WHO LIVES, WHO DIES, WHO TELLS YOUR STORY CHAPTER 11

WHO LIVES, WHO DIES, WHO TELLS YOUR STORY CHAPTER 11

Who Lives, Who Dies Who Tells Your Story

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: Natasha and Reader get into an accident that leaves Natasha in critical condition. When she wakes up, it’s revealed that she has amnesia and doesn’t remember her life, wife, or children.

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w/c:4.6k

Note: A random picture in here that's not mine meaning i don't own it but it added to the moment lol.

Heartache is an overwhelming feeling. The feeling is pain, devastation, and the end of the world all rolled into one. This version of heartache is the one where you’re in limbo and don’t know what happens next. It’s the worst kind. You walk down one of the many corridors of the compound, your feet feeling as if they’re wrapped with five-pound weights, as your chest heaves. Your breaths are short. Skin slick with sweat. You avoid the lounge for one destination. The only thing on your mind is numb. You need to be so numb you can’t feel your face. You need to distract yourself from this hurricane shitstorm inside of you. Telling Natasha to leave. Telling her you needed space from her? It’s not the bad part. You could handle that. As an adult, you’ve been through worse. No, the hard part was walking away. Not hearing her footsteps after you. Not hearing or seeing her put up much of a fight. You don’t want to address it. You can’t address it. You just need to breathe. You forgot how to do that. You’re not sure how anymore. 

When you spot the bar you make a beeline for it. The girls have the rest of the team to fend for them right now. At this moment you can only worry about yourself. You just need a bit of time to yourself. You go straight for the good stuff. The strongest stuff you can find. Tequila. It’s not the cheap kind either. It’s probably hundreds, if not thousands of dollars, and you could drink the whole thing if it made you feel better. You grip the neck in your hand, fighting through your blurry vision to find a spare glass. It’s too much work. You use your powers, the energy buzzing and vibrating at the tip of your fingers, and you open the bottle with one simple gesture. You down the first half, guzzling the burning liquid, allowing it into your bloodstream. You just need something to take the edge off. It’s either this or blowing something up and neither of them is a very good option. 

“Y/n?” Wanda’s soft, gentle voice reaches your ears. She sounds distant. In another world. You open your eyes, finding the purple mist around you, and you sigh. It’s growing. Festering inside you. Awaiting a moment for you to slip. Waiting for a crack in your armor. You have more control than that. You’ve worked too hard to let it go now. 

Wanda keeps her distance. She stands a few feet away from you. Her curious green eyes survey you. She’s trying to gauge your mood. The violet magic is hot and bright as it sizzles from your fingers. Partly because you want it to. Wanda holds up a hand. 

“Y/n, what’s going on?” Wanda asks. She raises a hand, signaling for you to calm down, and you do. She takes note of your eyes and the purple hue they’ve taken on. 

“I-I,” You struggle to breathe. You look down at the bottle, leaving it where it is before you slide down to the floor. Wanda is over faster than you know it, ignoring the slight sting of your angry magic, as she wraps her arms around you. You don’t cry. You don’t do anything. You simply lie there in her embrace. You wonder how you’ve managed to do this twice in the same month. 

“You need to calm down,” Wanda whispers into your hair. “Should we go to the training room?”

“No,” You say a bit too quickly. You shake your head. “She’s in there.” She’s probably right where you left her. Stunned speechless. Hopefully hurting just as much as you are. 

“Hmm,” Wanda hums. “Okay.” She says. She kisses the top of your head. She runs her fingers over your bare arm. She allows the red tendrils to slip from her fingers. It interacts with yours. She feels airy, light, and good. Her mood is that of concern and it’s expressed through the magic. It penetrates your skin, almost like a dance, and you close your eyes. The feeling of love envelops your body. She’s your sister. She wants to you feel it in every part of you. You wish that could be enough to ease all of the hurt. You wish your chest wasn’t so tight. You wish you could take it back. A tiny part of you wishes you never sparred with Natasha. Never told her to leave. What would become of your marriage? Is this the end? 

You squeeze your eyes shut tighter. You’re aware if anyone were to come to the bar they could see you. Distressed, tired, and sad. The glamor is gone and you’re a bit too weak to do anything but allow yourself to feel Wanda. 

“That’s it,” Wanda coos. She doesn’t move for as long as you don’t. When she feels you take your first big gasp of air, she knows you’re okay. 

“I told her to go,” It’s as if you’re afraid of your voice. You’re afraid to say the words out loud. It would make all of this real. It can’t be real. “To stay here.”

“I think you made a good decision,” Wanda says when you raise your head to her. 

“I think so too,” You agree. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.” You say before lying your head against her chest again. “I need a release.” 

“I see,” Wanda’s tone isn’t accusatory or judging. She sits you up, holding out her palms, and instructs you to give it all to her. “I know this isn't always the best method but…” Wanda sighs. You nod. This isn’t the best place to do any of this. You sit, crossing your legs, before you place your palms over hers. You just need a release. 

*******************************

Natasha sits alone in the gym. Dumbfounded. The new aches and pains in her body, especially her ribs only serve as a reminder of what transpired only moments ago. She remembers the hurried way you exited the room after you told her the news. You didn’t want her home anymore. You want her to move back to the compound. It’s all her fault.  She can’t say she’s angry. She doesn’t know what she is right now. Surprised? No. All of her behavior has built up to this very moment. 

You said you felt alone. So does she. No one understands her feelings. Everyone wants her to remember. She wants to remember. She’s desperately clinging onto a memory of what was and not living in the present. She’s ruining her life. A life she built. One she’d be dumb to lose. She wanted to go after you. She wanted to protest. It’s her house too. They’re her children too. The decision is hers too. Instead, she remained quiet. Stunned. Silent. 

Natasha raises a shaky hand to feel her ribs. They're sore. Another sign that the sparring was not a good idea in the first place. She shouldn’t have pushed you. She should have left things alone. She should have made herself clear. Did she want to?

It’s the truth. She doesn't know if she can love you. For Natasha, in life before the accident love didn’t exist for her. The messy entanglement of a situation with Bruce could have been. She isn’t so sure of that now anyway. Not when she’s been witness to the real thing. Even if she’s given so much pushback. She sees you. She understands what this life has become for her. It terrifies her. It sends a chill up her spine. The way you looked at her. With wild eyes, purple encompassing the irises, and a bit of exhaustion. Even then the love never left your eyes. You didn’t change course to hurt her. You only wanted her to see you and she knows that. Logically, Natasha knows that. She knows you only want the best for her. You only want her. Why can’t she be okay with that? 

She shakes her head. She needs to get up. She needs to shower or sleep or apologize? Would you accept her apology? Would you listen to her and what she has to say? Would she need to plead her case again until her words die in her throat? Natasha moves to kneel, stretching her hands out in front of her, before she takes her time standing to her feet. Out of the corner of her eye, on the far side of the ring, where you once stood, there’s a shiny piece of jewelry. With slow breaths, Natasha walks over to it, eyeing the jewelry until she realizes what it is. 

A necklace with a wedding band attached to it. She bends down with a huff to grip the chain link between her fingers. She’s noticed it around your neck before. It must have fallen off when you were sparring. She raises it to eye level, holding out her palm to inspect it further, when she realizes what the engraving on the inside says. 

“La Vie En Rose,” Natasha reads aloud. She understands the reference. The French flowed from her tongue effortlessly. “Life in Pink.” or “Life in Happy Hues” depending on who gives the definition. She knows the meaning behind it. A song about a woman describing a man and all the love she has for him and how much he makes her happy. She frowns. Could she ever feel that way?

“You’re a widow, you’re made of Marble, Natalia,” The voice is thick and resounding in her head. “Love is for children.” It’s been engrained into her since she was a child. The only one you could depend on was yourself. The only person who has your back is you. Love is messy. It gets in the way. It causes you to see the world in rose-colored glasses. It makes ending things so much harder. Natasha chokes. Was this over? Did she ruin it before she ever really got a chance to experience it?

She tucks the ring into her pocket and sighs. What a mess. 

*****************************

The next few hours are spent avoiding each other. Natasha exits the gym in search of Tony or Steve. She finds them with the rest of the crew just as she left them. She stands before everyone, a permanent scowl on her face, as she clears her throat. 

“If someone could show me to the bedroom I’ll be sleeping in,” Natasha asks when eyes turn to her. The girls, Lily, Olivia, and Morgan are crowded around Pepper as she sticks a wand into what Natasha assumes is a giant bottle of bubbles. 

