Chapter Text
It’s not a goddamn funeral, Wanda thinks, as an air of exasperation clings to her while she critically surveys her all-black ensemble in the mirror.
She finds her gaze lingering on the zipper, placed strategically where her spine tapers gracefully into her neck. With a snap decision born of annoyance, she tugs at it. The sudden, reckless movement disrupts the zipper's path, causing it to stubbornly jam at her waist, refusing to descend any further.
“Fuck,” Wanda mutters quietly, a flush of frustration spreading across her cheeks. She gingerly begins to work her arms out of the dress's sleeves, the task surprisingly easy due to her recent weight loss. Her initial attempt to slide the dress off her body only serves to further ensnare her, the trapped fabric causing an uncomfortable sweat to pool beneath her arms. Regrettably, her weight loss had neglected to focus on her midsection, making it impossible for her to coax the dress up and over her head.
Left with a stark choice—repair the stubborn zipper or sacrifice the dress—Wanda, in her growing exasperation, elects for the latter.
Grabbing a pair of scissors, she starts to frantically cut through the silky material. Her heart hammers as she terrorizes the dress with fervor–grunting Sokovian words she’s surprised she still remembers–until the dress pools at her feet in tatters. Exhausted and spent from the outburst, Wanda crawls onto her bed, flopping face down onto her stomach.
To some degree, her recent outbursts are gradually becoming a concern, especially since she’s back in her old Manhattan neighborhood. The smallest, most insignificant things tick her off, and a densely populated city like New York offers an abundance of such triggers. Take the incident last week, for instance, when she was navigating the crowded aisles of Trader Joe's. A persistent nudge against her backside from someone's shopping cart had her patience fraying at the edges.
“I swear to god, if you don’t lay the fuck off—” The words died on Wanda's lips as she whirled around to confront the offender, only to find herself staring at a frail, elderly woman who looked as if she were in the twilight of her years.
“I'm sorry,” she managed to choke out, her lips pressed into a firm, unforgiving line.
“Oh, it’s alright. We all have bad days. But sweetheart,” The old woman warmly smiled at her and then leaned closer as if to share a secret. “You need to get laid.” She delivered the advice as though bestowing upon Wanda some ancient and sagacious wisdom.
Wanda's smile back was strained, almost plastic. Eager to escape the situation, she hastily removed nearly half the items from her cart, earning a disgruntled glance from a store employee who would have to restock them.
The mysterious universe had a dark sense of humor. It was sex that brought her to this manic-depressive, freak-out-at-a-grocery-store behavior, and to be told by a stranger that she needed more of it was just the cherry on top of the tremendous fuckery of a year she’s had.
Wanda flips over onto her back and allows her eyes to fall shut for a minute. She doesn’t even know why she’s wasted an hour of choosing what to wear for the day she gets legally separated from you. And yet she couldn’t help but give an extra effort to look good for you. The occasions when she gets to see you have become a rarity. She could count on one hand the times you've met since that pivotal lunch at the diner in Westview.
She needs to look her best, and hopes you’d notice.
Glancing back at her wide-open wardrobe, that’s when she spots it. Tucked away at the farthest end of the rack, is a decade-old sundress she’s kept all this time.
The memory rises unbidden to her mind, before she could stop it.
It was the dress she chose for your first date. She recalls picking it specifically because it’s green. She wanted it to match her eyes–your favorite part of her body. It made you gape. It had left you awestruck, so overwhelmed with desire that you'd almost forgotten the way to the restaurant where you'd made reservations, too entranced by her to focus on the road.
By the end of that night though, that dress was quickly discarded, a forgotten trail from the front door to the bedroom.
"Are we moving too fast?" you murmured against her flushed lips, pulling away from the heated kiss as your hands explored the contours of her trembling body. All Wanda did in response was to hum softly, nuzzling into your neck and pressing gentle kisses onto every inch of skin she could reach.
You two had known each other for years. It didn't feel like things were progressing too quickly. Instead, it felt more like a natural progression – the lingering hugs that went on for a fraction longer than they should, the way your gazes would always find each other even in a sea of people, the affectionate pecks on the cheek that were perilously close to the mouth. And not to mention, being jealous of people you both dated during those years of being something more than friends but less than lovers.
