Safe Place

5: Progress

*ONE WEEK LATER*

Wanda's POV:

I wake up, and right away, I notice three things that are very different from how they usually are.

The first is that that wave of grief that used to try to drown me every morning without fail - it's gone. Well, not gone entirely, but smaller. It's swirling around my ankles, very much there, but not pulling me out to sea. I can think about other things without it constantly tugging at me.

The second thing is the silence in the compound. For about a week now, I've woken up to polite mutters or quiet exchanges about missions or training. When I first came here, every morning sounded like a party - laughter, yelling, lighthearted arguments, loud conversations, and plenty of fake fights. But my guess is that the Avengers had a real fight, because they certainly don't sound very happy with each other.

And today, there isn't even a brief murmur about breakfast, or a "Have you seen my training arrows?", or even a shuffle of feet. It's just silence - the heavy kind, like a cloud hanging over you.

The third thing is that I'm hungry. And the last time I showered was before Sokovia - I feel all grimy and greasy and sticky - but mainly I'm hungry. And thirsty.

I'm considering this progress.

I force myself out of bed, wobbling, and turn on the shower. It takes a little getting used to, the heat and the pounding spray, but after a while, I feel better. I wash my hair three times and scrub my face and body extra hard.

Once I've finished and wrapped in a towel, I notice all the fancy bottles and combs laid out along the counter. I rub on some lotion, brush and braid my hair, and voila. I feel a little closer to the old Wanda - well, excluding the part of Old Wanda who worked for HYDRA.

HYDRA. Okay, apparently I'm not just all better all of a sudden, because just thinking the name makes my chest tighten like a screw. I clutch the counter, gasping. Dark spots flash in front of my eyes, alternating between memories of Strucker, and then memories of Pietro.

I manage to grope my way out of the bathroom and onto my bed, but I'm still living my worst nightmare.

Pietro, dead on the ground in front of me.

Strucker and his cold metal tools, the kind that hurt the worst, approaching our cell.

Chains. Punches. Shocks. Screaming. Excruciating pain.

I scream, and I immediately hear footsteps pounding down the hallway. Captain America knocks my door down - geez, I have to stop locking it - and runs to the foot of my bed. 

I'm still trembling, still thinking about HYDRA and Pietro, breath still coming in short wheezes and shallow gasps. He bends over me, concerned.

"Nat," I manage to breathe out, tears starting to trickle down my nose The Captain seems to understand this, running to the doorway and bellowing, "Romanoff!"

She dashes in in gray sweatpants, hair mussed from sleep, and elbows Captain America out of the way to get to me. She holds me tight, like she did before, and rubs my back. 

And that's when I realize I'm still wearing a freaking towel. My entire body tenses.

"Shhhh, no, it's okay," Nat murmurs into the top of my head. Somehow, she manages to pull off her hoodie and zip it up around me as she hugs me close. "You're okay, shhhh, Wanda. Shhh. You're okay."

I start to breathe again, watching and copying her as her chest rises and falls. My cheeks heat up, like they do a lot during panic attacks. Or probably because I scrubbed my face so hard. I feel like I'm on fire. And Nat just keeps holding me, tight and reassuring and never letting go.

Eventually, I crawl off her, still flushed, and lean against the bed's headboard. "I'm sorry," I mumble, staring at the duvet.

"Wanda, it's fine. You can always wake me if you need something," she says, almost sternly. "And besides, you're asking for help instead of trying to suffer through on your own. I'm proud of you for that, Maximoff. That's progress."

With that, Nat gets up and leaves, stepping gracefully over the broken door on the ground. Still wearing only a damp towel and her hoodie, I watch her go, feeling warm-ish and safe-ish again.

Progress. 

With Nat's help, I don't think it'll be that hard.

And only as I'm pulling off her jacket do I realize: I called her Nat.