“Look, Mama, bubbles,” Olivia cheers with a happy giggle. She jumps, clapping her hands in the air in an attempt to catch one, but she fails. She’s not too worried about it. She simply claps her hands again and waits patiently for the next batch. Lily, upon seeing her mother, toddles over to Natasha and raises her arms. 

“I will show you,” Melina volunteers. Natasha's untrusting eyes give her a hard look. She returns her gaze to the floor. She’d rather anyone else but her but she has no fight left in her for the day. She scoops Lily into her arms, even if her body is protesting it, and she follows Melina. They walk in silence, the older Widow in front of her by half a step, as she leads her through a series of automatic sliding doors. 

“Mama.” Lily babbles, clapping her hands together, and making as much noise as she can. She whips her head back to peer up at the ceiling not realizing that she’d almost thrown herself out of Natasha’s arms. Natasha simply fixes on her hips a bit more. Ever so often, Melina will glance back at her. They reach a suite where Melina taps a few buttons. 

“This is yours and y/n’s living quarters,” Melina informs her. They step inside and are immediately flooded with light. The bags and a ton of toys have already been brought in from the car. Melina does a turn to face Natasha. “There are three bedrooms here. It used to be Wanda’s and Y/n’s. I only know half the story.” Melina shrugs. “How are you feeling?”

“No, nope, we’re not doing this,” Natasha shakes her head. 

“Look, Natasha, I know you don’t remember,” Melina begins but Natasha raises a hand. 

“I remember you abandoned me,” Natasha says. “I remember you left me at the hands of a psychopath. You’re not the first mother to do it.” Natasha shrugs. She stares Melina dead in the eyes. Familiar eyes that look at her with such love. Such compassion. Understanding. It heals something inside her. She hates the feeling of it. She dislikes that this woman stands before her and pretends that everything is alright between them. 

“Your mother didn’t abandon you,” Melina says matter-of-factly. She clasps her hands together in front of her and Natasha follows the movement. 

“Mama,” Lily grins and Natasha shares a small smile with her. 

“What’s that supposed to mean, Melina?” Natasha tilts her head. “I’m not really in the mood for riddles or whatever it is you have going on. I’d prefer if you just left.”

“Very well,” Melina nods. It’s too easy for her. “Maybe another time.” Melina bids her a good day. She steps around both girls, offering a wave to Lily before she exits the suite. 

“Okay, show me around, baby girl.” Natasha signs. It’s been an adventure relearning the language. Interestingly, she hasn’t lost it fully. The brain works in mysterious ways. She signs the word bed, noting that it may seem jumbled since she can only use one hand, but Lily gets her anyway. Lily shakes her head. No bed for her. “Mama needs a nap.” Natasha smiles. She walks over to one bedroom opens the door and noting the furniture is for children. This must be for the girls. Next. The next one is further down. A master bedroom. It’s decorated much in the same way it is at home. Muted colors, black-out curtains, king-sized bed. 

Finally, she gets to the final bedroom. A guest room. She kicks off her shoes and crawls into bed. Lily, not quite ready to sleep, sits up to look at Natasha. 

“Mama,” Lily bounces on her bottom. She closes her tiny fist, peeking her thumb out between her index and middle fingers, before she shakes it. Natasha narrows her eyes. She’s trying to decipher what exactly this sign is. “Potty,” Lily announces and Natasha understands. Of course, the little one is wearing a diaper but she’s not too concerned. She springs into action. She ignores her aching muscles to rush the little one to the bathroom. Natasha helps with pulling her pants and diaper off, before setting her on the toilet. She’s only eighteen months old but she’s doing quite well. The expectation of potty training is loose. Any progress is great progress. 

Once Lily is done, Natasha flushes the toilet and moves to dispose of the diaper when Lily sets off for a run. So much for a nap. She chases after the little girl and finds her in the living area amongst the bags. Lily reaches into one of the open bags, finding a toy for her to chew on, and she immediately brings it to her mouth. There in the living room, she sits her bare bottom down on the floor to play. Natasha would have to keep watch for any further accidents. This should be fun. 

******************

When you’re feeling a bit better, you wipe your face and stand. It’s still Christmas and you want to engage in the festivities. Starting with cookies for Santa. You find Olivia already in the kitchen with Morgan and Pepper. You grab a spare apron, tie it around your body, and you wash your hands. Wanda follows you as a concerned mother hen. You’re grateful for her. 

“Mommy, we’s making cookies,” Olivia announces to you. She shows you her hands, messy with homemade cookie dough, with a smile. You nod, laughing at her messiness before kissing her head. 

“I see,” You look around you. “Where can I, um, where can I help?” You take a deep breath. Even though you feel like you want the ground to swallow you whole, you’re ready for this night with your babies. Speaking of babies, you wonder where Lily is. “Where’s your sister?”

“Her is with Mama,” Olivia answers distractedly. With the help of Pepper, she’s using a cookie cutter to cut out the shape of a Christmas tree. 

“Auntie Nat and her Mama went to your room,” Morgan chimes in. 

It’s not a surprise. You would rather avoid that area for the time being. You put on your brave face and get to work. You could do this.  You would get through this night. 

*************************************************

Christmas dinner is intense. For lack of a better word. It’s quiet save for the sound of glasses clinking and children’s chattering. Every so often someone will make a comment about how the food is great. It’s a simple dinner considering the actual holiday will be tomorrow night. You have seated two seats down from Natasha, the children in the middle, and everyone else surrounding you. If the others have noticed your distance no one speaks to it. They don’t mention it. Not even a thinly veiled joke from Tony or Sam. Which is unsettling in itself. They all respect your privacy. Right now at least. The accident has changed your life. They could only hope things were going to work themselves out. 

“Have you heard? There’s a situation down in Miami,” Sam informs everyone. “I think we are going to have to keep an eye on that.”

“Supernatural, spooky, or techy?” Tony sits up in his chair. He’s intrigued and ready for a thrill. 

“Maybe both?” Sam shrugs.

“I thought we weren’t going to do shop talk at dinner,” Pepper reminds them. 

“Sorry,” Sam shrugs. “It’s been slow for work the past year or so. I’m ready for some action.” There’s silent agreement from everyone at the table. While it’s nice to have a break sitting still for so long can get to even the calmest person. 

“Not me,” Alexei’s voice is a bit louder than necessary. His words catch the attention of everyone in the room. “I enjoy simple things in life. I’m a simple man. I have my girls here. My beautiful girls. Two bonus daughters.” He raises his glass in celebration as he refers to you and Wanda. “A beautiful, sexy, and healthy woman by my side every day.” 

From beside you Yelena and Natasha have matching eye rolls. 

“Natasha,” Alexei addresses her. Oh, this won’t be good. You try not to seem so interested in what’s happening but you do keep eyes on them. “I am amazed at your resilience. My girl. I raised you to be strong. I know I make mistakes. I think we did good for a couple of Russian spies yeah? Look at you. Healthy. Bouncing back from a tragic accident done by idiots.”

“What are you talking about?” Natasha raises a brow. She can’t fathom why she’s even here with these people. Entertaining their conversations and their presence. “You didn’t raise me. You abandoned me. Like a coward.” The blow hits him right where she wants. Alexei’s smile falters. 

“Natasha, that’s not fair,” Melina scolds her. Which only proves to irritate her even more. “I think your anger is justified. Though it’s not appropriate at family dinner.” Melina gestures around her. The rest of the Avengers watch the awkward scene wondering what’s going to happen next. 

“No, I don’t know how any of this is even a thing,” Natasha shakes her head. “You don’t get to tell me what is or isn’t appropriate.”

“Mama’s upset,” Olivia notes. This seems to calm Natasha down. It snaps her back to a state of submission. Maybe. You’re not sure. It’s probably not your place to question it anymore either. You’re not divorced or even separated. You’re just nothing. It only sends another pang in your chest. 

“I’m going to go to bed,” Natasha looks down at her plate. She’s not hungry. She kisses both girls. When she gets to you, she glances at you, and you look away to avoid eye contact. It hurts too much. You listen for her footsteps, hearing them trail away, and then the table is back in silence. 

“Mom,” Lily begs with messy hands. She passes you her dinner roll. You break it in half for her, giving her both pieces, and she grins big and wide. She holds one in each hand and alternates eating between them. 

“Y/n,” Melina begins. “Is Natasha alright? The amnesia? What did the doctors say?”

“Well, she has an upcoming appointment,” You answer smoothly. “I can’t say much about it. Her memories aren’t back. I think a lot of things are touch and go. They said with her type of amnesia things can come back instantly or never at all. We have to give her time.” Even as you say the words you don’t believe them. Would Natasha’s memories ever come back to her? Even if they did you don’t think they would erase the hurt you feel. 

