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aparticularbandit · 7 months

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Nightmares

Summary: Once, a long time ago, Wanda dreamed of her boys when she was without them. She dreamed of those other versions of her across the vast, infinite multiverse, and wondered what it might be like for those other versions of her – not to still have her boys, because she could all too easily imagine what that felt like, but to dream of some other version of her, living without them. She’d wondered if they’d felt that numb ache spread throughout the whole of them, if they’d woken with it curling beneath their fingertips, if they’d taken a sharp breath of too frigid air that burned through their lungs and forced themselves not to run to the room where her boys still slumbered—

Wanda wondered, once, what it might be for another version of her to dream of her current life.

She doesn't have to wonder anymore.

Rating: T.

AO3

Once, a long time ago, Wanda dreamed of her boys when she was without them. She dreamed of those other versions of her across the vast, infinite multiverse, and wondered what it might be like for those other versions of her – not to still have her boys, because she could all too easily imagine what that felt like, but to dream of some other version of her, living without them. She’d wondered if they’d felt that numb ache spread throughout the whole of them, if they’d woken with it curling beneath their fingertips, if they’d taken a sharp breath of too frigid air that burned through their lungs and forced themselves not to run to the room where her boys still slumbered – or maybe one of them let herself run because she’d grown so close to losing them herself – only to have the ache dissipate when she’d seen them. Maybe the boys would still be dreaming of their other selves, maybe one or both of them would already be awake, maybe one of them – Billy, most likely – would wake when she opened the door, rubbing his sleepy eyes with one curled fist.

No. Not maybe.

Wanda wakes from yet another dream with her heart pounding in her chest. When that numb ache settles in the middle of her chest, it’s familiar – far too familiar – and she races down the hallway, feet pounding on the wooden floor as she flies to her boys’ room. She only takes care not to slam the door open, pausing with it halfway open and hand clenched on it, when she makes sure that they are still there.

Billy is already sitting upright in bed, so Tommy sits drowsy, rubbing one hand across his eyes, yawning as his brother asks, “Mom? Do we need to run again?”

These are her boys, but they aren’t her boys, taken from a universe where Agatha defeated her and stole her powers for her own. Even there, she hadn’t let them see her die (although there is a universe where she did, a universe where she couldn’t stop it – just like there’s one similar to both, only where her boys did not survive – this is the multiverse, and she does not like to think on these things, although she knows that they exist)—

She hadn’t let them see her die, but that doesn’t mean they don’t still remember being attacked, don’t still remember having to get up and go, go now, go now, and Wanda sees that in the tensing of Tommy’s shoulders as he draws out of his last dregs of dreams, in the way Billy isn’t looking anywhere but barely breathes.

“No, honey, no—”

Catches the slip, the pet name – she’s been spending too much time with Agatha – but she leaves it, moving, kneeling down between the two beds, and placing a hand on each of them, turning from one bed to the other. “You’re fine. We’re fine. I just—”

Had a nightmare.

Wanda can’t say the words. It isn’t a nightmare. It’s another universe, another her, bereft of the boys she’s been able to recover.

It doesn’t matter that she can’t get the words out, that her throat cuts off her voice before she can get it through. Tommy slips out of his bed in one still not quite awake motion, wraps his arms around her, and buries his head in her chest. “It’s okay, Mommy,” he mutters into her shirt. “I have nightmares, too.”

Wanda instinctively wraps a hand around him. Her gaze flicks from Billy to the window – still dark out – and then back again. She offers her youngest son a smile as comforting as she can muster. “Why don’t we all get in bed?” she asks before glancing down, brushing a hand through Tommy’s hair. Her smile saddens as he looks up at her with wide eyes. “Maybe together we can chase the nightmares away.” When she glances up at Billy again, he bites his lower lip, then nods once, slow.

That’s enough, Wanda thinks as she leads them to her room, as they curl up next to her and she pulls the sheet and comforter warm over the three of them. It’s enough. But it isn’t, and the visions of another universe, another her, return all the same.

America and Wendy arrive in the midst of a torrential downpour.

Instinctively, Wendy creates a thin shield of pure scarlet chaos hovering a few inches above their heads, but not quick enough to keep them from getting that first little bit of wet. America pats her hair down a bit, mutters, “Shit,” under her breath, and then reaches over to brush her fingers along Wendy’s shoulders, like she can brush water away like dust. “Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention, I—”

“It’s fine, Starlight.” Wendy leans down and kisses her forehead. “I don’t mind.”

