough.
It’s the sort of conversation that happens between two people who know each other, inside and out, like the back of their hand. People that have shared a life long enough that they don’t need words to communicate.
You’ve never had that.
You’ve never even come close.
Eventually, you drag yourself out of the bed, running a hand through your hair. It’s matted and gross, knots tangled at the base of your skull. You can feel the phantom of a comb tugging through them, your mother chiding you for squirming.
Your hand falls away as you exit the room. The hallway is quiet, the floor cool beneath your sock-clad feet. As you approach the kitchen, you pause, your fingers brushing against the doorframe to steady yourself.
You can smell it—coffee and something sweet, wafting from the kitchen. Your stomach twists, nausea bubbling in your throat, but not from hunger.
Natasha is at the stove, her back to you, red hair pulled into a messy bun. Wanda, on the other hand, is seated at the table, a mug—like the one she had given you last night—cradled in her hands. In the glow of the morning light, she is beautiful in the kind of way that makes you quiver with guilt and sin.
Wanda looks up as you enter, her eyes soft. “Good morning,” she greets, as Natasha turns away from the stove to look at you. “How did you sleep?”
You swallow, choking on your voice. It takes three tries to clear your throat and manage a pathetic, “Well. T-Thank you.”
In reality, you don’t remember sleeping at all. One moment you were awake and the next you were waking up in a bed that you didn’t recognize, morning peering through the windows. Your throat is raw, eyes dry and gritty, and you remain in the entryway of the kitchen, awkward and out of place.
It’s Natasha who speaks next, offering, “Coffee?” Like you’re a long-time friend, rather than a stray she found on her apartment’s roof the night before. You can only nod, watching her place down the spatula and reach for the cupboard to remove a mug.
Wanda looks at you, watching, staring. You squirm, feeling small and insignificant under her gaze—vulnerable, now that it’s morning and there are no shadows to hide behind. “Sit,” she orders, not unkindly, like she knows you’re too afraid to move without permission.
The invitation feels like a trap; kindness you don’t deserve. However, it’s the weight of their patience that has your feet moving, step by step, until you’re sinking into the chair. Shortly after, Natasha sets a mug of coffee in front of you, the steam curling lazily, followed by sugar and powdered creamer.
“Help yourself,” she says, before returning to the stove. You stare down at the dark liquid, unblinking—wonder, briefly, for some strange reason, if it’s poisoned.
Not literally; no, perhaps not. Neither of these women strikes you as a serial killer or a predator.
No—you wonder if it’s poisoned in the way that everything in your life is; poisoned with the price of kindness.
“Do you like pancakes?” Wanda asks, breaking the silence. “Natasha makes them from scratch; protein pancakes. They’re … edible, most of the time.”
“Says the woman who burns tea,” Natasha retorts dryly.
Wanda shoots back, “Tea is more difficult than it looks.”
Again—their banter is easy, familiar, and it aches, just like it had last night. You’ve never had this—this … lightness, this warmth. Even when your family would sit around the dinner table and pray, there was always a heavy silence that accompanied the gathering, broken up by criticism or nails under your skin, prying out your vulnerabilities to feast.
Love was conditional, something to be earned.
You zone out. It’s only until a plate of pancakes is set down in front of you, along with a bottle of syrup, that you realize you haven’t touched the coffee—that it is still clutched between your bone-white hands. “Eat,” Natasha says, firm, but not unkind. “You’ll feel better.”
You don’t believe her. Still, you pick up the fork with a trembling hand, setting the untouched coffee aside. Natasha hums, devastatingly soft, and reaches out to take the mug. “Sugar?” She asks. “Creamer? We have milk in the fridge—soy.”
“… Creamer is … fine,” you manage, grasping the knife in your other hand. You cut off a little piece of the pancake, refusing to touch the syrup, and bring it to your mouth. The texture is dry, almost grainy, and the taste is bland, but you chew anyway, swallowing it down like medicine. You don't look up, not even when Natasha sets the coffee back down in front of you, a touch lighter from the creamer she'd stirred in. You can feel their eyes on you, Wanda's soft and searching, Natasha's sharp and calculating.
It's too much. You want to disappear.
"See what I mean? Not her best work," Wanda says after a moment, her voice light and teasing. "Still, she tries. I'm more of a toast person myself."
Natasha rolls her eyes and finally takes a seat, her own coffee and plate of pancakes in hand. "Toast isn't a personality trait, Wanda."
"Neither is being a lawyer, yet here we are."
You don't laugh. You don't even smile. It's strange how they can joke so easily, how they exist in the same space so effortlessly. You've never known this kind of lightness—you're not sure you ever will.
You take another bite of the pancake, forcing it down even as your stomach churns. You don't deserve this warmth, this food; this kindness. You don't deserve to sit at their table, wrapped in their clothes and drinking their coffee. You are—you are wretched, undeserving—
So, why can't you leave?
Wanda's voice breaks through your thoughts. "Y/N," she begins, ignoring how you flinch at the sound of your own name, "did you have any plans for today?"
You hadn't. You were supposed to be dead, not sitting in a stranger's apartment eating chalky pancakes and drinking too-strong coffee. You stare down at your plate and consider lying. Natasha had said the ledge would be there when morning came, and she was right. You could march out of this apartment and throw yourself off the ledge if you so wished.
So why weren't you leaving?
"No," you whisper.
"That's okay," Wanda says, like it's no big deal. You're certain Natasha has told her exactly where she found you—so why isn't she disgusted? You can feel it in the way she looks at you, the way Natasha's eyes linger on the bruises peeking out from under the sleeve of the sweater. "Feel free to stay as long as you need. We have plenty of space."
Wordlessly, you nod. You want to tell her no, that you can't stay, that your parents will expect you sooner, rather than later. You haven't gone home in days—you'd trashed your phone even further back. Your mother had been furious, and the bruises on your ribs still ached.
You tug the sleeve of the sweater over your hand. It hides nothing, not when they've already seen the bruises and scars there, but it makes you feel a little less vulnerable.
Filthy, you think. It sounds like your mother. Stupid little girl.
The silence stretches on until you're certain you can fasten a noose from it. The cross around your neck burns—if you could hang yourself with your faith, you'd have done it years ago. As it stands, you're more likely to drown in your guilt than anything else.
"Do you like books?" Wanda asks. You almost feel bad, being so listless, so quiet. Here they are, taking you in, feeding you, and you can scarcely lift the fork, much less look them in the eye. "We have plenty. Or movies, if you prefer."
You don't answer—you can't.
But Wanda doesn't seem to mind. She just keeps talking, filling the silence with her soft, steady voice. Natasha joins in occasionally, with a dry or sarcastic remark that breaks up the warmth.
They are soft, you think, as you work diligently at the pancakes, despite lacking an appetite. I don't understand.
You're not sure you ever will.