Steve can see you don’t want this to be a topic of conversation. So he changes the subject. You zone out then. You sit back in your chair, keeping an eye on the girls, as you finish dinner as you feel like you’re obligated to. 

When it’s all said and done you find that it’s nice to be in the company of good people. They’re here with you because they want to be. You’re part of a team. You have a family outside of Natasha. Even if they were her family first. 

You take the girls to bed all on your own, finding a bottle of breastmilk already pumped for Lily to take. You give the girls a warm bath alone, though Natasha does come in to say goodnight to them. She steps inside the bedroom, noting your stiff posture when she gets near, to kiss the girls goodnight. 

Lily is already half asleep in her crib when you set her down. You switch spots with Natasha to kiss Olivia goodnight. 

“I can go to sleep in ten seconds,” Olivia counts on her hands. Though she does skip numbers. A work in progress. You give her an amused smile before you laugh.

“Go to sleep, baby,” You kiss her and sit with her until she does close her eyes. With the exhausting day, you’ve had you want to follow right after her. With both girls asleep, you can finally enjoy the slight buzz you’ve had for a few hours. You make your way into the kitchen for a glass of wine and then to the living room to set up all the toys. You stand with a hand on your hip, sipping from your glass, and then you shake your head. Not tonight. You wave a hand and all of the decorations and gifts show the perfect display. 

“Y/n,” Natasha’s voice gives you anxiety. It’s anxiety-inducing and you never thought it would resort to that again. Natasha decides against it. She looks at you and you don’t turn her way. You don’t even acknowledge that she's spoken. She’s not worth your time right now. “Merry Christmas.” She says. Whatever she wanted to say she knows not to push. 

“Merry Christmas, Natasha.” You mumble. You retreat to your bedroom and close the door behind you. This is your new normal.

Natasha remains glued to her spot for a while. She wants to apologize. Her lips won’t move. Her mouth won’t work. Her brain is too fast. She’s tired. She walks down to her bedroom. Much to her surprise there’s a gift waiting on the bed for her. 

It’s a tiny box wrapped in brown paper. The thin yarn of the string is yellow and neatly cut. it’s cute and doesn’t give away what’s inside at all. Natasha debates about opening it. She doesn’t know if she deserves it. She sits on the bed, running her fingers along the box before she pulls the string. She tears into the paper gently, afraid but curious about what might be inside, before she pauses. 

A handwritten letter. Due to her snooping, she knows exactly what it looks like. It’s shaky, cursive but pretty. It’s uniquely you and she spends a bit of time memorizing it. The letter is dated a few months before the accident. Happier times and all that. 

My Dearest Natasha,

We’ve spent five Christmases together so far. I still don’t know what to get you after all this time. I spent hours in stores and online. Perusing the aisles and wondering what would be the perfect gift when you have it all. I look at you and I see happiness, life, and light. I see our future and our family and I know this is the life I’ve always wanted. There’s not a day that goes by where I don’t know this is where we belong. Together. Raising our girls. I know we can joke about it now. The day in Morroco you stole my heart and I yours. We shared secrets. We’ve lived so many lives. So, when I did a bit, or a lot actually, of digging into my ancestry. Not much came up. No surprise there. We discussed things extensively and I know how much it’s bothered both of us not knowing where we’ve come from. I met with Russian genealogists and diplomats and all sorts of fancy people. Turns out that finding information on someone when you don’t even know their name is tough. Impossible even. For you, I’ve always said I would do the impossible or talk to a God by the name of Thor. Seems he knows a thing or two about genealogy. This is a gift to you from me. I would go to the ends of the earth for you and I hope one day soon we can make a trip to your home to explore and see life from a new lens. I love you forever and always. La Vie En Rose.

Always and forever yours, 

Y/n

Natasha places the letter delicately onto the bed. Her eyes zero in on two small items placed under rose petals. She’s overcome with emotion when she realizes what they are. Two pictures, worn, faded, and torn around the edges. The first one brings Natasha to tears. She doesn’t need to be told what it is. It doesn’t need to be written out for her. Her mother. A woman with luscious red hair, wide eyes, green just like hers, and a jawline that matches hers. There are subtle differences in her features like her dimpled chin and button nose. Her eyes looking into the lens of the camera and inadvertently into Natasha’s soul. Her vision blurs and she wipes her eyes with her arm to view it again. Her hands shake uncontrollably as she takes it all in. Natasha scrambles for the next picture. It’s of the same woman holding a child. A small toddler, Natasha, is in her arms, as the woman smiles at her adoringly. 

This time Natasha doesn’t try to stop the tears. She doesn’t look away for even a second. She flips the picture over. There’s handwriting barely there. 

It reads…

Anika and Natalia, 1986

Natasha has a piece of herself she’s searched for years for. She knows what her mother looks like. She knows that she was loved. She knows that she is loved. So, she sits on the bed, with two pictures from what seems to be thin air. How could she ever repay you for this? How could she ever make things right?

She knows what love is. 

everyone but her pt.22

Summary: A hidden part of your past comes back to haunt you. At least you've secured a special place in an unusual family's hearts. You would be paying off the debt for the rest of your life.

Word Count: 8.4k Warnings: swearing, violence, murder (in a flashback) Pairing: Wednesday Addams x Reader (everyone but her Masterlist) Taglist: @extinctspino @basichextechml @cfvgbhndun-new-blog @jinxscatbomb @awolfcsworld @suzhiman @gengen64 @eclipsesmoonshine14 @alexkolax @thenextdawn @cacciatricediartemide @cozwaenot @the-night-owl-blr @natashasapphic @elliesbabygirl @alilbitlesbian @irish-piece-of-trash @rainbow-love4ever @audigay @bakugounuggets @myfturn @rockwyn @bigbadsofty07 @andsoigotabutterfly @smromanoff @notheoneforlove

A/N: I've had a clusterfuck of a week and it's only Wednesday morning, so I'm giving y'all this 20mins early because I love y'all dearly 🫶

The sun was out, shining down and leaving a nice little burn to your skin. It was the perfect day to be running around Niagara Falls with Nicky. People were all around, the birds were out, and you were already far too full from street food. It was perfect.

“What next?” Nicky asked once you had both finished your ice creams; you had strawberry and he had vanilla.

“Hmm,” you hummed aloud, looking carefully over everything.

There were carnival games all around, those were always fun. But they cost money, so maybe not those. Go-karts would be fun, but you weren’t tall enough to drive them and Nicky was a bad driver. You could always go see the birds again, but Nicky had gotten bored. There had to be something you could both do.

Oh!

“The skywheel!” You shouted. No one could see, but your little wings flapped under your shirt.

“Really?” Nicky asked, his hand pressing gently on your back to keep your wings steady. It was comforting. “Why? You can see that view any time.”

“But you can’t,” you said. He looked down at you. “I want you to see what I see!”

“Okay,” he said with a smile, and you turned around to look at the skywheel.

It was so much fun! The birds were out, the sun was shining over the water, and the man at the bottom let you go around three times! Even Nicky had fun, pointing out people, talking about how pretty the sky was. Maybe he could appreciate the view a little better when you tried to fly without permission next time.

“Can we go to the gardens tomorrow?” You asked while you picked at the nachos Nicky had gotten. They had tomatoes on them. Yuck.

“We can,” he said. He wasn’t really paying attention to you, but that was okay because you weren’t paying attention to him either. “If you want to.”

“Are we camping again tonight?” You asked. All the tomato pieces finally rested in the corner of the paper tray and you could eat in peace.

“Yeah,” Nicky said with a sigh. “We’ll head out when you’re done eating.”

“Aren’t you still hungry?” You asked.

“Nah,” he said with a smile. “Finish it.”

“Here,” you said, pushing the tray a little closer to his hand, “I saved the tomatoes for you.”

He hesitated, but after looking at you for a minute he reached forward and grabbed a nacho. They were going cold, but you were just happy to share. You had noticed he hadn’t been eating as much since you had left Nevermore for the trip, and he definitely needed more food.

Besides, it was yummy, why wouldn’t he want some?

After watching the sun set over the falls, it was time to start the trip down to where you had both camped last night. It was a nice little spot down by the nature trails below the falls. You had met some nice people down there when you arrived. They had even loaned you a tent!

“Hold my hand,” Nicky said when the street lights were on and you were taking a shortcut through one of the alleys. “Don’t let go.”

“Why not?” You asked, but reached for his hand anyway. It was warm.

“Just don’t,” he said again. His head was looking all around, but you were very focused on the cotton candy the nice man at the cart had given you.

“A little late to be wandering around, don’t you think?”

