She likes him, she wants to kiss him, and all that stuff. But she won't. Stubborn Wanda.

Wanda's POV

As Braxton left, he had the sweetest look of cluelessness I've seen since Pietro was alive. I didn't want to push him away, but I am a sinking ship, and he is too new to deserve to go down with me. After that night, I avoided him ardently. It has been a week so far, and though I barely know him, I actually miss him. I have not gone into his mind since then, but occasionally, I can feel him thinking. When he is happy or especially excited, I feel him. When he is angry he is silent. In between times his mind is a pleasant buzz in mine.

I am in the training room, working fervently over a punch bag. My hands are raw, even though I wrapped them, and I am famished. I skipped breakfast to avoid Braxton, but I am paying in stomach cramps. I still the bag, and proceed to unwrap my knuckles. They are red and stiff, and it hurts to open them. I shake out my sore fingers and limp into the kitchen. Someone in a chintzy-looking suit that probably cost a fortune sits on one of the barstools at the counter. As I enter, the figure turns around, a fake smile plastered on his goateed face.

"Morning, little Red." Stark. I have half a mind to limp back down to the training room, hunger be dammed, but an uncomfortable twist of my stomach has me rooting around in the fridge instead. I poke around, partially looking for something to eat but mostly ignoring Stark. No such luck. "I said, good morning."

I raise my head, glaring at Stark above the refrigerator door. He smirks back at me and I roll my eyes, ducking back into the fridge. I find a carton of strawberry yoghurt that isn't expired and doesn't have anyone's name scrawled on it. It will have to do. I rip off the lid and grab a spoon, sliding painfully onto the counter.

"Are you really gonna sit there and ignore me?" Stark asks as I raise a spoonful of yoghurt. I look up at him and raise an eyebrow.

"Do you not see me doing so?" I snark back, leaning gingerly against a cupboard and shoveling the scoop into my mouth. Stark opens his mouth, but is promptly cut off by Clint of all people. I swallow. I thought he retired.

"SHIELD retirement is different." He grins. Oops, must have said that out loud. "Besides, I wanted to see how you're doing."

"Passable." I shrug, looking down at my yogurt. "How're you?"

"I'm good." Clint smiles, but he doesn't look at me long. I don't have to enter his mind to see his guilt. He is grateful to be alive, but guilty that his safety came at the cost of the last person I loved.

"Really?" Stark exclaims. "You totally ignore me, but when Robin Hood comes in, you nearly trip over yourself greeting him."

"It's called being friendly, Tony." Clint teases. "You give it, you get it back."

"Hmph." Stark grunts. "So where are the rest of the newbs?"

"I just got here." Clint laughs. "And judging by the state of her hands, Wanda's been hitting something inanimate all morning."

"It was a punching bag." I blush.

"Ah." Clint grins. "I figured."

"Morning, Clint." Agent Romanoff…no, Natasha says, walking into the kitchen.

"Morning, Nat." Clint hugs her.

"What're you doing here?" Natasha frowns.

"Ignoring me, just like you apparently." Stark quips.

"No one's forgotten you, Stark." Natasha smirks.

"I heard there was an even newer newbie." Clint says, answering Natasha's question. "I wanna meet him."

"Meet who?" Braxton says, strolling in, soaked in sweat. His hair is darkened and dripping with sweat, and the top part is tousled. He must've gotten a haircut this week. His hair used to be long in the back, but now it is shorn close enough for me to see his head. He's trailed by Colonel Rhodes, the Vision, Sam, and Captain Rogers.

Aaaaand, that's my cue. I swallow the last spoon of yoghurt and hop off of the counter. My only objective is getting out of the room before Captain Rogers notices that the entire New Avengers team is in one room. (It is nearly impossible feat that the Captain has been attempting for several days; someone is almost always sleeping, or previously occupied, or conspicuously absent… *Vision* cough cough…)

"You." Clint says. He raises an eyebrow at Braxton. "You're a pretty big guy."

"Oh, ah, th-thanks?" Braxton stutters. "Hazards of being me, I guess."

I have to escape, before Captain Rogers suggests some team-bonding shit-fest like the debacle from last week. I always get wound up in enclosed spaces; I always have, even before Pietro's death. I suppose it is holdover from Baron Strucker's lab. So, note to the Captain, don't stick me in enclosed, metallic, lab-like spaces with pieces of machinery that look suspiciously like copies of the evil AI that killed my brother.

But, of course, there is no rest for the weary-of-Captain-America's-schemes. I slam straight into Braxton, head-first. He is so tall; I get a facefull of chest sweat and nearly fall.

"Whoa! You alright, there?" He says, his large hands on my upper arms, steadying me. Meanwhile the other men are greeting Stark and Clint.

"I am fine." I say. I can practically feel the flush creeping up my neck, and behind me Stark snickers. I spin around and pin him with a grade-A glare.

"Don't mind me, lovebirds." Stark shrugs. I roll my eyes and Braxton scratches the back of his neck. "Anyway, Capsicle, I'm having a party tonight at eight, and I think your team needs to unwind."

"At the tower?" Captain Rogers asks.

"Steve." Natasha whispers. "You're not really considering it?"

"Actually I am." The Captain says. "The new team needs to get to know each other."

