Wanda knows it's only temporary, deep in the darkest corners of her mind. But on the surface, she knows she is in complete control. She glances across the dinning room table. Natasha Romanov is reading the newspaper, dressed in a sharp light grey suit, black tie to match, feet propped up on the chair next to her. There's a briefcase by the door and an Indiana Jones-esque hat hanging on the peg above it. Her heart soars at the sight; she is incredibly lucky, after all. Having the power to create this, from -
Wanda feels a sting of mourning blaze through her veins. Pietro. Sokovia. The Vision. Her parents. Even Tony Stark. Her. friends. Her teammates. Natasha, dead, at the bottom of that endless cliff on Vormir.
The oven door rattles, and the egg yolks on the plate in her hands look close to bursting. She squeezes her eyes shut. She can hear the glasses of orange juice on the table move, feel the energy of the fruit she's begun to levitate. A voice reaches through the haze,
"Wanda?"
Her pulse falters once, then begins to steady.
"Wanda, darling?"
She opens her eyes slowly as the rattles of her powers cease. The oranges and apples are back in their bowl. The oven door is shut and the eggs are unharmed. Natasha is holding her glass on the other side of the kitchen window and counter, eyes soft with concern. She takes a deep breath, crosses to the other woman, slides the plate of breakfast across to her.
"Yes, dear?" she asks.
"Are you okay?"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"Do oranges normally fly around on their own?" Somewhere, she makes the laugh track play. Natasha closes a hand over hers, strokes a thumb over the small battle scars fading on the back of her hand. Now Natasha is smirking, feeling the calm control Wanda radiates. She flashes a watery smile, manages a cheeky voice to respond,
"Only in Westview, dear."