Yours and Nicky’s heads turned quickly to see two men walking into the alley behind you. They were tall, even taller than daddy. They had some nice smiles on their faces. Were they taking a shortcut to the trails too?

“We’re just going home,” Nicky said. You opened your mouth to argue - you were going to the campground, not home - but he gave you a look that had you shutting your mouth again.

“All alone?” The other man asked with a tilt of his head. “Your parents let you walk alone at night?”

“We can help,” the first man said. “We know a nice place you can both stay.”

“No thank you,” Nicky said. He pulled your hand as he backed away, making you stumble over your own feet. You nearly dropped your cotton candy. “Come on.”

Nicky kept his eyes on the two men as he continued to pull you with him. You tried to walk backwards just like him, but you stepped on something and stumbled, dropping one of the rocks you had snuck into your pocket. Without questioning it, you turned around and bent down to pick it up, your wings fluttering under your shirt to help you straighten up again.

“Would you look at that,” the second man said, and Nicky froze. “We found ourselves a little Outcast.”

“Nicky is too!” You said.

“Y/N, hush-”

“-No no, let her talk,” the first man said. They were walking closer. “You like to talk, kid?”

“All the time,” you said with a smile. He was smiling too.

“What do you like to talk about?” He asked again. The second man was moving sideways. Where was he going?

“Birds,” you said without hesitation. “Oh, and rocks! Wanna see the ones I found today?”

“I'd love to see them," he continued. He took another step closer. "Why don't you come with us to our house and you can show us all the rocks."

"Ok-"

"-Don't touch us," Nicky interrupted, harshly pulling you behind him.

“Don’t get so defensive,” the second man said. You turned your head and saw him standing behind you both. “We just want to give you kids a place to sleep.”

“I thought you wanted to see my rocks,” you said with a huff. The men got closer.

“How about you just come with us,” the first man said as he reached out and grabbed your arm.

“I said don’t!” Nicky shouted.

He dropped your hand and ran head first, hitting the first man's stomach. They both hit the ground hard. You tried to go help, but a big pair of arms wrapped around your shoulders and pulled you back into a big body.

“You’re gonna stay here with me,” the second man said in your ear. He smelled funny.

But the moment the first man hit Nicky with his knee, you lunged forward. Those big hands pulled you back, but you just ducked down further and he let go. Then it was your turn to hit the first man. You knocked him off of Nicky and felt your knee scrape on the ground.

“You fucking brats,” the first man spit out. He pulled something out of his pocket. Nicky was still on the ground holding his stomach.

The moment you saw the knife in the first man’s hand, you turned around to run. You knew to run away from danger, Nicky had taught you that. But you didn’t get very far before you felt someone pick you up. One hand covered your mouth and you bit down hard.

He screamed and dropped you to the ground again. It hurt your feet. You tried to run again, but the man knocked you over. He turned you around, his body pressing you into the hard ground. You turned your head and saw Nicky fighting with the second man.

It didn’t look like Nicky was winning.

“Just stay still,” the first man said above you. He smelled funny too.

Fight back, a little voice in your head said.

What had you seen Nicky do before? He had gotten into fights before, what did he do? Oh! You threw your head forward, feeling the sharp ache when it connected with the first man’s nose. He grunted and pulled back a little bit, but then you felt something hit the side of your face.

Everything started ringing and the alley started spinning. You could feel him pressing into you again, and your wings started to hurt from the ground. Fight back, the little voice said again, so you did. You threw your arms and legs out everywhere, trying to hit something. But then you felt something sharp press against your neck and you stopped.

“Just kill ‘em already,” the second man called out. He sounded like he had been running for a long time.

“With pleasure,” the first man said above you.

No. You felt the knife press into your neck and the sting that followed. What did you do? What were you supposed to do? Nicky had never taught you how to fight a knife!

Knock it away, the little voice said, and grab it.

You thrashed around again, making sure to hit the hand that was holding the knife. The first man groaned again and you kicked your leg up. You don’t know what you hit, but he screamed and rolled off of you. You scrambled to your hands and knees and looked around.

There was the knife.

Your fingers touched the knife right when the first man got on you again. He tried to grab the knife too, his hand much bigger than yours. As soon as you felt your hand grab it, you turned around and swung it.

“Fuck!”

The first man pulled back really fast, holding his cheek. Something red was coming out from between his fingers. He pulled his hand back and you both looked at the blood, and your eyes went to the big cut on his cheek.

“You little bitch,” he said in a mean voice. “Come here.”

He lunged at you again, but you closed your eyes and held the knife out in front of you. Something hit the knife, pushing you back onto the ground again. You heard a gasp and opened your eyes.

The knife was sticking out of the man’s shoulder. He looked at you in shock before his mouth turned into a frown. When he tried to grab you, you pulled the knife out and stabbed him with it again, this time in his hand.

He reached forward, grabbing your wrist and pulled you back. But instead of pulling, you moved forward and he fell onto his back with you on top of him. Stab him, the little voice said; it sounded mean. Without any hesitation, you grabbed the knife with both hands and brought it down. And you did it again. And again. And again again again again again-

-Something warm splashed against your face. The man was screaming, so you closed your eyes and tried to tune him out. You hummed. But you kept bringing the knife down over and over and over and over and over and-

“-Y/N!”

Smaller hands held your wrists, stopping you from bringing the knife down. You opened your eyes again and saw Nicky looking at you. He had blood on his face and clothes and a few cuts all over. Was he okay?

“Let me have it,” Nicky said softly, and he took the knife from your hands. Your fingers felt stiff like they didn’t want to let go. “Are you okay?”

You didn’t know. What had just happened anyway? You were supposed to be at the campgrounds with Nicky about now, right? Why weren’t you both down there with those nice weird people from the other night?

The man wasn’t moving underneath you.

“We have to go,” Nicky said. He was looking all over. “We need to go.”

He wrapped his arms around you to pull you up to your feet. Your legs were all wobbly. Nicky grabbed your hand and started pulling you. You looked back and saw the two men laying on the ground. They were really still. Were they okay?

“We have to go,” Nicky said again as he pulled you further down the alley before you both started running-

“-Smith!”

Your head shot up from the hole you had been staring into the table. The quick movement gave you a headache and made your bruised side throb; jail had not been kind to you. Nothing could have properly prepared you for the difference between the singular Jericho cell and an actual jail down in D.C.

People here were mean.

“You’ve got another date with the detectives,” Officer Hartman called out once you still hadn’t moved.

“Better get movin’, cupcake,” your new bestest friend Erin said with a smug look that you wanted to beat off her. Again. “Hartman might scuff up that pretty face of yours.”

“What would I do without your all-encompassing wisdom,” you mumbled as you stood up, inhaling lightly as the bruises on your torso pulled.

“You sure you graduated highschool?” She asked. “Cause you’re sure actin’ stupid as hell.”

“Still smarter than you and your white trash girl group,” you said with a tilt of your head.

“Wanna say that to my face, Outcast?” Erin asked, standing abruptly to be toe-to-toe with you. In  your peripheral, you could see the rest of her gang starting to circle up.

“I thought I did,” you said. She was smaller than you, but far more aggressive. Surprisingly. “I guess your ass and face look the same, that’s my bad.”

“You little-”

“-Summers!”

Erin’s fist stayed cocked and ready as Officer Hartman casually walked up to the group, one hand resting on the baton on her belt. A shiver went down your spine at the sight of it; you certainly didn’t want to be on the other end of it again any time soon.

“Everything alright over here?” Officer Hartman asked, looking between both you and Erin.

“Just showing my little friend the ropes,” Erin said with a sickeningly sweet smile. Oh, you wanted to beat that off her too.

“You can show her later,” Officer Hartman said before turning to look at you. “Let’s get going, kid.”

“See you later, girly pop,” you said with your own smile before you blew a kiss in Erin’s direction.

You’re going to get your ass beat, the voice at the back of your head said. It was almost nice to hear; it had been a few days and you were getting worried it had disappeared. Wow, you were really attempting to make friends with the voice inside your head. Did that make you crazy?

Yes. Yes, it absolutely did.

“Assume the position,” Officer Hartman ordered once you were out of the common area.

It was a bit odd to be accustomed to the cold bite of the shackles placed around your wrists and ankles. To find a certain comfort in the way they were chained to the belt around your waist. You didn’t know what the explanation was, but it was probably something you needed therapy for.

Therapy is for pussies, the voice said. You didn’t necessarily disagree.

“You gonna behave today?” Officer Hartman asked when she started leading you to the interrogation room.

“Yes ma’am,” you said confidently.

“Good girl,” she said. “Maybe we’re finally beating that arrogance out of you.”

