Wanda's feet dangled over the edge of the roof, surveying the living, breathing city ninety stories below her. She was sitting on the very edge, hands braced on the ground beneath her.
There was something about New York at night. In Sokovia, nights had been dark and silent. Her mother used to tell her and Pietro that if they were too loud, angry men would come and raid their homes. In her cell at Hydra, nights were a different kind of quiet. New York, however, was bright and noisy. Taxi horns blared, drunks yelled at each other across the street, music filled the air.
To Wanda, ninety stories high, perched precariously on Stark's ridiculously large landing pad, the noise was a distant buzz.
It was warm that night. The wind was a soft breeze, drifting over her as she leaned forward slightly, letting the sounds and lights of the city swallow her up. Maybe it would distract her from how numb she felt.
Leaning over the edge, she wondered what it would feel like to shift her weight forward and let gravity do the rest.
She wondered what sound her body would make when it inevitably crashed into concrete.
Her fingers left the edge. Swift, sudden death was only one wrong twist away.
She could save herself, if she wanted to. Fling her hands out, catch herself before she splattered onto the ground.
Would she even die? She had so much power within her— bursting, writhing beneath her skin, itching to get out— sometimes it seemed like she was invincible. Power that they had given her. Power that she had chosen to take. Power that she did not want, no longer needed, did not deserve.
She could still feel the weight of Ultron's ugly, metal heart in her right hand.
She could still feel the silent dagger that had been shoved through her heart the moment she'd realized. She'd just known, with undeniable clarity, that he was gone.
She saw his body after the fight. Torso riddled with bullet holes, his stupid dyed white-blond hair blown askew. His face, usually so cheeky and full of mischief, blank and expressionless. Someone had closed his eyes. He would have looked like he was simply dozing if not for the paleness of his skin.
The Avengers had led her into a black jet. It was a grim ride back. Everyone talked in low voices. Some cast her looks. Wanda was aware of them, but whether they were friendly or unfriendly, she didn't care to find out. No one seemed to be avoiding her, but no one deliberately approached her, either. Wanda picked a wall to stare at and didn't bother speaking to anyone.
When they landed, she saw personnel carrying a zipped black body bag. It couldn't have been Pietro, but it sent a fresh wave of pain crashing through her numbness. She gritted her teeth to keep the tears in and walked out of the jet with her composure in a vice like grip. Stark led her to her new room. Somewhere along the way he'd started a one-sided conversation. She let his half-muttered words fly over her head.
They reached the door. Stark was still talking, but she didn't have it in her to feel annoyed. She opened the door with a flick of her wrist and stepped through. It closed behind her and locked.
It was quiet. The room was untouched, a clean slate.
For the first time since stepping onto the jet, Wanda let out a shuddering breath and allowed her mask to crumble away. It was good that Stark hadn't insisted on a tour first, because she didn't think she could have held it together.
Her knees hit the floor, and she cried until it felt like every drop of liquid had been drained from her body, and then some more. She cried for her parents and for her country. She cried for herself.
She didn't care to check if the doors were soundproof. Stark could still be standing outside the door. All that she cared about was that no one could see her grieve. It was something that belonged only to Pietro.
When she didn't feel like crying anymore, she stopped. She felt empty and emotionless. She sat numbly in her new room, blank and white with only a bed and neutral furniture. It reminded her of her cell at Hydra. A much nicer cell, but a cell nonetheless.
She shattered a wall-length window overlooking the Manhattan skyline, levitated herself out of it, and landed on the highest surface she could reach. The landing pad offered a view of lights and buildings stretched in every direction. A glittering city of noise and movement.
Her tears had dried on her face, and her skin felt crusty. The wind rustled her black dress. She hadn't changed out of it since the battle, and the red leather jacket— Captain Rogers had given it to her— still remained on her shoulders. Despite this, and the warm weather, she was shivering.
Pietro was gone.
He was gone.
I'm twelve minutes older, you know.
She knew.
Wanda felt like she was going to cry again. Her face screwed up involuntarily, but her eyes would not produce tears. She was so, so tired.
Her life was one long, continuous stream of pain and suffering that stretched and stretched. But at least Pietro had been there, supporting her through it all. Now that he was no longer by her side, she was unbalanced and lost, a floundering leaf in the midst of a hurricane.
She inched forward, her legs moving closer off the edge. The urge to let go was greater now. A force was sucking her down. Her eyes were fixed on a spot on the ground below her. The spot she would land.
When she died, she would see Pietro…
"You shouldn't."
The voice startled her so badly that she nearly slipped off the edge. She spun around, settling herself back on the landing pad. She hadn't realized how far she'd inched forward.
