Baby witch (avengers edition)

Dreams Becoming a Reality

The rest of the day went on fairly well until it was time to go back to bed. Wanda did her best to keep the demons at bay, the ones that whispered insidiously in her mind: *They hate you, what are you still doing here?*

She shook off the thoughts, trying to focus on the positive. *You're alright, you have friends.*

Wanda made her way to the dining room, seeing all the Avengers setting up the table. They looked like a family—dysfunctional, but a family nonetheless.

Steve was at the center of it all, laughing and handing out dishes, gently reprimanding Tony, who was trying to sneak some cake onto his plate.

"Tony! You have to share!" Steve chided, his tone somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

Tony, ever the irreverent one, replied, "We can make more cake! It's food, it's meant to be eaten. C'mon, I'm hungry!"

Thor, who had returned for a visit, slapped his hand across Steve's back, making him wince. "Come, let us fetch the girl and feast!" Thor was always a welcome presence, his limited understanding of Midgard customs providing endless entertainment.

Natasha gave Wanda a warm smile and handed her a plate. "Take whatever you want. And don't worry about there not being enough, we're all pigs here."

Wanda chuckled lightly, the sound eerily similar to that of her late brother, Pietro.

But despite the warm atmosphere, Wanda only took a small amount of food. She wasn't hungry; in fact, the idea of eating made her feel nauseous. But she didn't want to disappoint the team, not after they had been so kind to her.

Steve gave her a concerned look. "Wanda, take some more."

She gently shook her head, avoiding eye contact. "I'm good, Steve, really."

Steve nodded, though his worry didn't dissipate. "Alright, but if you get hungry, feel free to take more."

Wanda nodded, though she knew she wouldn't. She barely spoke throughout the meal, unsure of when or how to join the conversation. She felt like a misfit among a team of outcasts. Starting a conversation, let alone carrying one, with the Avengers felt daunting.

She laughed at their jokes, even though she didn't fully understand the humor behind them. She put on an engaged face, looking at whoever was speaking, but never meeting their eyes. It felt too intimate, too presumptuous. She didn't deserve their attention, yet they insisted on making her feel welcome.

When dinner ended, Wanda offered to do the dishes, but Steve waved her off, telling her to get some rest.

Later, in the solitude of the bathroom, Wanda hugged her knees to her chest, slightly rocking back and forth as tears streamed down her pale face. Her dark hair fell over her face, limiting her sight, but she didn't care. Muffled cries escaped her lips as she shook and sobbed.

It hurt. So much.

*Too much.*

The pain was overwhelming, unbearable. It burned inside her, a relentless fire. She wanted to bang her head against the wall, hoping it would hurt less. She needed something to take away the mental anguish—something physical.

Her eyes landed on the razor blades on the sink, and a dark idea formed in her mind. Physical pain. She reached for one, holding it in her hand, contemplating her next move. She gently slid the blade against her wrist, watching as the skin parted and blood seeped out. She was about to do it again when her hand froze in place.

The words of Natasha, Steve, and the others echoed in her mind like a broken record.

*"We care about you."*