You didn’t say anything in reply; it was better that way. But her words made your side throb again. How bad was it now? It had been two days, surely it was looking nice and ugly at this point. But you hadn’t looked at it yet; you weren’t sure you wanted to know. Not that the detectives would care, nor would anyone else you were going to come into contact with.

“Welcome back, kid,” Detective Waller said when Officer Hartman led you into the interrogation room.

“Afternoon,” you said quietly as you let Hartman unshackle you and then cuff you to the half-circle thing on the table. You didn’t know what it was called, but it was kind of fun to run the cuff chain back and forth on it-

“-Stop it,” Hartman ordered.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, quickly sitting back in your seat to look at Detectives Waller and Pearce. You didn’t like them. Something about them wasn’t trustworthy.

“How you been?” Waller asked once Hartman left the room. He and Pearce seemed more laid back; you certainly did not.

“Fine,” you said. You refused to look up from where your hands were chained to the table.

A lot of precautions for a single 18 year old, the voice mused.

“I hear you’ve been making friends,” Pearce said, his voice always softer than Waller’s. “We can help you with that problem, you know.”

“You’ve just gotta tell us what happened,” Waller finished. He leaned forward to rest his forearms on the desk. “We have proof, so just tell us how it went down.”

“We don’t need to know about the domestic,” Pearce said. “We have an entire room full of people who saw what happened.”

“Just tell us about Niagara,” Waller finished.

This again. They had been asking for over a week at that point. Why couldn’t they just let it go? You hadn’t even remembered it until they brought it up that first day. Maybe you had done it, sure, but how were you supposed to remember all the details?

“Quit looking at your hands,” Waller said harshly. “Look at me.”

And you did. You looked up at him and instantly felt like you were a kid again. The way they were both looking at you like a child about to get scolded. Like all the times when you would get in trouble with your mom and dad and be sent to your room to think about what you did.

It made you feel small.

“We’ve got your prints on the murder weapon,” Pearce said, attempting to take over the conversation. “Just tell us what happened and we can get you away from Erin.”

No he can’t, the voice said.

You kept your mouth shut.

“You’re making it pretty hard on yourself, kid,” Waller said. He leaned further; he was getting too close. “You know what happens when you refuse to cooperate?”

“You already arrested me,” you said. “So you clearly feel confident enough without a confession.” Waller narrowed his eyes. “Not much else you can threaten me with.”

“We can always have you transferred to a different block,” Pearce said with a tilt of his head.

“I hear Block C has a soft spot for Outcasts,” Waller continued.

Don’t listen to them.

“I’m sure you’d make a lot of new friends over there.” Your hands were feeling sweaty.

“You can be cellmates with Miss Byrne.”

Fight back.

Your ears were ringing.

“I think she’s in for killing an Outcast, isn’t she?”

Don’t let them do this.

Your heart wanted to jump out of your throat.

“Think she did. Five, if I remember right.”

“I’m sure she’s rehabilitated now though.”

“Probably wouldn’t even think twice to-”

“-Good afternoon, everyone.”

All three of you whipped your heads toward the door to see a man walking into the interrogation room. His dark hair was slicked back except for one or two strands hanging over his face, and his light goatee was, honestly, pretty fabulous. He kind of reminded you of Zorro.

What was Zorro doing in your interrogation room?

“Can we help you?” Pearce asked when it was clear Waller was still too busy glaring at the new man.

“Jair Moreno,” the man said with a big, bright smile. “I’m here to talk with my client.” He had a comfortingly deep voice, and a stunning accent. It reminded you of Mr. Addams.

“Client?” Waller asked.

“I don’t have a lawyer,” you said with a frown, finally able to voice something.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m here, no?” He said. His smile turned less performative when he looked at you.

Don’t trust him.

“She never asked for a lawyer,” Waller continued. You almost wanted to laugh at how red his face was getting. He was mad.

Good.

“If you keep him around, we can’t talk to you anymore,” Pearce said with a smile that was a rather pitiful attempt at comfort. “We can’t help you.”

“I…” you looked back and forth between the detectives and your (supposed) lawyer. “I would like to talk with him.”

“It’s your funeral, kid,” Waller said with a huff, pushing his chair back harshly and shoving past Mr. Moreno.

“You have the room,” Pearce said quickly before following suit, though in a much less aggressive way. Both you and Mr. Moreno watched and waited until the door clicked shut again, and you were finally alone.

“My apologies for being so late,” he said with a friendly smile as he sat down in the seat across from you. “It took two days to find you.”

“I appreciate you coming, Mr. Moreno-”

“-Señor,” he corrected. “It’s a simple difference, but it makes the white men uncomfortable in these parts.” He winked as if he was letting you in on a little secret.

“Señor Moreno,” you said; the word didn’t sound as pretty coming from your mouth, but he smiled and nodded at you once anyway. “But I can’t afford you. And I never called you.”

“No you didn’t,” he said quickly, “a close friend informed me of the situation. Said you’re like another child to him.”

You wracked your brain to think of who could have possibly called someone for you. Everyone had seen you getting arrested at the Rave’N, so it wasn’t like you could pick from who had known. And you were close with a lot of parents. Had it been a teacher? No, probably not. It certainly wasn’t Sheriff Galpin; he liked you well enough, but you were also a major thorn in his side.

It’s a trap, the voice said. You physically shook your head to get it out. Now wasn’t the time for paranoia.

“I don’t know who would have called,” you finally said. He was being far too nice, it was starting to be a little creepy. Maybe it was the time for some paranoia.

“No?” You shook your head slowly, and his smile fell into something smaller, much more comforting. “Gomez Addams gave me a call.”

Oh.

“Well then I certainly can’t afford you,” you said immediately. Señor Moreno laughed a deep belly laugh.

“He said you would say that,” he chuckled. “That’s why I’m taking your case pro bono.”

“That’s not a smart business decision,” you mumbled, looking down at your hands and away from his gaze. His eyes reminded you of Wednesday’s; dark, like perfectly stained wood.

You’re going to owe them, the voice said. You’ll never be able to repay them. You’ll be in their debt for the rest of your life.

“But it is my decision to make,” he said. You didn’t look up from your hands but nodded absentmindedly.

You felt small again.

“Let’s go ahead and get down to business,” Señor Moreno said.

You nodded and braced yourself for whatever it was he was going to say. You hoped it wasn’t going to be all bad news. There was only so much more you could take.

“Let’s talk about the domestic first,” he said, and you nodded. “We won’t deny it happened, that would be foolish. But what was your emotional state at that moment?”

He blamed Outcasts; he blamed you. Your fist pounded into flesh and bone again and again and again and ag-

“-I don’t know,” you said with a shrug and another shake of your head to get the image of blood out of your mind.

“Were you aware of what you were doing at the time?” He probed. “Or did you only realise afterwards?”

“I…” you sighed. “I didn’t know until after.”

“And it happened impulsively?”

“Yes.”

“Then we shall go with an extreme emotional disturbance defence,” he said. “I’ve used it in New York, I’m sure I can find a loophole here.”

“So it’s actually going to trial?” You asked, your shoulders sagging. You couldn’t handle a trial.

“Not necessarily,” he said, his eyes meeting yours. It was almost hypnotising. He was actually pretty handsome.

Don’t be a whore.

“Now tell me about this double homicide,” he said, looking down at notes that you hadn’t even realised he had. “They have yet to declare it either a murder or manslaughter because of your age at the time.”

“Uh, I was 9- 10,” you blinked frantically. “10, I was 10. Nicky was 14.” So young? “We walked west for a few days and had a mini vacation.” The knife flashed under the street lamps. “Two guys trapped us in an alley one night and tried to kidnap us.” You blinked hard again. “Or not, I don’t know, they just tried to get us to go with them.”

“What happened next?” Señor Moreno asked. His voice was far too soft and quiet, it was unsettling. He shouldn’t be so gentle.

“Uh, Nicky got into a fight with one of them and I got in a fight with the other,” you mused as you shook your head slowly, your eyes darting back and forth but not seeing anything. “The one I was fighting pulled a knife on me, so I knocked it out of his hand and…”

The knife came down again and again and again again again again again-

“And you fought back,” Señor Moreno finished for you.

You inhaled sharply, not realising you had been holding your breath. The room suddenly felt too cold and too enclosed. Your wings itched under the makeshift harness the jail had forced you to wear. You wanted to get out. It was too much, you wanted to leave.

“A double homicide sure, but sounds like self-defence to me,” he said. 

“Technically I only killed one,” you mused, blinking a few times to clear the haze so you could look back up at Señor Moreno.

“I suppose that’s true,” he said with a light laugh.