In reality, the pace had been tortuously slow. A slow burn that had put all other slow burns to shame.
You guided Wanda back to your mouth and the kiss that ignited again is its own kind of sex. God, she never really understood the fuzz about making out because her sexual experiences in the past didn’t really pay much attention to foreplay. For a while, she was simply content with the sliding of lips and tongues. But then, you dropped to the floor and began sliding off her damp thong, your dilated eyes never leaving hers.
Wanda’s breath hitched as she watched you sink to your knees, looking at her with unmatched devotion. How could you show her such reverence when you yourself were breathtakingly beautiful?
She needed you to touch her soon or she’d lose her mind. “Please.”
Her panties only made it past one ankle before you dove in to taste her for the first time.
Wanda of the present comes at the ghost sensation of your tongue against her throbbing clit. In truth, it’s just her fingers that brought her to climax while she kneels at the center of her bed, her ruined underwear down past her thighs. She bucks her hips a couple of more times before falling back to the mattress, spent.
That old lady was right. An orgasm does help.
__________
The divorce is final.
Today, Wanda signs away any legal right she has as your partner. For everyone else in the meeting room, it's just another ordinary day to dissolve a marriage.
Wanda is wearing the sundress that sort of accidentally gave her release this morning. You keep looking at her, likely trying to figure out why the dress looks so familiar. And Wanda can't look at you straight in the eye without blushing.
You arrive with your ever-reliable backup–your best friend–Natasha Romanoff. Now that Wanda is no longer married to you, her insecurities about the true nature of your relationship with Natasha surface. The comforting pat on your back from Natasha, the way she asks if you're okay, her offer to get you a drink, and her knowledge that you take your coffee black with three teaspoons of brown sugar.
The way she’s just always there.
It annoys her enough that you said Natasha was your person, because then what was she to you? Surely, the title of soulmate outshines that of a wife, and Wanda craves both. She yearns for all of the labels.
Well, maybe not all . She definitely doesn’t want to be called your ex-wife. But she’ll accept the harsh reality for your sake. She meant it when she said she'd give you anything you desire, even if it leaves her benched.
As your lawyers present the divorce documents, you proceed to sign without hesitation, your movements mechanical, almost as if you're in a trance. Wanda glances at you, her pen hovering over the papers. Her heart screams at her to resist, to argue, to fight for the love that once was. But she doesn't. She mirrors your actions, pressing the pen to the paper, sealing their fates with ink and legal jargon.
After the signing is done, your respective lawyers retrieve the documents, retreating to another room to review them. You remain seated, your gaze set firmly straight ahead, an inscrutable mask in place. Wanda, on the other hand, takes the opportunity to memorize every feature of your face, to soak in your presence while she still can.
“Hey, do you want to get coffee?” Wanda breaks the spell of silence that lasted some five minutes. It’s a plea for a sliver of normalcy in a moment that's anything but.
No sooner are the words out of her mouth than she wishes she could reel them back in. The incredulous look you give her is as if she has sprouted a second head on her slender, sagging shoulders.
“Seriously?” you ask, a bitter chuckle escaping your lips.
Wanda falls silent, just resorts to quietly admiring you in a skirt suit she’s never seen you wear before. In the short time you’ve both been separated, she’s noticed little changes of yours that makes her homesick for you. You will wear new clothes and shoes, get a new haircut, try a new hobby, walk a certain way, and then all these changes will pile up until you become this inconceivable stranger. Still beautiful–but a stranger nonetheless. She knows the consequences of her actions are harder on you, but maybe, just maybe, it’s equally hard for her too.
“I'm sorry, but I can't,” you respond, a weariness in your voice that pulls at Wanda's heart. “Maybe it isn't for you, but today is one of the worst days of my life, Wanda. It could be the first, or second, or third. I'm not sure. There have been quite a few of them recently, but this one definitely ranks high. I just need some time alone.”
Wanda will never get used to the way you’re now just either angry or tired of dealing with her. She’s afraid to reassess the odds of getting you back and finding out it’s worse than zero.
“Right,” Wanda mutters, her gaze dropping to her feet. "I don't know what I was thinking."
You hum in response.
“It is, you know?” Wanda says.
You shoot her a quizzical look.