They’ve been together for over a year. Sometimes it feels so much longer, considering everything that happened in those first few months (and it is longer for Wendy, an additional two years separated in Neverland before being brought back together). And yet America still blushes when Wendy’s lips brush against her forehead. Still blushes and glances downward and shuffles her sneakers. “Hey,” she says, reaching out and taking Wendy’s hand in hers, gently interlacing their fingers. “I’ve got an idea.”

Wendy’s brows raise. Then her emerald eyes sparkle with mischief. “Me first.” Her hand tightens on America’s, and she tugs her out into the rain, the thin scarlet barrier disappearing from above them.

Within the time it takes for America to realize what’s happening, for her mouth to drop open, for her to catch Wendy’s grin, to feel it spreading across her own face as her mouth slowly closes, both of them are soaked. Water drips down her face. She pushes Wendy. “Hey!”

Wendy giggles. She shoves America back. “Tag. You’re it.” Then she runs off through the trees.

It’s second nature. America doesn’t even hesitate; she runs after her, sneakers splattered with fresh mud. “Wendy Maximoff-Harkness,” she yells out, causing Wendy to glance over her shoulder at her. Her fingers move in the air in front of her, and a golden portal sparks into view. She reaches through, taps Wendy’s shoulder, and then pulls back. “Your move, hot shot.”

The portal starts to spark out of view, but Wendy touches the edge of it, and it turns a deep scarlet. Then it begins to expand. America races away. Something grabs her about the center and pulls her back through the portal she created. “Cheat!” she cries out, kicking her feet. “Cheat!”

“You made a portal!” Wendy rests her chin on America’s shoulder, kisses her cheek, and then whispers in her ear. “Tag.” Then whatever holds America drops her into the mud, and Wendy sprints through the portal before it disappears.

America sits in the mud. She pouts. Crosses her arms. Glares at her girlfriend’s retreating back until Wendy turns down one of the rows of trees. Squints. “Oh,” she mutters under her breath, “you are on.”

After thirty minutes of racing, of tags back and forth, of magical hijinks and not so well plotted drops down from the trees (once, America hung upside down to catch Wendy but didn’t have enough time to get down before Wendy tagged her back), America wraps her muddy arms around Wendy’s waist, pulls her squirming against her, and then drops down into the mud again. “Uncle.”

Wendy glances over her shoulder at her. “You just tagged me. You can’t say uncle.”

“Just did.” America heaves a huff. She shudders. “It’s cold.”

“Want me to help?” Wendy slowly turns in America’s arms. “I’ve got good magic for that.”

America considers all of the ways Wendy could mean that. She could just mean conjuring up a warm breeze. Or she could mean stopping the rain entirely and forcing the sun to shine hotter than probably would be good for Sokovia at this time of year (not that America would think of that bit). Or she could mean—

Wendy kisses her.

Oh.

Heat spreads through America’s cheeks. She reaches a hand up and pushes it through Wendy’s drenched hair. “Not what I was thinking,” she says as they part. She brushes her nose against Wendy’s and then sighs. “We should go inside.”

“Mmhm.” Wendy leans over and kisses her again.

“No, seriously.” America scoots back in the mud. She stands up, looks at how muddy the both of them are, and bites her lower lip. “Wanda is going to kill us. Kill us dead.”

Wendy just rolls her eyes and makes a gesture with one hand. The mud disappears. It’s not scrubbed away or lifted and put back on the ground; it’s just gone. Never there in the first place. No stain, no nothing. Even America’s sneakers are a bright sparkling white, despite the fact that she’s still standing in mud. Then she gives America a look, head tilted, one brow raising. “You think I would let anyone kill you?”

It’s supposed to be cute. If anyone else said it, that sort of thing would be cute. But something in Wendy’s tone sends an uncomfortable shiver up America’s spine. So she ignores it, hooks her elbow through Wendy’s, and starts toward the log cabin not far off in the distance, just on the other end of the trees. “Hot chocolate,” she says. “We’re going inside, and I’m going to get some of the best hot chocolate ever, and you’re going to get some tea, and Wanda’s going to want to know all about everything we’ve been doing with the team, and we’re going to wait until Billy and Tommy are asleep to tell her all the bad parts—”

“And we’re not going to tell her all the bad parts. I know, I know.” Wendy tugs on America’s elbow, pulling her closer to her. “We’ve done this. A million times. We’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, yeah.” America holds the door open for Wendy and gestures with a flourish. “You first. She gets less mad at you.”