“Guess Nicky was right though,” you said to yourself. “I’ll always remember Niagara.”

“What did you say?” Señor Moreno’s head shot up from his notes. You frowned at him. “Where did you go?”

“Niagara Falls?” You said hesitantly.

“Which side?” He asked. He was leaning over the table to get close to you, his hands reaching out to grab your own. You let out a sigh; you had missed the touch of soft hands.

“Uhh,” you shook your head and your mouth flopped open and closed a few times. “The left side?”

“No no, which country,” he corrected quickly. “Were you on the American side, or the Canada side?”

“I don’t-”

“-What were the falls shaped like?” He asked. He was talking far too quickly, it was making your head spin.

“I…” your eyes swung left and right, over and over as you tried to remember.

“See that?” Nicky asked, pointing to the falls. You could see them perfectly from your spot on his shoulders. “What does it look like to you?”

“A waterfall,” you said with a giggle. He lightly pinched your thigh.

“What else?” He asked with his own little chuckle.

“Umm.” You tilted your head so you could think better. “It looks like a U.”

“It’s a horseshoe,” he said. “Pretty cool, right?”

“A horseshoe,” you said with a slow, dazed nod of your head. “It looked like a horseshoe.”

Señor Moreno let go of your hands - you instantly missed the warmth - and leaned back in his chair. His hands went behind his head and he smiled. He looked at you, looked into your very soul, and smiled. You frowned. What was he smiling about?

“You’re not going to trial,” he said with a chuckle.

“How do you know?” You asked with a tilt of your head. Your palms were getting itchy. And sweaty.

“You’ll find out tomorrow,” he said. “We have a meeting with your parents and their lawyer.”

“I can’t see them,” you said quickly, eyes going wide. “I can’t.”

“They can’t touch you,” he replied. “If they’re smart, they won’t even talk to you.”

It didn't comfort you, not really. What would it matter if they couldn’t talk to you? They would still be there; you would have to face the people who were supposed to care for you. Love you. Who should have been on your side from the very beginning, not getting you arrested.

“You’ll come back for me tomorrow?” You asked.

“Right after we post your bail,” he said with the most genuine look you had seen since arriving at jail.

“You promise?” You asked again.

He looked at you for a moment with a tilted head and slightly furrowed brows. What was he thinking? He’s not coming back for you, the voice said. But he reached out and placed gentle hands over yours and gave them a light squeeze.

“I promise on my abuela’s grave,” he said softly. Oh so softly.

It made you feel small. But in a good way.

Just the knowledge that you were going to get out was enough to make the rest of the day go by faster. You didn’t even care that Erin and her girl gang were glaring daggers at you the whole day. The only thing on your mind was getting to get out of this fucking jail and get back to the real world again.

You ignored the fact that the real world also sucked.

And that you were not prepared to deal with the real world yet.

Because you’re a coward, the voice in your head said.

You still slept like a baby.

The next morning you took your time heading to the showers; you had picked up on the fact that everyone either showered immediately, or not at all. If you waited just a little longer, the odds of you being alone were exponentially high. It worked out perfectly, and since you weren’t too worried about being late to anything anymore, you took your time. 

Even though it was a bit cold by that time, it felt nice as it cascaded over your face. With your eyes closed, you could just focus on the sound of the water. The goal wasn’t necessarily to wash off anymore, just try to keep your heart and mind in check. You were almost there. Just a little longer.

The water shut off only a moment later, and you let out a frustrated sigh. Of course you hadn’t been keeping track of the time. But it was okay, you would be out soon and could get a hot shower later if you really wanted it. Now all you need to do was dry off and-

-something hard hit the back of your knees and you immediately fell to the ground. The vibration travelled up your palms and the crack of your knees on the tile resonated through your bones and, if nothing else, the bruises that would paint themselves on your skin would be stunning. Wednesday would appreciate the grotesque colours, that was for sure.

You pushed yourself up and looked down at your palms to see the already reddened, sensitive skin on the heels. It ached, and both of your forearms throbbed lightly with each heartbeat. That was going to be a pain in the ass to-

-something rough pulled tight against your neck and yanked you back off your knees. Your hands instantly lifted to pull against it, trying to get your fingers underneath to ease the pressure on your throat. You could feel yourself being pulled backwards across the slick floor until you came to a stop.

Pull it away, the voice ordered. You couldn’t breathe.

Erin stepped in front of you.

“Hey, girly pop,” she said with a grin as she crouched down to be at eye level with you. “Heard you’re leaving today.”

The thing around your throat pulled tighter; it made you choke.

“We couldn’t let you leave without a goodbye present,” one of the women behind you practically taunted.

“Maybe afterwards you’ll learn not to run that big mouth of yours.” Erin’s grin was malicious at best, downright demonic at worst.

They were smart. You knew they were. The moment they pulled whatever was choking you tighter and your hands tried to pull it down, Erin swung. A solid punch that left your ears ringing and the world spinning. The throb in your eye was instant. Only when you were truly dazed did they really get started.

They were smart.

The bruises on your side had already ached before this. Now they genuinely hurt. Each new blow and kick stole what little air you had left in your lungs, and you didn’t know what to do. Did you keep trying not to suffocate? Or did you try to fight back? You couldn’t do both, you were outnumbered.

Fight back, the voice said. But how could you do that when you felt something crack in your side and you couldn’t fucking breath-

“-What’s going on in here?”

It was as if a switch flipped in the room. They instantly released you, and you gasped for air like your life depended on it. You sputtered and coughed, falling forward onto your hands and knees again except this time you didn’t pay attention to the pain in the heel of your palm.

No, this time you were too busy trying not to choke on your own blood.

“Five to one doesn’t seem too fair.” Miss Ethel’s voice echoed off the tiled walls; it sounded fuzzy through the ringing in your ears.

Something red was going down the shower drain.

“We’re just wishing our little friend good luck in the big outside world,” Erin said quickly. At least that’s what you thought she said, you couldn’t actually tell.

“Get going,” Miss Ethel said. You squeezed your eyes shut when the volume of her voice sent a migraine shooting down every nerve in your body. “Now.”

And just like that, they left. Left you on the floor of the showers with a foggy brain and the taste of blood on your tongue. Stand up. No. No, you didn't want to stand up. You wanted to curl up on the cold ground and lay in a pool of your own blood until the foggiest eased and your throat was no longer on fire.

"Come on, baby, get up," Miss Ethel said in a far softer voice that had reminded you of Abuelita.

Her old worn hands held you by the shoulders and steadied you, not rushing you but there as a crutch. As you moved and stretched and stood up, she was there to support you the whole time. Only when you were back up to your feet did she look up at you with a frown.

"So you’re only good for starting fights, not finishing them?” She asked, looking you up and down to assess the damage.

She needs to shut up.

“Just caught off guard,” you mumbled. Your mouth filled again and you spit near the drain; it was a mesmerising dark red. “I can finish fights.”

“Not today though, I see,” she continued. “Decided to be a gentleman, did you?”

“I had it,” you huffed. Something in her eyes reminded you of someone. Someone who cared. “I didn’t need your help.”

“I can see that,” she said with a solemn nod. “You certainly look like someone who had it covered.”

You gonna let her talk to you like that?

“Listen, baby,” Miss Ethel said, her voice dropping a tone and sounding more like a friend. Like someone who cared. “Stop pushing people away. Soon they’ll quit trying.”

“They already did,” you mumbled, your head falling. Your eyes squeezed shut again as a hammer started pounding away at the inside of your skull.

“Then get them back,” she said. You didn’t open your eyes but could feel her hand on your still-naked shoulder. “All that rage and loneliness has to come out sometime. Don’t put your friends on the receiving end and keep your head up. Sad birds still sing.”

“You sound poetic,” you said, finally opening your eyes to meet hers. “Not like someone who murdered her husbands.”

“Read it in a book somewhere,” she said with her charming smile that was missing a few teeth. “Even black widows have some wisdom buried deep down.”

You chuckled lightly before inhaling sharply. Something was definitely broken, probably a rib. It was sticking into your lungs and it just hurt. Every breath, every movement, it hurt. But you took a slow, deep breath and stood up straight again.

No giving up.

“Let’s get you dressed and ready to be picked up,” Miss Ethel said. “Before anyone comes looking for you.”

Miss Ethel helped clean the bit of blood off of you and tidied you up the best she could with what she had. You picked up the towel that had been wrapped around your neck only moments before. It was rough and white. The scratchiness in your throat came back.