“It’s hard for me too,” Wanda clarifies. “I spent all morning picking out what to wear and getting all dolled-up, in desperate hopes you’d–you’d change your mind at the last minute.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel bad, or—”
“No,” Wanda interrupts, her voice rising in panic. It seems she can't help but say the wrong things today. “It's hard for me. Because this is the end of our marriage when all I want is to be with you right now.”
You avert your gaze and nod solemnly at her as if you understood.
Do you?
Do you, perhaps, feel the same way? Or is she the only one still in love?
“I'm sorry for being a jerk,” you say, your eyes refusing to meet hers. “I know it's unfair for me to act like I'm the only one who's hurting. I just–I'm tired of being angry and sad and lost all the time. And it doesn’t help when you’re around. For once, I want to feel something else, and I need to be alone to figure that out.”
I want to move on from you , is what Wanda thinks you really want to say and her eyes well up. This time, she prays you don’t glance her way. She might just break down right in front of you if you do. She’s never known this kind of desolation. And she only has herself to blame.
For once, she’s thankful for Natasha’s presence when she interrupts the moment, asking if you’re ready to leave.
“I am,” you tell Natasha. You rise from your chair, making your way around the long table to where Wanda is sitting. As you softly place your hand on her shoulder, she can no longer stop the tears from falling. The touch is so light, it almost feels like she imagined it.
“Thank you for giving me the best years of my life. Goodbye, Wanda.”
Pain radiates through her body, causing her to tremble visibly. She's unsure how she's still holding on at this point. Not for the first time, she desperately wishes for a do-over. But the clock only moves forward, and it’s still moving to take you away.
Perhaps time will also be the force that brings you back to her, one day.
Two Months Later
Wanda hasn’t seen you since the divorce. Not even a single glimpse. She hasn't heard anything from you either. Even though you didn't explicitly refuse her when she stated she'd try to win you back, her unanswered texts and unreturned calls should be more than enough to tell her otherwise.
Her only consolation is that you haven’t blocked her number yet. A few days after she last saw you, she texted to remind you to pick up the last of your things she has in possession. Natasha showed up at her door the very next morning, which confirms you still get her texts. The items were inconsequential in nature, but Wanda had the hardest time putting them in a box.
She spent an unnecessary amount of time organizing your hardcover books alphabetically (“It's just not the same, but a Kindle user would never understand,” you'd explain to her whenever you went book shopping) and meticulously cleaning each figure from your small collection of Funko Pop toys (“Add a dozen more and you won't have room left on your side of the cabinet. What does that leave you with?” Wanda would chide you whenever she'd discover a shopping bag full of them in the car trunk. “Happiness,” you'd respond with a sheepish grin). And then as she sealed the package, a bitter smile crossed her face; how ironic that she sorely missed those things about you that she used to find mildly annoying. It felt like the grieving had no end. If she'd known that you'd send Natasha to collect them, she might have held onto them a bit longer.
She wanted to keep them, to retain as much of you as she could. But Wanda wouldn't call herself a masochist. Not really.
Because it’s not over yet. It will take as long as it needs to, and it won’t matter. Patience is her utmost virtue.
Wanda believes you feel the same way because there are those nights, right around midnight, when her phone rings from an unfamiliar number. She would answer and listen to ragged, shallow breaths for a minute before the call ends abruptly. These instances always blur in her memory, clouded by wine and prescription pills, yet Wanda is certain they occur.
The days aren’t so bleak when she pretends she’s still your wife, and you’re just in some faraway place—like a soldier dispatched to war, she's left to mark the days until she's in your arms again.
She follows her usual routine as she always did when you were still together; she goes for a morning run, eats eggs and toast for breakfast, and then takes Sparky for an afternoon walk. Her evenings, excruciating and long, are the loneliest hours. Sleep hardly comes to her, if at all.
She also grieves for Sparky, who faithfully waits by the door around the time you used to come home from work. He patiently remains there until Wanda calls him or
until he falls asleep right at the same spot. It's not like she can explain to him why you won't be coming home anymore. All Wanda can do is wait for Sparky to unlearn this behavior or forget about you.
So, for the past two months, she’s been taking it one day at a time. It’s now the only way she knows how to survive. It’s working so far, she muses, as she stands before the proof of it while carrying Sparky under her arm, right in the middle of a quiet street in Queens.