Stark was standing a little further back, his body language tense. Half of his Iron Man suit was assembled on him, like he'd flung it on hastily. Wanda waited for the rage to come upon seeing him, but she only felt numb. He was just a man, she realized. A man, not a missile.
"Jump off, I mean," he continued, stepping closer. He usually talked using very quick, short sentences, Wanda noticed. He said them with a flippant, careless air, like words did not have value, like they were simply things to be tossed around. It gave him the impression of being rude and not caring very much, but Wanda had seen inside his mind. She knew his greatest fear, and just how much he cared.
"How did you find me?" she asked, impressing herself with how even her voice was. She was sure her face was blotchy and her eyes were red, but at least she could maintain some ounce of dignity.
"Uh, FRIDAY told me you broke one of my windows. Which— not a big deal— we're switching locations for HQ anyway, but doors exist for a reason."
Wanda was silent for a moment. "I'm sorry."
"Apology accepted. Like I said, it's fine." Stark studied her for a moment. For once, it looked like he didn't know what to say. He crossed his hands in front of him, then uncrossed them.
"Since we're on the topic of apologies," he said suddenly, "I have one." He stepped closer once again. "I've made mistakes in the past— do you mind if I sit here?"
Wanda shrugged.
Stark lowered himself a few feet away beside her on the landing pad. "Sending missiles into Sokovia. I manufactured the weapons. I didn't know what they were going to be used for, but I should've done my research. And I take full responsibility for that."
Wanda didn't say anything.
Stark continued. "Not that that fixes anything—"
"I wasn't going to jump," she interrupted. "I was just… thinking about it."
"Thinking about things usually ends with doing them. Speaking from experience," Stark said. His voice was serious now. "Be honest with me. If I hadn't showed up, would you have done it?"
Wanda felt numb again. "I don't know."
"Listen, kid. I'm not going to sit here and give you a speech on how great life is. Because it's not. And I'm not going to tell you that the pain is gonna go away, because it won't. What I am going to tell you is…" Stark paused again, long enough for Wanda to look up at him.
He sighed, breaking the tension. "Jesus, I don't even know. Cap usually gives the motivational speeches."
Wanda, who had been preparing herself to hear some feel-better bullshit about life and death, allowed herself a wry smile. "You're really bad at this, you know."
"I've been there, is what I'm trying to say. Most people in this tower have. And I'm not trying to downplay your grief, but there are people who would understand. Who you could talk to. Instead of launching yourself down ninety stories straight into 12 o'clock traffic."
Wanda swallowed a lump in her throat. "What makes you think they want to talk to me? I played with your heads. I made you live your worst nightmares." She stares into his eyes, watching the memory of it strike him. She waited for the anger in his eyes. "You should hate me."
They stayed steely and focused. "And I created weapons responsible for the deaths of millions. You're barely more than a teenager. We all do stupid shit when we're young. You were brainwashed by HYDRA. And coerced by a hunk of metal who sought for the elimination of the human race— which I helped create. You made a mistake. All that matters is that in the end, you helped fix it."
"A mistake," Wanda murmured. "That seems like a gross oversimplification for all that I've done."
"Trust me," Stark said, "whatever you think you've done, I promise you there's someone in this tower who's done worse. We have assassins, a man who turns into a green rage monster, a god who's probably murdered at least one man in his lifetime… And then there's Cap, who's probably never strayed from his moral compass in his life."
Wanda mulled that over for a moment.
He turned to her suddenly. "Do you want to make an omelet?"
"...an omelet?" Wanda repeated.
Stark was already standing up, his armor whirring as he picked himself off of the ledge. "Unless you'd rather stay here. I mean, the view's nice and all, but I'm freezing my ass off."
It was cold, Wanda realized. And all thoughts of jumping off the ledge seemed far away. Even the pain of Pietro's death seemed to have dulled, at least for the moment.
"Do you even know what I'm talking about? They do make omelets in Sokovia, don't they? Whatever. You don't need to know what an omelet is to—"
"Yes," Wanda said. "Okay." Her toes were numb, but she lifted one frozen foot up and pushed herself off of the ground into a standing position.
"Splendid." Stark spoke into his suit. "FRI, will you be a dear and open the doors?"
The doors of the landing pad opened smoothly. They were standing a good few feet away from the doors, but Wanda felt a huge wave of warmth from the inside wash over her.
"Thank you, Stark," she said quietly.
"Call me Tony."
posted this one on ao3 but someone asked me to post it here, so
i was thinking of making this a series? i've been updating my other fics so idk about this one but i might come back to it if i have time and people like it