Wendy walks through the door. “She doesn’t have any reason to be mad.”

America follows her in, shoving her hands in her pockets, still dripping water on the floor. Wanda will still be mad about that, but not in the same way she would about mud. Water’s a lot easier to clean up. She glances around the room, expecting the twins to rush at them as soon as they heard the door open, but there’s nothing. No boys. No Wanda being all worried mama bear about them and where they’ve been and how long they’ve been gone. Not even an Agatha who happens to be shacking up in the cabin for the month peeking her head through the ceiling and giving them a wink. Nothing.

“Uh. Guys?”

They walk from the living room to the dining room and find the boys standing in front of the glass door, Billy with his hand pressed against the glass. Outside, just beyond them, Wanda stands in her full Scarlet Witch garb, staring up at the sky, drenched to the bone.

It doesn’t matter that it’s been years since everything, it doesn’t matter that they’ve gotten over their differences, it doesn’t matter that America and Wanda are family now – as soon as America sees her in that outfit, her heart starts beating faster, her breath catches in her throat, and her eyes grow wide. When Wendy reaches out and places her hand on her shoulder, America startles. She shrugs her hand off. Takes a deep breath. “I’m okay.”

“No, you—”

America starts forward, and the floor creaks beneath her. She jumps. It didn’t used to do that. At least, she doesn’t remember it doing that. When did it start doing that? She gives Wendy a look, and Wendy shrugs. Then she looks back to the kids.

Billy alone glances back when America steps on the floorboard that shouldn’t creak but somehow still does. He looks up at her with large eyes, blinks twice, and then says, “I think we broke her.”

”We didn’t break anyone,” Tommy cuts in, crossing his arms. The mirror image of him in the glass narrows its copper eyes, glaring out at the figure standing outside. “We didn’t do anything! She just—”

“I’m sure she’s okay,” America interrupts. She moves to the boys and tousles their hair. Billy winces when she does, and Tommy barely looks up at her. She gives them an awkward sort of smile. “Wendy, can you….” Her voice trails off as her girlfriend moves to the glass. “Um.”

Wendy seems to ignore her at first. She places her hand on the glass the same as Billy had and stares at her other self, eyes hardening. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ll take care of Mother Darling.” Then she walks through the glass, scarlet magic shimmering around her, and back out into the torrential rain.

America presses her lips together, shakes her head in frustration, and lets out a little huff. “Alright then.” She pats each of the twins’ backs. “You want to play Smash Bros?”

Tommy finally looks up at her. “Of course!”

“Mom never lets us play before dinner on a school day—”

“Shut up.” Tommy shoves his brother.

Billy glares at him. “Hey!”

America gently schools them away from the door and to the living room. “Let’s go play Smash Bros.” She glances back once as she guides them away. Wendy seems to be heading to Wanda. That isn’t a bad thing…right? Right? But there’s something in her fierce stance, in the way she stalks towards her older variant, that reminds America so much of how Wendy stalks towards whomever she thinks is the villain when Strange sets their small group out on adventures.

Reminds her, however briefly, of Wanda – of the Scarlet Witch – walking sure and steady toward her, eyes set dark in cheeks steadily growing more hollow, of twisted hands tainted with black and filled with scarlet reaching—

She shakes her head. Shudders.

Wanda’s not like that anymore, and she hasn’t been for a very long time. They fought alongside each other. Twice. She saved Wendy when America thought she’d killed her. She’s not evil. They’re family!

But even still, the image still flick through. America takes a deep breath in, steers herself back to the living room, and forces herself to plop on the couch. “Same characters, right?” She glances at the boys. “Still Megaman? Still Sonic?”

Tommy nudges her. “Still Sora?”

America sticks her tongue out at him, but her eyes go up and beyond to the backyard, to where Wanda and Wendy stand together in the rain. Not thinking about that right now. Focusing on the boys. That’s easier. Simpler.

She can do simple.

“You’re scaring Starlight.”