Wanda had loaned the capital for the business right after the divorce papers were signed, and when she got the alimony from it, it was more than enough to pay back the loan in full and still for some change.
She sought to build something new from the ruins of what she had shattered.
And that's how the first Sokovian café in the borough was born. Or, at least, will be born once the renovations are fully completed. The scaffolding still obscures much of the view, but she can envision what it will look like once it officially opens its doors to the public.
Her contractor and fellow Sokovian immigrant, Mr. Jacobs, spots her from where he's installing the signage. “Ms. Maximoff!” he calls out.
Wanda looks up at him with a smile, sweeping her new bangs away from her face. The haircut is recent, and she somewhat regrets it. “Is everything going well here?” she asks.
“I believe so. There's still some electrical work to finish, but I'm confident we'll be ready before your grand opening,” he assures Wanda.
Sparky starts squirming against Wanda’s hold. “Can we come in now or should we come back another day?” Wanda asks.
“Absolutely,” he replies, “My team cleared out the area and installed the air conditioning last night, so it should be comfortable for you.”
That's perfect. She's been eager to test out the new oven she ordered and there are a few new recipes she's been wanting to try.
“And Ms. Maximoff?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t worry, this place is going to do great. They’re gonna love you and our culture.”
A feeling of warmth spreads through Wanda’s chest. She thanks him and he gives her a salute before getting back to work.
Wanda’s not ready for the emotion that consumes her when she steps inside her new café. Setting Sparky down on the hardwood floor, the dog immediately starts exploring, sniffing every inch of the room within his reach–a task that doesn't take long for a Jack Russell Terrier of his size.
The rented space isn't large, so Wanda had to be smart with its design. A long bench extends from the open kitchen and counter to a point about two meters from the entrance, encompassing two round dining tables that can each seat two people. By the window wall facing the street, there's a high table with two chairs. The open kitchen, which is designed to accommodate no more than three staff members (including her), contains a single espresso machine and a wall oven.
All told, the café can handle around six dine-in customers at a time, which is why she's banking on take-out orders to be a significant part of the business.
Wanda did all the decorations herself, top to bottom. She designed the ceilings with floral patterns in autumn hues, a nod to your favorite season. Suspended from these are pendant lights that emit a soft, yellow glow, bathing the space in warmth. The polished concrete wall in the dining area gives the space an industrial vibe, which is contrasted by the red brick tiles lining the kitchen area. To complete the look, Wanda scattered a variety of potted plants throughout the room.
Now standing in the heart of her creation, Wanda is filled with a sense of accomplishment and pride–feelings that she wouldn't have thought possible a few short months ago.
“Best coffee in the world. Maybe you should start a café business.” You’d joke sometimes whenever she makes you coffee in the morning.
A shadow passes over her eyes as she looks out the window. Needless to say, there’s only one thing missing in it. The person she wants next to her when all her dreams come true.
You.
__________
Pietro has no problem devouring a whole batch of white chocolate macadamia cookies single-handedly. Wanda’s twin brother flew in last weekend, a rare occurrence since she only sees him once a year at most. He usually pops in for holiday dinners and is gone by the next day. His life is lived out of a suitcase, never lingering in one city for more than a couple of weeks.
Wanda hadn't expected him to visit after she told him about her divorce, especially considering his own history with two divorces that seemed to leave him unfazed. In fact, his own separations were so uneventful that they rarely talked about them, except for the occasional jab at his ex-wives that would come up in conversation.
“God, these are good, Wands. Have I ever told you that you make the best cookies?” Pietro asks through a mouthful of crumbs.
“You’re gonna have to pay me for those.” Wanda warns him playfully. She's crouched down on the kitchen floor, dishing out strips of dried meat to Sparky as she takes a brief respite between her baking and her attempts at perfecting latte art, a skill she's picked up from online tutorials.
“I thought it was a welcome-home gift,” Pietro responds, grinning cheekily as he brushes the remaining crumbs from his fingers. His dyed hair and medium-length stubble completely disguise their familial resemblance.
“You earn ten times more than I do in a year.”
“So? What is family for if not free food?”
“It's $52 dollars,” Wanda retorts, ignoring him.