Aaaaand, there it is. That's the team-bonding shit-fest I was trying to avoid. Maybe if I melt away, out of the room, I can pretend that I never heard this. Erasing my presence here from their memories would be wrong, but it is certainly tempting. I instead start moving, inch by inch, out of the kitchen area. Once I get clear, I'll make a break for it.

"Besides," Captain Rogers continues, "if we go, we can just skip the field training exercise I had planned for today: a nature run/obstacle course. Personally, I was kinda excited, but I know how you guys get about this stuff."

Personally, I'd rather run through Captain Rogers' Army-nature-obstacle-torture course barefoot. Alone. In winter. That is, if it meant I could skip a Stark party. All that socializing with people who don't care anything about us. The here-again-gone-again summer friends. The ones who exult us when we win our battles and deride us when there are casualties.

As if they could do better. As if there are any wars without casualties. The people, who call the Vision a robot, told Clint that archery isn't a viable modern battle skill, treat Captain Rogers like a living history exhibit, and ask if I was screwing Pietro. (Even if I was, it would be a cold day in hell before I told one of them.)

I am still edging away while everyone else expresses agreement and some indicate that they have nothing to wear. I am about three feet away from where I can turn tail and run without making a scene. Stark is assuring everyone that slacks and button downs are okay, as well as sundresses or cocktail dresses. One foot away and I am turning to bolt soon, when (damnit) Natasha turns to me; or at least, where I was. She looks around, finding me as close to the opening to the hallway as one can get, (while still feasibly being "in the room") and steadily easing into the hall backwards.

"Hey, Maximoff!" A stab of pain goes through my heart at the reminder that I am the only Maximoff left. All eyes in the room are on me, not that I care, and Romanoff apparently wants me next to her. I heave a silent sigh and limp back over to the group, staying both as far from Stark and as close to Romanoff as can be done.

"Da?" I say, and then mentally smack myself. Stupid. That was in Romanian. But Romanoff doesn't miss a step.

"You're going, right?" She asks. But anyone who knows her, has been trained by her, or has even been in the same room as her, knows that she didn't mean it as a question. It was more an affirmation.

"I am going." I say. I don't want to, and I nearly gag on the words, but refusing doesn't appear to be an option. "But I do not have anything to wear."

"I told you already, the dress code isn't as stiff as you are." Stark scoffs.

"Not everyone has the resources you do, Stark." I spit his name like it's a bitter taste, and in a way, it is. "Party wear is not on list of necessities in Sokovia." I turn around and limp out of the room, tears threatening to fall for the third time today. Damn emotions. Behind me, I hear Sam sigh.

"That was cold, man." He says. Thankfully, I do not have to hear the rest of the conversation. It will do me well to get a break from Stark, especially if I have to spend all evening at his house. I am halfway down the hall, limping to my room, when I hear quick footsteps behind me. (They only remind me that no one's footsteps are as fast as Pietro's were.)

"Wanda, wait." Braxton. I whirl around, right where I stand, and he pulls up short to keep from running me down.

"What?" I sigh. I was aiming to sound impatient or even exasperated, but instead my voice conveys deep-soul weariness.

"I just-" He bites his lip. "Are you okay?"

"Not really, no." I frown up at him. "My hands hurt, I'm tired, I feel bad for making you see your worst fears over a stupid temper tantrum, I'm embarrassed that you caught me in the middle of a nightmare, I have to go to a party tonight at the home of the man I hate, and…I just- I miss Pietro, alright!" I am on the verge of tears again. I might already be crying for all I know.

"I understand." He says.

"That seems to be the common response." I say, looking at the floor. "But they don't. I miss him so much. He kept me sane. I always had the drive and the plans, but he had the charisma, the wherewithal. And people tell me it's wrong to depend so much on one person, for my whole world to stop now that he's gone; they say that life goes on, but without him, I don't want to live."

"And that's okay." Braxton says with a sad smile.

"Do you think me odd?" I sniff.

"No, why?" His brow wrinkles.

"They say, all the time," I start, but he cuts me off.

"Who does?" He asks. "Who is 'They'?"

"The critics. All day on the news and talk shows after every battle. The team socializes, or answers questions, or takes photos, but I always leave. I can't bear to stay. So for the rest of the week, they speculate. They bring up Pietro's death again and again. Some say I am still grieving, others say I am not a people person. But the majority concludes that if I am not a people person, I cannot protect the people. They figure that if Pietro was truly only my brother, I would be over it."

"He was special to you." Braxton says. "What's wrong with that?"

"They think we were romantic with each other. Is disgusting. We are Eastern European, not barbarian. They say the only people who grieve this much are those who lost a husband or lover. But that is not true. Pietro was more than my brother, but not in that way. He was my twin. My other half. The soul my rage could never sustain. I loved him with everything I had, and that will never change." I sigh.

"It doesn't have to. Your memories of him are still there. And I know this sounds like an empty platitude, and I know your memories can't bring him back, but he'll always be with you." Braxton shrugs. "Trust me, I know."

"Thank you." I say.

Feels! So many family feels. I like this side of Wanda. She misses her brother, and she isn't afraid to say so. She's raw, hurting. It's different to write.