Wanda doesn’t move. She doesn’t flinch at Wendy’s voice, either – she’d heard the pirate boots squelching in the mud almost in the same breath she’d felt the wisps of Wendy’s mind reaching out for hers. At least she feels it now; Agatha felt it from the first moment she’d regained her magic in Wendy’s presence, but Wanda hadn’t even considered it until Agatha brought it up, had to focus and train herself to feel Wendy like a crawling fog underlying everything so that she could protect her own mind from her. This time, Wendy should hit one of the barriers Wanda’s finally learned to set up, not that she’ll necessarily realize what it is. That’s something else Agatha told her, too – that Wendy doesn’t even realize that she’s doing it. Most of the time. Two years of Neverland only made her more subtle when she was intentional with it; it doesn’t mean that there still isn’t a lifetime of unintentional habit built in coming through without thought.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

Verbal communication. She doesn’t want to give Wendy permission to reach out with intention.

The squelching of the boots comes closer, stops near but slightly behind her. “You’re scaring John and Michael.”

Still, Wanda doesn’t move. “I thought you were done with Neverland.”

“Billy and Tommy,” Wendy corrects herself, voice softening. “You’re scaring Billy and Tommy.”

They’ve never talked about it, the many variances in their timelines that led to one of them having children. Two of them, when Ash was here. Three, if they include the variant who’d originally created the twins who lived with her now. They’ve never talked about the possible future versions of Wendy – still Wendy, still just like the version of her who had ended up here, before she’d ended up here – who might have found their own Vision, might have had their own versions of Billy and Tommy. They’ve never talked about whether or not that’s something Wendy should be wary of in her own future.

The multiverse is vast. For every Wanda variant with children, there are just as many without. Maybe less. Maybe not. It’s hard to say.

Even if this Wendy doesn’t have children, an alternate of her does. That’s how the multiverse works.

They’ve never talked about it. Wanda’s never considered bringing it up, never thought it would bother Wendy at all. But she hears it in her tone now.

They’re still not going to talk about it.

After a few moments of silence, Wendy tries again. “It’s cold out here. Aren’t you cold?”

“Do you ever...,” Wanda starts to say, and then her voice trails off. She continues to look up at the rain clouds, at the rain falling down on her, as though if she stares at the drops hard enough she’ll see the stars behind them. When she sighs, there’s a brief puff of cloud that fades quicker than it appeared. “I’ve been dreaming.”

“Everyone dreams.” Wendy doesn’t move closer, and Wanda doesn’t turn to her. Her voice hovers in the air between them before she continues, “Even Starlight dreams. You know that, right?”

She does.

For all that her own dreams once plagued her with other universes where she’d had everything she ever wanted and for all that they now plagued her with universes where she never regained any of it, that’s far and away different from the first dreams America had. Not all dreams – not all nightmares – are of other universes. Sometimes, they’re memories. Sometimes, they’re old trauma. Even if the universes do not all line up, Wanda knows that sometimes when she dreamed of Vision having his Mind Stone ripped from his forehead – that’s just a memory. It’s her mind, playing with it, trying to make sense of it. That’s all.

Even if some version of her must certainly be living through that moment right now.

Just like most of America’s dreams are memories of the Scarlet Witch’s pursuit of her.

You’re scaring Starlight.

It isn’t the first time.

Finally, Wanda shivers. Her eyes close. “I used to wonder what my life would be like if I’d chosen differently, if different things happened to me. I don’t have to wonder anymore.”

Wendy steps closer, so close that Wanda can feel her breath, warm, against her skin. “In your dreams,” she says, voice soft, “do you see me?”

Wanda startles. She turns, then, and faces Wendy. For all that she had imagined her other self in her own full Scarlet Witch garb, it isn’t the case. She’s just in jeans and a sweater so well loved that it’s started to fade, a soft blue thing with just the outline of Tinkerbell stuck in Hook’s lantern. She’d meant to say something else, but now her brow raises. “Where did you get that?”

“Starlight found it for me.” Wendy glances down at her sweater, and a gentle smile appears on her face. “In one of her universes. Found it and bought it and brought it back for me.”

“It’s a good thing Agatha’s not here to see it. She’d freak over—”

“No, she wouldn’t.”