You looked brand new by the time you put your suit back on and was escorted out of the jail. It was weird to be wearing the suit, but you supposed it was all you had. Certainly better than nothing, at least. If it wasn’t for the newly blackened eye and broken nose and bruised jaw and… well, anyway, you would have looked ready for the Rave’N.

In theory.

“Dios mío,” Señor Moreno said when he met you outside the jail, running up to you and checking over your face.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly. “I just wanna go.”

“Of course,” he said with a simple nod before withdrawing his hands. “Then let’s get going.”

He led you to the front where a car was waiting, and you hesitated. These things weren’t just dangerous anymore; now they had rightfully killed Nicky. Sure, you had been in the police van on the way down, but this was… it was different. It was smaller and more dangerous.

It was scarier.

Just get in, the voice goaded you. And against everything you had, your feet carried you until you got into the passenger seat.

You couldn’t recall the ride to wherever you were meeting everyone. Nothing about it registered in your head, almost like a blackout. The only thing you became aware of was sitting down in the chair in that big empty room and waiting for everyone else to show up.

That was pretty scary.

“Good morning, Y/N,” someone said in an accented voice, and you and Señor Moreno turned around to greet everyone.

You remembered the man. Vaguely, of course. He was a friend of your dad’s, someone he had gone to law school with. Stokes; Luke Stokes. He was older now, had more grey in his hair, a few more wrinkles. If you remembered right, he had favoured you over Nicky.

But you averted your eyes the moment you saw your parents enter the room.

“You’ve certainly grown into a stunning young adult,” Mr. Stokes said with a polite smile.

“Thank you,” you said in a raspy voice; it itched your throat again. Everyone quickly sat down and you let your eyes fall to the table.

“Let’s get started, shall we?” Mr. Stokes asked once everyone was settled. “You mentioned you were open to a plea deal?”

“Of course,” Señor Moreno said with his own smile. “A trial would be tedious for everyone, no?”

“I’m glad we agree,” Mr. Stokes said as he started shuffling some papers. It was an irritating sound; he wasn’t even looking for anything in particular, you could tell. “Let’s make this simple. Miss Smith pleads guilty and only serves 7 years.”

“I’ll make it simpler,” Señor Moreno retorted, leaning back in his seat. You felt his foot kick yours slightly. “She pleads guilty, pays her fine, and goes to anger management.”

“Absolutely not,” your dad cut in loudly. You flinched and reached your hand out on instinct; Señor Moreno grabbed it quickly under the table. “Assault and murder?”

“Marcus-”

“-No!” His voice was far too loud, only being drowned out by the racing pulse in your ears. “It’s insulting.”

“We have witnesses for the domestic and prints for the murder,” Mr. Stokes said. Your eyes were closed but you guessed he was trying to calm your dad back down. “Why would we let her off without a sentence?”

The domestic was a simple emotional disturbance,” Señor Moreno said nonchalantly. “Her brother had just died tragically, any juror would understand.”

“And the murder?”

“Just so happened to occur on Canadian soil.” He sounded cocky.

Watch their reactions, the voice said. Again, without any intention to do so, your eyes slowly opened and you looked up across the table.

Your dad was furious; his skin was darkened and there was a fire in his eyes. A dangerous fire. He was looking directly at you like he wanted to lunge across the table and strangle you where you sat. Maybe he did. Maybe he would.

I’d like to see him try, the voice growled. And for the first time in a while, you agreed.

“The United States would never extradite one of their own,” Señor Moreno continued, “let alone a small Outcast child who was defending herself from kidnappers.”

“Any jury would still convict,” Mr. Stokes said. “It’s a good deal, Moreno. Just accept it and let’s all go home.”

The room fell silent. A silence so thick you could choke on it. Everyone was looking at everyone else, watching, waiting to see who would speak first. You didn’t want to take the deal. Seven years in prison? Not even a jail, a prison? You could hold your own, but you would rather die than be subjected to that. There already was very little to live for. It would be the final straw.

Señor Moreno squeezed your hand before leaning forward on the table.

“We will have to reject this deal,” he said with a sigh. “A trial will be tedious, but well worth it.” He looked directly at your dad and you noticed the slightest smirk on his face. “I suppose the knowledge that my client is an Outcast will come to light during the trial.”

Your parents’ faces fell instantly. A laugh tried to bubble up from your throat, and you quickly coughed and cleared your throat to hide it. You bit your bottom lip hard as you looked back up to meet their eyes. For the first time, you saw something that almost made the pain worth it.

They were scared.

“I hope your clients are ready for-”

“-Hold on,” your dad interrupted. “There’s no need for that.”

“So you will accept our terms then?” Señor Moreno asked with a tilt of his head. You turned your head to hide your smile.

Gotcha.

He squeezed your hand again as your parents leaned closer to talk to Mr. Stokes. With another turn of your head, you looked at him. He had a cocky smile on his face that was reserved only for you. And truthfully, you trusted him.

“We’ll agree to your terms,” Mr. Stokes sighed, “but the battery remains on her record.”

Shit.

Señor Moreno looked at you again, waiting patiently for an answer. If a violent crime went on your record, you would never be able to move on. You would have to disclose it to jobs, everyone could look it up and find out. It would ruin your life.

But at least it was a life…

You nodded once.

“We accept,” Señor Moreno said quickly, holding his hand out for Mr. Stokes to shake it.

You hoped you hadn’t just handed your life over to something you couldn’t fix.

—---

The next few days were total chaos. Señor Moreno had allowed you to stay in his guest room before the next day of court. It was a kind gesture, truly it was, but the bed was too soft and the house was too quiet. There was no way to get any sort of sleep so you just stayed in bed, staring at the ceiling and letting your thoughts consume you.

Then he took you to the doctor, letting them check you over. Two broken ribs, one fractured, a broken nose, and some deep bruising. Nothing too horrifying, you had dealt with worse. The horrifying part came when it was time to pay and Señor Moreno didn’t even let you see it. He just paid for it all himself.

“Any child of Gomez’s is a child of mine,” he said with a charming smile.

It made you feel small. And a little warm inside.

Don’t get soft, the voice said, it’ll ruin you.

The day of court was far simpler than you had thought it would be. At least it was now that you had Señor Moreno on your side. The judge accepted the plea and let you off with a simple “you’re young, don’t throw your life away.” You just mumbled a “yes sir” and left with Señor Moreno guiding you out of the courthouse.

“What now?” You asked as you pulled on the tie around your neck. It was a shame the only nice outfit you had was your suit to the Rave’N; it had quickly turned uncomfortable.

“Now you go home,” he said with a smile, still guiding you down the steps of the courthouse. Thanks to your parents’ aversion to Outcasts, there had been little to no publicity. “You’ll start your anger management once the new year starts.”

“And the fine?” You asked. 

It had been weighing on your mind since the judge had issued it; $15,000. There was no way in hell you would ever be able to pay that off. A few dozen feet away, your parents descended the courthouse steps, eyeing you for a moment before they looked elsewhere. Your hand quickly travelled to the crystal pendent the Addamses had given you; you still kept it around your neck at all times. 

“I can’t afford it.”

“It’s already taken care of.”

You stopped fidgeting with the crystal and nearly tripped over the last stair. Señor Moreno held his hand out to your arm to steady you before you could look up. Mr. and Mrs. Addams were standing near their car with Lurch still inside. Mrs. Addams had a soft smile while Mr. Addams immediately went to clap Señor Moreno on the back.

You didn’t bother trying to keep up as they started talking in Spanish. Abuelita really needed to teach you.

“How are you feeling, little bird?” Mrs. Addams asked softly as her hand reached out to brush against your cheek. You instantly leaned into the gentle touch.

Stop being vulnerable.

“I’m fine,” you said even though you both clearly knew it was a lie.

“Thank you again, Jair,” Mrs. Addams said, and you turned just enough to see Mr. Addams and Señor Moreno walking closer. She still pulled you closer until her arm was around your waist.

She was being far too soft with you, it was making you nervous. But it also left you feeling cared for, maybe even loved. Fuck, when had you truly last felt loved? Mama Weems aside simply because she still had to work all the time, of course. Shit. Now you were just getting sad.

It’s pathetic.

“Of course, Tish,” Señor Moreno said with a smile. “Let me know if anything else comes up.”

“We will,” Mr. Addams said.

Everyone bid their goodbyes to Señor Moreno and watched as he walked away, leaving you with the Addamses. It made you uncomfortable in ways you couldn’t properly express. How much of their money had you wasted on this whole situation? How much time had you stolen from them?

“Are you ready to go home, little bird?” Mr. Addams asked. He still looked to be in good spirits.

