The tower was too bright.
The halls were too clean.
No one yelled, no one barked orders — but that didn’t make it feel safer. The silence was worse, sometimes. Like a trap waiting to snap shut.
You didn’t trust any of them.
They found you in a HYDRA facility, half-starved and half-feral. You bit a soldier when they tried to carry you out. You screamed when the quinjet doors closed. You kicked a wall until your toes bled when they locked you in a medbay.
You were just a kid. But your rage was sharp and cold, like something you were taught to keep ready. Your voice was hoarse from shouting. And your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, even after a full day of rest and quiet.
The others gave you space. Steve tried. Clint tried. But your eyes darted like something hunted. You didn't respond well to softness. It made your skin itch.
Then came her.
Wanda didn’t ask questions. She just came in one afternoon and sat on the floor beside you, cross-legged, barefoot, unbothered.
You were curled up in the corner of your new room — knees to chest, body tense, daring her to get close. She didn’t.
“I brought apples,” she said simply, holding one out without pushing.
You didn’t take it.
She didn’t leave.
And from that day on, she came back. Every day.
She didn’t flinch when you screamed.
The first time you shoved a tray of food across the floor, Wanda didn’t raise her voice. She waited. Then carefully gathered the pieces and sat again. Like you hadn’t just had a full-blown meltdown.
The third time you threw a chair, she caught it mid-air with a flick of her fingers and looked at you — not angry. Just… still.
“You can be upset,” she said calmly. “But you can’t hurt people.”
“I hate it here,” you spat. “I hate you.”
Wanda didn’t blink. “That’s okay too. I’ll be here tomorrow anyway.”
You didn’t cry — not in front of her. But that night, you wrapped the blanket she left tighter around yourself than you had before.
--'
It went on like that.
Some days, you were quiet. You’d sit next to her on the rug, watching her make tea and fold paper into little red shapes. She’d talk about Sokovia. About Pietro. About the way her magic used to scare her. She never asked for anything back.
But some days — Some days the memories would crash over you like a wave. The cold floors. The drills. The dark. And your body would betray you. You’d scream, kick, lash out.
And Wanda would just hold you. Arms strong and unshaking. Her voice low.
“You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re safe.”
No one had ever said that to you like it meant something.
One night, you woke up in a panic. The walls felt too close. Your chest tight. Something heavy wrapped around your ribs — invisible, suffocating.
You bolted down the hall.
You didn’t know where you were going until you were outside her door.
You knocked once. Loud. Desperate.
It flew open within seconds.
You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. Your hands shook.
Wanda didn’t ask what happened.
She just opened her arms.