Wendy says it so firmly that someone else might believe her, but Wanda doesn’t. Tink trapped in a prison of Hook’s creation – it would just make Agatha remember Agnes. She would flinch, would look away, would be somewhere else. Agnes might not be lost – might be in the best possible place for her – but that doesn’t mean Agatha really ever got over her. That’s something else they don’t talk about.

There are so many things they don’t talk about.

Maybe she should start talking.

“No,” Wanda says then, “I haven’t been dreaming of you.” Her brow furrows in confusion. “I’m not sure I’ve ever dreamed of you, and if I did, it was brief. Not you, just…dreaming of a world where things might have been different. Better.” She sighs and pushes a hand through her soaked hair. “Not better.”

Wendy chuckles. “In a dream, it might have been better. Neverland was good, once.”

Wanda nods. “I’m sure it was.” She glances over her shoulder, back towards the barn and up towards the stars, pinpricks of light in a darkening sky that she can’t see for the storm clouds. “We should go inside,” she says finally. “We don’t want to tempt fate.”

“Hm?”

“Lightning.” Wanda gestures upward just as a bright multi-lined glow of light streaks through the dark clouds.

Wendy just rolls her eyes. “Funny you think that would hurt us.”

It would.

But Wanda doesn’t feel like fighting with Wendy. Instead, she places a hand on her shoulder and slowly guides her back to the cabin. “C’mon. Inside. Warm up.” She smiles in a way that isn’t quite forced but isn’t quite right either. “You and America can tell me all about whatever Stephen’s been having you two do.” Then she pauses. “You did bring America with you, didn’t you?”

“I never go anywhere without her.”

Wanda smiles. Fond. She sees herself in Wendy then. Of course, she does, Wendy’s simply another variant of her, after all. They’re not the same, but on some level, they are. Ships passing each other in the night, only the briefest flashes of light to reveal that they’re really there at all. She pats her back gently. “I’ll have to make hot chocolate.”

This time, when Wanda wakes up far too early to stay awake but finds herself unable to fall back asleep, she forces herself to stumble downstairs to the kitchen instead of walking over to her boys’ room. They’re fine. They’re safe. She knows that. She knows what reality she lives in. Besides, she can make herself a nice, warm mug of chamomile tea and let it lull her into a sleep just as it calms her rapidly beating heart.

But when she gets to the kitchen, Wanda finds she isn’t the only one down there. America stands with a mug of hot chocolate clasped between her hands, calmly blowing its steam away, and barely even looks up when Wanda approaches. As she passes, Wanda squeezes her shoulder gently. “Bad dreams again?”

“Mm.” America lifts her mug to her lips, takes a sip, and then hisses.

Wanda chuckles as she sets a kettle on the stovetop. “Too hot?”

“Nuh--No,” America whines. “It’s fine.” She takes another sip in defiance and hisses again, wincing this time.

Wanda leans against the counter, crosses her arms, and raises an eyebrow. “I can fix that, you know—”

“It’s fine.”

“Or you could get Wendy to—”

America gives Wanda a not-so-playful shove as she heads to the small, circular table in the dining room, still cradling her mug of hot chocolate in her hands. She pulls one of the chairs out and sits on it backwards, staring at Wanda as she takes a third sip, meeting her eyes as though to explicitly show Wanda that she won’t wince this time. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t take a sharp breath in afterwards, corners of her eyes the slightest bit of wet. “Did she….” Her voice trails off, and she shakes her head, presses her lips together in a thin line before trying again. “She’s been having nightmares. Did she tell you that?”

For a moment, Wanda doesn’t say anything. She stays where she is, presses her hands on the edge of the counter, and keeps an eye on America, who stares into her hot chocolate without saying anything else. The silence lingers until America hangs her head. “I guess that means she didn’t.”

“No,” Wanda says. “But I’m not surprised.”

“She was supposed to tell you.” America’s lips purse together into a frustrated little scowl. “We talked about this—”

The kettle goes off, a high-pitched whistling interrupting America just as she pounds her fist on the table. Wanda rushes to take it from the stove, but it doesn’t matter. America’s already grown silent. She acts nonchalant as she makes her own mug of chamomile tea, letting the packet set as she asks, calmly, “Did she tell you what they’re about?”

America rolls her eyes. “She doesn’t have to tell me. I know.”

As she places her tea packet on her saucer, as she moves to get a touch of milk and some sugar, Wanda’s stomach clenches. Her mouth waters, and she swallows it down fast before asking, “She’s not…. You’re not getting her nightmares, are you?”

