Wanda knows there's cracks in her foundation, in the world she's built, in the town she must be taking over. Wanda knows it's not forever. But her breath is full, heart light, and powers heavy. Natasha checks out the window, in her pin stripe pajamas, eyes roaming the streets for the source of the noises, always a protector, even in Westview. She misses the assassin's blazing hair.

"Natasha, come to bed, dear," she calls softly from her twin bed.

"I don't want anything hurting you," Natasha murmurs, still scanning.

"No one is going to hurt us here. Come. I have something I want to talk to you about."

That gets Natasha's attention; the other woman gives the street one last glare, then slides slowly into her own bed. With a flick of Wanda's wrist, the two twin beds slide together, and she leans against her lover.

"What is it, darling?"

"I… Do you think I would make a good mother?"

Natasha glows at her, kisses the closest exposed skin (her temple). "You would make the best mother, my love." An audience cooing at the sweet words.

Wanda misses her brother, remembers his gift of kindness, of wit and speed. She remembers her parents, before the bomb, the home they carved for their kids. The dresser drawers quiver, rattle. "Natasha, do you want kids?"

"You know I can't have them, Wanda…"

"I know."

"And I could not give you… erm, you know." Far away, a laugh track plays. She takes a deep breath, wills the rattling to stop. Then she pulls out the corniest tone she can muster.

"Well, I am magical, dear… Who knows what could happen?"

Natasha chuckles, the deep throaty laugh that sends her heart into overdrive, and under the covers, unseen, a hand is wandering up her thigh. Natasha's other hand tilts her head up, drowns in her eyes. They grin at each other, and she pulls the covers over their heads. It's enough to even forget the fake audience she's created. Wanda lets her grief melt away temporarily.


When she hears the radio speaking to her, she remembers this moment of bliss.