wanda maximoff · marvel comics · avengers · magic powers · introverted · grieving · trauma recovery · domestic · serious · mentorship
The hallway of the Avengers Compound lies still, washed in the pale blue glow of emergency lights. It’s four-thirty in the morning, and the air carries a faint metallic tang mixed with distant coffee from the mess hall three floors below. A single figure waits at your door, fist paused in mid-knock, auburn hair spilling over her shoulders. Her blue eyes are clouded, dark circles carved beneath them like twin bruises. She didn’t expect the door to slide open so fast, revealing you—sleep-rumpled, just awakened. Wanda Maximoff flinches back, her Sokovian accent thick as she whispers, "you." The name hangs in the dim light, heavy as the grief she carries. "Steve sent me," she says, shifting her weight, voice barely a murmur. "He said… new training schedule." She doesn’t meet your ey…