“No.” America shakes her head. “She wouldn’t do that to me.” Then her brow furrows, and she finally glances up and over to Wanda. “You can do that?”

“No. Of course not.” Wanda focuses on stirring the cream and sugar into her tea, refusing to meet America’s eyes. Now is not the time to talk about Westview again, especially since America did not live it and she does not want to talk about it. Not when she keeps dreaming of a version of herself just after Westview, alone and with no Darkhold, hiding out in the same cabin where she now lives but without any of the expansion, hugging her knees to her chest, and—

Wanda shakes her head again. “No. I can’t do that. I wouldn’t.”

“Uh-huh.” This time, when America takes a sip of her hot chocolate, she doesn’t wince. Instead, she seems to relax. To settle. “Dreams are just other versions of yourself,” she says, voice low. “Nightmares, too.”

“Or memories,” Wanda corrects her. She takes her mug of tea and sits at the table next to America. “Or traumatic events.” She places a hand gentle over one of America’s, but America pulls her hand away. They’re better now. Really, they are. But sometimes, it’s still like this. There’s no offense to it; America would probably be like this with anyone.

America licks her lips, purses them together. “Not Wendy’s.” Then she shrugs. “Sorry. I don’t wanna….” She hesitates, scowls. “I won’t tell you if Wendy won’t. That’s not fair.”

Wanda chuckles. “No, it’s not.”

For a moment, she feels like Ash. That shouldn’t feel so odd, since she and Ash are simply variants of each other from different universes across the multiverse. But Ash always seemed calmer. More accepting. More motherly. Wanda chalked that up to a much more stable childhood, but maybe…maybe she had that in her, too.

….

Of course, she did. She and Ash might not be the same person, but they’re the same person. Just like she and Wendy might not be the same, but—

Oh.

“I’ll talk to her.” Wanda doesn’t even think about it before the words come out, her eyes hardening with determination. “I think….” She sighs, raises a hand, and kneads her forehead. “I have a fairly good idea.”

And it’ll be nice, she thinks, to talk about all of this with each other.

If she’s right, of course.

“Don’t—” America’s fingers flinch, as though to form into another fist, and then stop, curl just enough under to tap a few times like Wanda might have, but don’t. She takes a deep breath in. “Don’t tell her I told you,” she says, not looking up, “and don’t….” She stares at her fingers, at the red and white checkered tablecloth. “Don’t wake her up. She’s not sleeping well, but she’s…she’s actually sleeping, which is why I’m down here, and if you wake her up—”

“I won’t.”

When America looks up, Wanda gives her a fond smile. Then she reaches over and tousles her hair.

“Hey!”

Wanda nods her head out of the room. “Go sleep.” She meets her eyes. “You can use my room, if Wendy’s keeping you up.”

“Ew, no, gross.” America’s nose scrunches up. “I know what you and Agatha do in there—”

“It’s clean!” Wanda shoves her but not with any real strength.

America just laughs. It’s a soft sort of thing, more of a chuckle, more of nothing, but there’s relief in it. “Just make me a blanket. The couch is fine.”

“Make you a blanket.” Wanda rolls her eyes. She has half a mind to get up and just take one out of the closet near the living room, where extra blankets are stacked in the topmost shelf, the one that had always been easier for Vis to reach. (It’s nice, to think of that and not have it sting.) But instead of doing that, she just lifts her cup of chamomile tea, takes another sip of the cooling liquid, and nods her head in the direction of the couch again. “Fine. Go.”

It’s a small thing, America leaving her now empty mug on the table, rubbing her eyes with one hand and yawning, and leaning down just enough to give Wanda a half-hug from behind, mumbling a sleepy, “Thank you,” before making her way with another yawn into the living room, and it’s less of a small thing when, after cleaning the two mugs and setting them onto a towel to dry, Wanda passes the now slumbering America on the couch, tucks a black star-covered blanket a little more warmly around her, and then lets her mind reach out, lets it just brush against Wendy’s, which does not recoil but soothes at her touch. She hadn’t lied, exactly, when she told America she wouldn’t wake Wendy up, nor had she lied when she said she wouldn’t bring up what America confided in her, but that doesn’t mean she won’t meddle.