Without batting an eye, Pietro hands her a hundred-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”
Wanda smirks at him, tucking the money into her apron. “I fully intended to.” she says. She passes him a napkin, gesturing to his chin. In response, he waves her off, ostentatiously making his way to the back of the shop to clean up.
It's a strange feeling, to simultaneously know and not know someone. To look at them and recognize who they are now versus who you remember them being. In terms of wealth and status, Pietro is leagues ahead of Wanda, but it feels like it's come at the cost of losing the brother she grew up with in Sokovia. It's unclear if that version of him still exists beneath the veneer of designer suits and high-end colognes. All Wanda knows is she misses him, the brother of her childhood, terribly.
“Second Chances,” Pietro proclaims as he returns a minute later, his hands waving theatrically in imitation of a grand entrance. “A little corny if you ask me.”
“Well, I’m not asking you,” Wanda contends and then proceeds to scrub the empty tray that Pietro left in the wake of his cookie binge. “It’s a good name. People can interpret it however they want.”
“And you? What was on your mind when you came up with it?”
Wanda doesn’t answer that.
Shifting the subject, Pietro casually swings himself onto the counter, his legs idly kicking in the air. “So, how's the quarter-life crisis going, sis?”
Wanda, leaning against the counter opposite him, raises an eyebrow in amusement. “It's going better than yours, all things considered.”
Just then, Sparky pads over to Pietro, his curious snout sniffing at the polished loafers.
Pietro pats Sparky's head absently. “You mean my designer clothes and loft apartment during my stay here in New York?”
Wanda gives him a pointed look as she wipes her hands on her apron. “I mean your two failed marriages and chronic fear of commitment. You're not as unscathed as you make yourself out to be.”
“Touché,” Pietro laughs good-naturedly and crosses his legs to avoid the dog’s further attention. “It’s weird though, seeing you get into this kind of thing.”
Wanda cocks her head to one side. “What do you mean?”
“You’re not a salesperson, Wands. Remember your girl scout days? Dad would buy all your cookies because you can’t sell for shit.”
Wanda snorts noisily through her nose and says, “Well, she can’t bake for shit,”, referring to their mother. She notices the smile fall from his lips at the offhand jab at her brother’s favored parent.
Wanda sighs. When she does get glimpses of the old Pietro, it’s mostly through negative triggers.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to–” Wanda starts to apologize but Pietro swiftly veers the conversation off-course.
“You’re really not going to talk about it?”
“About what?”
“Playing dumb isn’t a good look on you.” he says.
Wanda suddenly drops the tray on the sink, the violent sound of metal hitting metal giving both of them a minor headache. She pauses to think, and then says, “How about you just ask me straight instead of skirting around the topic of she-who-must-not-be-named?”
“Okay,” Pietro says in an annoyingly placid tone. “What were you thinking, cheating on Y/N?”
Wanda swallows dryly. She did ask him to be blunt.
“I wasn’t . There’s… I don’t know how to explain it. There’s this missing gap, and I acted to fill that gap.”
“Was it something that’s missing in your relationship?” Pietro asks and props his cheek on his palm. The question is so familiar to her because she’s asked it herself countless times, the day she kissed Vision for the first time.
There wasn’t an epiphany nor were there pieces falling into place when she had slept with him. And when she thought she loved him, it wasn’t because she thought she loved you any less. She came to the conclusion, not too long ago, that perhaps there’s just something rotten inside of her that she simply wasn’t aware of.
Wanda shakes her head, weary at making sense of herself and her decision to risk everything she’s built with you for something as cheap as a fling. “None of this was her fault. Her only mistake was falling for someone who didn't deserve her.”
“You know, I always felt she was too good for you, no offense,” Pietro says casually, though his tone was not entirely light-hearted.
A weak smile tugs at Wanda's lips as she remembers that her brother began his wedding toast with that same line, word for word. As you both listened to Pietro joking about Wanda and humorously expressing regret that you ended up marrying the 'inferior' twin, you had reassuringly squeezed Wanda's sweaty hand. She had apologized for her brother's indelicate behavior, but you had just responded by
planting a tender kiss on her cheek, telling her how wrong he was; that you were just a regular person and she made you special.
