Ghosts and Strangers
Nia had never known silence like this.
Not the eerie, weighted stillness of a Hydra facility before a procedure. Not the hushed whispers between scientists that always preceded pain. This was real silence—peaceful, almost soft—cut only by the occasional hum of electronics and the faint wind rattling high-rise windows.
She sat cross-legged on the bed in her assigned room at Avengers Tower, a massive space that felt more like a penthouse than a hospital. Stark design—sharp lines, glass, brushed steel, minimalistic furniture that probably cost more than any entire building she'd ever been in. It was too perfect. Too clean. It didn't feel like hers.
Nothing did.
She hadn't even changed out of the soft, standard-issue clothes they'd given her. Her skin still bore the pale blue glow that sometimes flickered when her heart rate spiked. Like now. Her fingers twitched, and she quickly clenched her fists.
Control it. Contain it. Hide it.
She had no idea if her powers were stable—or if they ever had been. There had never been a manual for surviving with a shard of the Tesseract buried in your cells. Only pain. Only fear.
A chime sounded near the door, soft and almost polite. She tensed immediately.
"It's just me," came Sam's voice through the speaker. "Bringing you something to eat. Mind if I come in?"
She hesitated. Trust was not something she had. But… he'd been kind. Not fake kind—genuinely kind. She found herself whispering, "Okay."
The door slid open and Sam entered with a tray of food—nothing fancy, but warm. Familiar. It smelled like grilled cheese and tomato soup. The kind of thing she imagined a real parent might make for a sick child. Her stomach growled, embarrassing and traitorous.
"Figured something simple might go down easier than all that Tower gourmet stuff," Sam said, placing the tray on the table beside her. "No pressure, though. Just… you need fuel."
She nodded slowly, murmuring a quiet, "Thank you."
He gave her a soft smile and turned to go but hesitated at the door. "Just so you know... Tony hasn't tried to come in. He's giving you space. I don't think he's slept much, though."
Her chest tightened.
She didn't know how to feel about Tony Stark. She had no memories of him—only pictures she'd seen in secret, whisperings from the Hydra scientists. "Stark's daughter." "She's a Stark. No wonder she survived the energy." "We should've taken the father too."
To her, Tony was a myth. A ghost in red and gold. A man who existed in the world she had been violently torn from.
She wasn't sure she could handle the reality of him.
--
Hours passed. She paced, sat, ate half the sandwich, then paced again. The room felt like a prison with invisible walls—because she didn't know how to live in freedom.
Eventually, she left.
She wandered the halls like a ghost. JARVIS—no, Friday now, she corrected herself—offered gentle directions. No surveillance, they promised. "You're not a prisoner." But she felt their eyes anyway.
She ended up in the training level—floor after floor of reinforced gyms, tech labs, and sparring rooms. It was quiet, save for the rhythmic sound of feet against a mat and the fast swoosh of air displaced by movement.
She paused outside a glass wall. Inside, a figure blurred with motion.
Silver and speed.
Pietro Maximoff.
He moved like lightning. His body flickered between one end of the room and the other, then he paused, exhaled, and began again—this time slower, more controlled, practicing sequences of punches and evasions.
She should've looked away.
But she didn't.
There was something in his movements—anger, yes, but focus too. Like he wasn't running away from the world, but toward something in himself.
And then, suddenly, he stopped.
Their eyes met through the glass.
For a beat, neither moved.
Then he vanished.
Literally vanished.
She turned, startled, only to find him standing behind her a heartbeat later, his expression unreadable. She stepped back instinctively, and he raised both hands in a non-threatening gesture.
"Sorry," he said, accent soft but noticeable. "Didn't mean to startle you. Old habit."
She studied him. The tension in his jaw, the way his hand curled slightly at his side. He was trying not to scare her, she realized. Trying to be careful. Gentle.
"Nia," he said, as if testing her name on his tongue. "I'm Pietro."
"I know," she said softly.
A pause.
"You… remember me?" he asked.
She shook her head. "No. I saw your file." Her voice dropped a little. "You died in Sokovia. Or… you were supposed to."
A small smirk touched his lips. "Yeah. Well. Guess I was too fast for death."
She should've laughed. It was a joke, clearly. But the way he said it—it wasn't pride. It was bitterness.
"They said the Tesseract killed me," she offered quietly. "I guess neither of us listen to the rules."
That made him look at her differently. Not pity. Recognition.
"I saw you when they brought you in," he said after a moment. "You were glowing. Like a star. But it looked like it hurt."
"It always hurts."
Another silence.
Pietro shifted on his feet. "I'm not good at this… talking thing. Wanda usually tells me when I'm being too much."
She tilted her head. "You're not too much."
He looked at her, really looked. "You're not either."
Before she could react, he was gone again—vanishing in a blur of silver and wind.
But this time, it didn't feel like an escape.
It felt like a beginning.