Especially not after she’s been asked so nicely.

America can’t notice when she’s asleep – and she certainly can’t notice when she isn’t in the room – but Wendy isn’t sleeping well. She tosses and turns, pulling the sheets closer around her, the comforter kicked off Wanda can only guess how long ago, and sweat beads along her forehead as she mutters something, eyes glowing scarlet even while closed. For the briefest of moments, Wanda wonders if she does the same when she has nightmares; she’s woken with her comforter kicked off on more than one occasion, with sheets tangled so tight they might as well have choked her, but she has no way of knowing if her eyes, too, glow, not without being told, and Agatha has never said anything about it. But then, she has less nightmares when the older witch stays with her, and even the ones she has don’t seem as active as the one Wendy is having now. And as much as she hates to admit noticing, Agatha’s eyes have never taken on a violet hue when she dreams.

Without another thought, Wanda settles on the bed just next to Wendy. She brushes cool fingertips along her forehead, tucking stray strands of white-streaked dark hair back from her face. Wendy’s nose scrunches. The glow seems to fade until she snaps up in bed, scarlet eyes opening wide and unseeing, breathing heavily.

“You’re okay,” Wanda murmurs the same way she would with her own boys, tracing fingers gentle up and down Wendy’s spine. “Breathe.”

Wendy turns to her, eyes still aglow, and blinks twice, blinking away the glow, until she’s conscious enough to crumble against her other self’s chest. “You don’t dream of me,” she mutters out.

Wanda holds her close and rubs a hand gentle along her back. “No, but you do.” She waits for a few moments, Wendy’s shivering slowly soothing against her, and then asks, as gentle as she can, “What do you see?”

At first, nothing. A long stretch of nothing. Perhaps nothing can be gained without something being given.

“I’ve been dreaming of me.” Wanda’s breath catches, but it’s relieving to say. “Without my boys, without America, without you.” Not always without Agatha, although that is rarely a help in these sorts of dreams. Mostly, though, “I’m alone.”

Like before.

Living in the log cabin, spending most of her days asleep, dreaming of worlds where she doesn’t – can’t – exist, her own unbathed stench overwhelming but with no real desire to do anything about it, crumbs and near empty bags and tubs of ice cream still sticky with what is unfinished scattered everywhere, staring out at a burned scarlet landscape, dead trees reaching up as though they could rip holes in the sky itself, ash coating the ground instead of dirt, scorched earth.

No America finding her, or if she did, she’d decided to run far away, like she should have instead of drawing to her.

No reason to ever drag herself out of her mourning, no reason to stave off the depression, no reason to be glad she didn’t die the way she meant in the rubble of Wundagore, ridding the universe of her presence just as surely as she’d believed she’d rid the multiverse of the Darkhold. (Neither were true, but she’d hoped.)

No anything.

“That’s me, somewhere else.”

That’s the way other universes went. She knows that.

“And I can’t change it.”

Wanda’s brow furrows, not from the struggle to speak her thoughts aloud but from the struggle of even having them. “Even if I could – even if America let me reach out and help myself – that’s only…that’s only one universe. There will always be one of them I can’t reach, always be one of them I can’t help, always be a me who will always be alone.”

An us, she wants to say, but doesn’t. She and Wendy might be variants of each other, but they’re so far removed that they might as well not be. That’s the multiverse, too.

“It’s not me,” Wanda says, “but I can’t….”

“I’m still in Neverland,” Wendy says when Wanda’s voice trails off. She hesitates, burrows closer into Wanda’s chest. “The last time. Keeping everything going. It’s hell, it was hell, and I keep thinking…I keep thinking one of you will come find me. America will, or she’ll at least let one of you in so that you will, but the longer I’m there, the more I’m convinced that no one will ever come. That you’ve – that all of you – have given up on me. That I’ll be doing that for…forever.”

“Wendy—”

But Wanda doesn’t say it. She can’t. There’s a version of them out there for who that’s true. That’s also what the multiverse means. There is a Wendy out there who is stuck maintaining Neverland forever without end, just like there’s a Wanda still stuck with the Time Stone going through loop after loop to save everyone and make everything be just the way she wants but will never succeed, just like there’s a Wendy who never made Neverland in the first place, a Wanda who never lost anything at all – experiences so sharply different from their own that it’s nearly impossible to believe, except that it isn’t.

