Fire and Smoke - Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Chapter ?

(One last time, baby angels.)

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I feel my skin break out into goosebumps as the cool breeze softly flutters against my skin, the coolness of it breaking the warmth of the rays of the sun that have been beating down upon my skin relentlessly. My back feels tired from all the squatting down I've been doing throughout the day, but the exhaustion in my limbs makes me feel slightly more alive than I have felt for a while. I let go of the hammer in my hand, gently letting it rest on the side of the steps to the porch that I've been trying to fix for the past hours on end. I stand up, stretching my stiff back as I watch my little project. 'Little' might be an understatement, but right now, the porch is my latest victim. It looks... well, like it won't collapse. Deciding that should be good enough for today, I nod to myself.

Numbly, I walk into the cabin. I flick a light switch, which illuminates the inside with a warm, orange glow. The cabin feels so much smaller now than it used to when I was younger. The silence presses against my eardrums, and without being able to stand the silence much longer, I carelessly flick on the old, static radio my grandparents used to dance around the kitchen to. I don't pay much attention to whatever noise the radio emits, as long as there's something that can attempt to fill the silence which keeps threatening to swallow me every single time I let my thoughts wander.

The cabin is slowly beginning to look hospitable -like it actually wants someone to inhabit it. I have a long way to go, but I would rather spend cold nights here, in the middle of nowhere, than in my New York apartment, confined to doing nothing but going to the gym and drinking. At least here, I can raid my own liquor cabinet, leaning on the cool, burning liquid to help me fall asleep to the sound of the stars and my regrets.

It's been a couple of weeks since my hearing at the FBI, and I've not heard anything from them since. I try to not overthink and dissect every word spoken at the hearing for the umpteenth time, but my brain seems to be hellbent on returning to the grey Bureau building, as if there might have been a sign I missed. I know there has not, but my brain doesn't seem to get it. Overthinking is what I do best.

The radio brings me back to the present as a singer wails on about wondering who they are and whether they are someone they might dislike. It is a little on the nose.

I blink, gathering myself, forcing myself into motion instead of just standing in the middle of the living room. I make my way into the kitchen, moving on autopilot, the layout of the cabin somehow still ingrained in my muscles from childhood. In the kitchen, the slightly limescale-ridden kettle turns on happily, leaving me to aimlessly stand in front of it, staring at it.

"Any for me?"

My body automatically jumps and I turn on my heels at the familiar, dark voice. I stare out into the empty cabin, my heart beating excitedly in my ribcage. For a second, I imagine her piercing green eyes on me. But just for a second. Slowly but surely, with nothing but the growing noise of the kettle overtaking the sound from the radio, my heart rate settles once more. She's not here.

I turn back around to face the kettle once more, trying to ignore the slight tightness in my chest. This isn't the first time I have imagined myself hearing Wanda's voice. It's as though even though Wanda and I parted ways weeks ago, my mind or my heart still hasn't gotten the memo. I breathe out, trying to get the feeling of her presence to wash off me. It's been weeks without any sign of her, which should be sign enough. I slightly clumsily pour the almost boiling water into a mug, still not used to having to maneuver basic tasks with one arm in a sling. I drop a teabag into the water, not bothering with any sort of sweetener. Fulfilling my boring routine, the cup of tea and I make our way onto the porch, from where I slowly walk across the grass, barefoot, until I reach the old porch swing.