“I’m sorry, Wands,” Pietro tells her earnestly. “I can’t say I’ve been through the same thing even with two divorces under my belt. I don’t think I’ve ever been in love with someone the way you both were with each other–or at least, the way she was in love with you.”
“Thanks, but that's not necessary. I’m going to fix it.” she says.
It stings—the implication that Wanda was incapable of matching your love for her. But it only stings because it’s the truth. You deserve to be happy and she failed. And yet, she also can’t survive the thought of you getting the happiness you deserve from someone else. Maybe she really is that selfish.
And which is why Pietro's next words land like a sucker punch. “You can't fix a divorce, Wands. It's the end game of a relationship that's past its expiration date. And, you know, she might've found someone new already.”
Wanda cracks some eggs in a bowl and starts to furiously whisk by hand. Maybe she’s an awful person for assuming you won’t be able to move on from her that easily.
But that’s just how she sees it.
“I don’t think so,” she says.
“What makes you so sure?”
“I know her, Piet.”
Pietro begins clapping slowly, his beats deliberate and mocking. “She divorces you, and you still strut around, smug about how she's still crazy for you,” he taunts.
“That’s not what I’m—I’m not being smug. I… I just feel it. If you’ve ever felt loved by someone like her, you’d understand.”
Pietro disregards his sister's subtle jab, having long accepted the reality that he may never experience the type of love Wanda shares with you. Perhaps he once had something like it, though not romantically. When he reflects on love—true love—it brings to mind only one person: their estranged mother.
"Or maybe," he says, jumping off the counter to retrieve his coat hanging from one of the dining chairs, "Love goes away eventually."
“Not ours.”
Pietro can't suppress the maniacal laughter that escapes his throat. “Are you hearing yourself right now?” he asks, his voice dripping with disbelief. “Do you realize how pathetic you sound?”
Wanda purses her lips, continues whisking.
“Okay, how about this,” Pietro tries to reason, his tone softening. “If you really love her, then you'd at least want her to be happy, even if it's not with you.”
“Oh, so you’re suddenly an expert on the topic.”
“I’m a dick, not an asshole. And yes, there’s a difference.”
Wanda keeps working the whisk like a madwoman. Large amounts of bubbles are forming in the emulsion, and overbeating the egg mixture is definitely not in the recipe.
Pietro continues, “Yeah, I’m a cheater, same as you are—”
“Don’t you dare–” Wanda suddenly tosses the whisk on the worktop, a glint of something dangerous in her green eyes.
“Let me finish,” Pietro appeases lightly. “I’m a cheater. I cheated on my ex-wives. But when I look in the mirror, I don’t see myself as some anti-hero who has the potential to be an actual hero and become the person they deserve to be with. Because I’ll never be that guy.”
“We’re not the same. We share a birthday, but that’s where the similarities end.”
“We share the same DNA, Wanda,” Pietro says, managing to smile through his frustration. Excessive stubbornness–another quality innate to Maximoffs. “But that's not the point. You know she'd be better off without you. As cliché as it sounds, the only way you can truly show her you love her is by letting her go—completely.”
The shuddering sigh that escapes Wanda is immediately followed by erratic sobs that quickly spiral out of control. Pietro is at her side in an instant, an arm thrown over her shoulder as her whole body jerks, rasping for air.
“Shit, I'm sorry,” he murmurs into the top of her head. “You'll be okay, Wands. I promise... you'll be okay.”
Breathe in.
And out.
In.
And out.
In. In. In…
Pietro leaves shortly after her tremors subside and breathing returns to normal. The panic attacks aren't frequent, but they have been happening now and then. They started right after the night you handed Wanda your wedding ring, a haunting reminder of what was lost.
With her brother gone, Wanda is left to wrestle with her thoughts, wondering if you've met someone new, if you're perhaps no longer as miserable as she is. Her mind tortures her with the possibility that you might be moving on with your life.
In a moment of weakness, she tries calling you, not intending to talk, just to see if you've blocked her number. As expected, you don't pick up after several rings. She tells herself it's not a setback but also not progress. She imagines you're asleep or in the shower, comforting herself with the fantasy that you mean to call her back but simply forget.
And if a confirmation of not being blocked is all she gets, she'll take it. That small connection, tenuous as it may be, is something.
She'll cling to it, accepting whatever you can give, even if it's nothing.