Wanda thinks of Ash, then, who’d had a life that seemed so normal and good, up until she, herself, had interfered and thrown it all into disarray, and she wonders what she dreams – if she dreams of a world where the Illuminati were never killed, of a world where she and her boys still had their Peggy, their Strange, or if she dreams of one where she’d never reached Wanda in her dreams, one where she had but Wanda hadn’t been able to save her, hadn’t wanted to save her. She wonders what Ash would say now.

(She doesn’t have to wonder. Ash wouldn’t say anything. She’d always been better about suffering in silence, about spending herself making everyone else feel better. If anything, Ash would be comforting Agnes, who would dream of a world with Agatha still stuck inside of her, wondering forever why everyone hated her so completely and thinking that maybe, just maybe, if she tried just a little harder, maybe everyone wouldn’t leave.)

“I spent two years like that.” Wendy shivers. “I spent two years thinking....” Her voice trails off.

There’s no comfort in saying that things turned out differently for them. Somewhere, someone was still living their worst nightmares. And they always would.

“Somewhere,” Wanda starts to say, hesitates. Hates the analogy. Tries again anyway. “There was another Agatha – you left before we took care of her – who chased herself across the multiverse, trying to kill every version she thought was evil.”

Wendy snorts. “One of us is probably doing the same thing.”

“Sure.” Wanda presses her lips together, then forces herself to say it. “I like to think there’s a version of us trying to help us, too.”

It isn’t that it doesn’t matter. There will always be versions of themselves they cannot save. But there will also always be versions that they can. That someone, somewhere, is trying to—

Wendy looks up at her. “She can’t save everyone.”

Wanda holds her gaze. “Do you want to help her?”

This time, Wendy doesn’t even hesitate. She shakes her head furiously – just the same as some version of her, now, immediately, does hesitate; just the same as some version of her nods; just the same as some version of her with another version of America has already started running across the multiverse, reaching out to help each and every version of herself she can find, over and over and over into the same infinity that a version of her spends maintaining a Neverland hell. “Is that selfish of me?” she whispers, searching Wanda’s eyes.

“It’s what makes you you.” Wanda brushes her fingers through Wendy’s hair again, pausing on the streaks where even those two years of Neverland stripped the color from her hair. “You’re the one who stays.”

Just like I’m the one who didn’t go back.

Wendy presses her lips together, and her gaze drops. “What do I say to the me in my dreams?”

Some version of you out there is happy with your boys. Isn’t that enough?

No.

“Don’t say anything.” That’s as bad as not doing anything to help, but…. “She’ll either take comfort from your presence, or hope from it, or regret. You never know.” Wanda tucks her fingers beneath Wendy’s chin and lifts her head again. “Maybe she dreams of you, too.”

There are no easy answers.

Wanda doesn’t ask Wendy about her dreams again, but every now and again, when she visits, their eyes meet and she knows. Just like she still dreams of the her that she cannot save, Wendy must dream of Neverland. And just like sometimes Wanda wakes and curls closer into Agatha, or she wakes and finds her boys in their room before lying on a mat on the floor between them, or Ash wakes with a tear in the corner of her eye and a sigh that she won’t explain, sometimes Wendy wakes and gives America a gentle nudge and they leave their universe to find another one, to rescue the her that she sees in her dream. Not always, because that’s almost harder – knowing that at the exact moment she saves one, another is split from her and left alone – but every now and again, when it’s so painful she can’t breathe, it’s an option. Just like it’s always an option to stay where she is, to breathe in, and to live.

#bandit fic #visions of an alternate #finding family with wanda and america #mcu #wanda maximoff #scarlet witch #america chavez #wendy maximoff #billy kaplan #tommy shepherd #of note #agatha and ash and agnes all get mentioned within #some more heavily than others #(so does stephen technically but not in the same sense)#because like - this discusses the family #but #yeah

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can-of-pringles · 2 years

Text

Birthday Flowers

Rating: Gen

Warnings: Angst, angst and feels, grief/mourning

Word Count: 1k

Summary: The mood of the room felt different, which Rosie easily picked up on. Sometimes it could be difficult for her to read the room, but she always could when it was after her father’s birthday parties. It always confused her to see him act like this. After all, he just celebrated his birthday. Rosie always felt happy and excited about her birthday, so why wasn’t he?