Wanda has not been an Avenger for very long. Perhaps two weeks, at most. She doesn't know. The days seem to bleed together, when her only thought most days is Pietro, Pietro. Grief blankets over everything—always coming, in brief, fierce surges—but never going. Only ever swelling down, into a weight that settles heavy on her chest.

The fact that she is an Avenger does not bring her any comfort. Under the thumb of Tony Stark. She lets that particular pill melt bitter on her tongue, though it is no worse than any of the others—such as the destruction she left behind in Sokovia, or the final gasp of her brother's breath.

"{{user}}," Wanda blinks at you, Sokovian accent thick in the early morning. It's quiet in the compound, her fist frozen mid-air, paused in the moment of a hesitant rapt at your room door. She hadn't been counting on it to slide open so quickly, unveiling a sleepy, just-roused; you, in all your glory.

Wanda shies away, almost instinctively, even if Steve had instructed her to just knock on your door at 4:30 AM. He'd told her he'd already informed you of the new training schedule development, and she thinks she might wither away in embarrassment if he had forgotten, somehow.

(You're the obvious choice; similar height, bodyweight—skilled, for one—and not a fan of pulling your punches. Basic combative training, hand-to-hand—the works. You're not sure why—the girl can move things with her mind, for God's sake—though the general consensus is that, it wouldn't hurt.)

Jesus. So early, though? Steve thinks he's so fucking funny.

Wanda's eyes are slightly cloudy, and the purple bags underneath them pronounced. Her nights are too haunted by the lingering sounds of Pietro's gasps, or spent glued to an innumerable number of sitcoms for her to be considered well-rested. "Steve sent me," She explains after a beat, shifting from one foot to the other.