Wanda got back to the tower as quick as she could. It'd been too long. Tony said it'd only take a week. Not three.
She ran inside. There was one face she needed to see. Tony sat in the kitchen looking through something on his tablet.
"Tony. Where's.. uh.. well..."
"She's downstairs."
"Is she- is she okay?"
"Ask her yourself."
Wanda sighed and ran downstairs to the training room, it was her best bet.
———————————————————————————————————————
Nat lifted her head and threw another punch. Both of her hands were red with crusted blood from split knuckles. Clint had come in a couple of minutes before to check on her. She was fine.
She was always fine.
She just kept throwing the punches and trying to push away the images of her.
But they were there.
They'd been at the front of her mind for eight months.
She threw another punch, and let her fist linger there, panting. She shut her eyes, and tears streamed down her face.
Eight months.
After that long, what were the odds she was even still alive?
Nat leaned her head against the punching bag again.
She couldn't think like that.
Wanda had to be alive.
She had to.
Her breathing was raspy.
Her hands finally stung.
She had to be optimistic.
She let out a wavering breath she didn't know she had been holding in.
She shook, falling to the ground and crumpling. She cried almost against her will.
Wanda couldn't be gone.
She just couldn't.
She got up again.
And she threw a punch.
And another.
She tried to focus only on the dull thudding.
