Baby witch (avengers edition)

Shadows of Guilt

Wanda's POV

Up in my room, I write out the translation on the book. I'm tempted to put it into Google Translate and call it a night, but I'm fairly certain I would get caught. My wet hair drips onto the pages of the novella, still not dry from my shower.

"Hey, you up for a field trip?" Natasha pokes her head into the room, having thrown a winter coat over her workout gear. She doesn't wait for an answer. "I'll meet you out front in ten." I braid my hair back and put on my new coat. I'm out in five. Natasha appears a moment later with her arms full of reusable grocery bags. We climb into the black SUV and begin our drive. We arrive at Stop and Shop. She sighs heavily and gets out of the car, grabbing a cart on our way in. I stare in awe at the store. There is food everywhere. I have never seen so many different kinds of apples. There are fresh vegetables going from the floor nearly to the ceiling.

"How is there so much food?"

"What do you mean? We always have food at the Compound."

"I thought it was because Tony is rich." I walk over and look at the strawberries. "Aren't these out of season?" Natasha grabs a carton and puts them in the cart.

Natasha grabs my hand and gently leads me closer to the cart, stopping to move me in closer to the handlebar. I put my feet on the bar below and hold onto the cart where Natasha uses to steer. The older woman puts her arms around my body so each of her arms is on either side in case I lean too far over. Then Natasha continues pushing the cart as I ride between her arms.

"Everyone has access to this much food here," she says, leaning down and kissing me on top of my head.

"I like to cook. I am a good cook," I correct myself, putting on an American accent. Natasha smiles at the effort.

"Keep focusing on it until it becomes second nature. First nature isn't enough," she says. Clint laughed and said first nature wasn't a thing.

"What do you like to cook?"

"I can make a meal out of anything." We wander down the aisles. It's midafternoon on a Tuesday; besides a few elderly people and moms with toddlers, the grocery store is empty. Natasha grabs chips and salsa, bread, butter, milk.

Her movements are so blasé that it shocks me. If Pietro could see this much food, he would die. I wince at my own poor choice in words.

"Is there anything that you want?"

"I don't know." I look around the frozen food section and my eyes land on the pierogis. Natasha grabs four bags. "Thank you." I look at Pietro's favorite food. My mother used to say that he ate so many he would turn into a pierogi. "Is there anything else we need?"

"I don't think so." We head towards the checkout. Natasha avoids the cashiers and heads towards self-checkout. She scans, I bag.

"Why do you do grocery shopping?" I ask, stepping off the cart.

"The," she corrects again, looking through her purse for her cards.

"Tony could hire someone to do it, right?"

"Yes, but I like doing it. It's nice to feel normal for a little while." I put the now bagged groceries in the cart and she pays. One of the cashiers is trying to take a sneaky picture with his cell.

"Or at least I can pretend I am." Her eyes flit to the phone briefly. We sit in the car, and I still have so many questions about my new mentor. As if sensing it, she turns to me.

"So, when you say you age slower—"

"Good job on the accent," she compliments. I can tell she is trying to diverge my train of thought with the compliment.