trust in me

pretty & patient

Pitch black.

Her eyes were open and everything was pitch black.

She was breathing.

And yet the pressure on her chest was growing and the rise and fall of breath was nearly non-existent. 

Every night seemed to be the same - crawling under the covers and fighting off sleep. To Wanda, sleep didn't mean good things.

When she was small and still living in now war-torn Sokovia, she learnt to sleep with one eye open. Back then, sleep troubles were soothed by Pietro's hands and her mother's gentle singing voice. 

Pietro wasn't here. Her mother was long gone.

She had managed to convince Bucky into letting her stay the night in his dingy city apartment. Every window was closed and she had gathered every blanket she possibly could yet still was left shivering, huddled up under the covers, cold feet poking out from underneath. 

The effects from the flashbacks had now subsided causing her oxygen flow to once again slip into normality. Her vision was focusing and the black of the night soon became clearer. Her mind was still in overdrive, replaying every specific moment.

Wanda saw it happen right in front of her eyes. Pietro called out to her, told her to run. She couldn't. She froze.

And, God, she felt so bad for it.

Survivor's guilt was what Bucky told her. He had met Wanda when her and Pietro had been kicked out of the townhouse they managed to stay at for a while, and found themselves looking for refuge at a shelter. He had been there too, sleeve pulled over his metal arm and blanket wrapped around his shoulders. 

He had taken them in kindly. Both Pietro and Wanda supported everything he did while he struggled to get back on his feet, keeping close together. 

Then he met Steve. He found his place again.

Now, Bucky saw it as the least he could do for her. Her body so frail and bordering malnourished, attempting to survive without the safety of her brother beside her. It had been such a shock to her system - everything in her body was crying against it. And now, even on the warmest nights where she could sleep feeling safe, the feeling of it ran through her body. Like dry ice on bare skin - so cold and yet burning. 

She could hear footsteps outside the door. Usually at a time like this she would assume it was Pietro coming home late, clutching a cold and shivering child and bringing them into wherever they were at the time and offering the child their food. He took after their mother, whose warmth lasted until the day she died. Even when her husband passed the light in her eyes did not fade. Wanda admired that.

Thoughts, as they usually did, drowned her into sleep. Restless sleep, but sleep nonetheless.