You opened your mouth to answer but instantly felt that lump in your throat again. It was not going to cause you to cry, not now. You closed your mouth and nodded once instead, and thankfully they took that as an acceptable answer. Mrs. Addams opened the car door for you to let you in and soon the drive had started.

You couldn’t remember anything that happened on the trip, or even the ride to the Addams house itself. That alone was enough to get your heart racing once again, but you chalked it down to the stress and anxiety of the past few weeks. More than a few weeks. Fuck, how long had it been since the harvest festival? How many weeks had you missed out on?

Fuck.

You had barely gotten out of the car when you felt something crash into you, knocking you back. Your feet steadied the rest of you, but the ache in your body stretched down every nerve it could find. Small, slender arms were wrapped around your neck and, at the familiar scent of her perfume, your own arms wrapped around her waist as your eyes fell shut.

“Never again, cara mia,” Wednesday mumbled into the side of your neck. “Please.”

Oh, how could you possibly say no to that? When you could hear the rare emotion in her voice and feel something wet drop onto your skin? When her nails were digging into your suit and holding you as if you would disappear in an instant? When you could feel her pulse under your fingertips and even just the feel of her body against yours made you feel home?

She’s going to become a distraction, the voice warned. But a distraction to what? And in the end, did you even truly care? Did you care when she felt like home and comfort and warmth all at once? No. No, you didn’t care. You would let her be a distraction to the whole world if that’s what it took to keep her in your arms.

You didn’t bother with an answer, just held her tighter and inhaled deeply once again. The stress of everything started to melt away, even if only for a moment, and you just held Wednesday as if your life depended on it. Maybe it did. Maybe something inside you would break, leaving not even your sanity intact if you let go.

You wouldn’t let her go again.

You would pile corpses in front of her door before the world took her from you again.

everyone but her pt.20

Summary: Grief comes in many different forms and stages. You're stuck on anger, and Wednesday accompanies you to the funeral. But she says something wrong, with the best of intentions, and you end up doing something that will change your family dynamic for the worse.

Word Count: 7.7k Warnings: grief, child abuse, self neglect (not eating, recklessness, not taking care of self, excessive drinking), extreme anger, flashbacks (mentions of car accident, injuries, illusions to criminal activity), swearing, violence, smoking Pairing: Wednesday Addams x Reader (everyone but her Masterlist) Taglist: @extinctspino @basichextechml @cfvgbhndun-new-blog @jinxscatbomb @awolfcsworld @suzhiman @gengen64 @eclipsesmoonshine14 @alexkolax @thenextdawn @cacciatricediartemide @cozwaenot @the-night-owl-blr @natashasapphic @parkersmyth @alilbitlesbian @irish-piece-of-trash @rainbow-love4ever @audigay @bakugounuggets @myfturn @rockwyn @bigbadsofty07 @andsoigotabutterfly @captainbeat @smromanoff

Everyone says grief comes in five stages; denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. But you disagree. It’s not five stages, it’s one. Only one stage that washes over you like a wave and holds you under until you’re drowning. You’re drowning and watching everyone on the surface live their lives as if you aren’t just right underneath them, choking on the salty sea water as you scream for help.

It’s only one stage; agony.

The house was bigger than you remembered when you got home far too early in the morning. The barristers were cleaner, the kitchen was far more pristine, and it was quiet. It was far too quiet, and your hands started to go clammy at the revelation. There wasn’t even any comfort in the ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer. Tick-tocks burned themselves into your brain until it was stabbing into your head like a knife.

You started humming a tuneless song. It eased the pain slightly.

"Don't hum, dear," your mother said as she took her gloves off and handed them to your maid and previous nanny, Mabel. "It's childish."

Your humming died off and the silence came back.

"Mabel will show you to your room,” your father said, resting his hand on your shoulder and giving it a comforting squeeze. For a moment, things almost seemed okay. “We will mourn tomorrow, then start the preparations.”

And just like that everything came crashing down once again. Paired perfectly with the migraine that still refused to settle.

“Oh, Y/N,” your father called out before you managed to get more than three steps up.

You turned around slowly, each joint still aching from the fall earlier in the night. Was it that same night? It felt so long ago. Nothing felt like you had been on a carnival date earlier in the night, that you had been having fun with Wednesday and the gang less than eight hours ago. Or was it longer than that? Did it even matter anymore?

“Your principal wanted you to have your phone back,” he continued when you stayed silent. He smiled softly down at the phone in his hands before looking up and handing it back. “Your conversations are a bit concerning,” he said when your fingers brushed his to take it back. “I installed a program to track your activity.” You blinked once. “For your well-being.”

For my well-being. Right. Of course.

“You have a few unread messages,” your father called after you as you turned to walk back up the stairs. “You should let them know everything is alright.”

Be angry, a voice in the back of your head growled when Mabel continued to guide you through the now-unfamiliar corridors. It was a familiar voice, one that hadn’t reared its head in months, but you couldn’t quite place it. He went through your phone, so you need to get angry. No. No, you wouldn’t get angry. Why not? Your jaw clenched painfully. Nicky wouldn’t have gotten angry.

“Y/N.”

You stopped in the doorway of the room - your room - and looked sideways at Mabel. She looked older, more worn. Maybe it was just from working for your parents for so long. How was her son? Had he graduated college yet? He had wanted to be an engineer, if you remembered right. Why did she look so sad?

“I am truly sorry,” she said softly. “I cannot imagine your grief.”

No. No, she couldn’t imagine your grief. She couldn’t imagine what it was like to see him not even a week earlier, alive, and not knowing it would be the last time you saw him. She couldn’t fucking imagine what it was like and no one could fucking imagine what it was like.

The migraine throbbed again and you squeezed your eyes shut to try and ease it.

“The headaches will stop in time,” she said. Your eyes flew open. “They always have.”

“What?”

Mabel tilted her head and a crinkle formed between her eyes.

“Your headaches,” she said, her finger lifting to tap lightly against your left temple. “They always got worse when Nicky stopped suppressing.”

“Suppressing?”

Her sorrowful smile slipped into a frown.

"Yes," she said softly, "don't you remember?"

No.

"Well, I suppose that would defeat the point," she chuckled lightly. "He could suppress memories," she explained softly, gently, agonisingly. "He always chose the bad ones, of course." 

No. 

"I myself got a slight headache when he passed."

No.

"It's how I knew he was truly gone."

No!

"Y/N?"

You shoved past Mabel, forcing her back into the hall. The stairs passed under you four at a time until you were on the ground floor.

"Darling?-"

"-Where are you going?-"

"-It's 4 in the morning-"

"-Get back in the house."

Your parents' calls fell on deaf ears as you threw the front door open and stormed outside. Your feet picked up speed as you walked down the endless driveway. The moment they hit the pavement you broke out into a jog, then a sprint. Your shoes hit the pavement of the road in a steady rhythm.

"You really wanna know?" Nicky asked after taking another one of your chess pieces.

"You promised you would tell me," you said with a frown.

"How about I make it your graduation present," he teased. "Give you something to look forward to."

"Deal," you said with a smile. He knocked your king off the board.

The excessively large houses blurred as you ran down the street. Motion lights turned on and guard dogs barked when you passed by.

"That was the year they left us to fend for ourselves for the week," Nicky laughed with Yoko.

"I don't remember that," you said with a slight frown.

"You were, uh, too young," Nicky said with a smile and a pat on your back. "Not worth remembering anyway."

The houses thinned and were quickly replaced with trees. Your feet stumbled as pavement turned into dirt. Icy air froze your tired lungs, leaving a sensation of needles in your chest.

You pushed your feet faster.

"Nicky, I'm tired," you whined after tripping over your own feet again.

"Just a few more hours," he said. His shirt had finally dried and looked stiff. “Then we’ll be back at Nevermore.”

"You said that a few hours ago," you complained. "My skin is itchy."

"We'll wash it off later," he said. He wasn't even looking at you.

"Are they gonna find us?" You asked as you did a little jog to catch up to him and hold his hand.

"No," he said without hesitation. The dried blood was starting to flake off his forehead. The cut on his nose looked angry.

"Is this gonna give me bad dreams?" You asked in a small voice. He stopped in his tracks and picked you up, letting you crawl onto his back.

"Of course not," he said softly. "You won't even remember it."

The forest flew by. Each twig and branch that whipped across your face made you feel more and more alive. It was a feeling, and you needed a feeling. Anything, everything, whatever you could get.

Everything hurt. Oh god, it hurt so bad and you couldn’t scream.

“Hang on, kid, we’ve gotta get the door.”

“Where’s Nicky?” You asked. Your tongue felt heavy, like lead.

“Gotta get you first,” a man’s voice said. “Stay still.”

“Nicky?” You slurred; the words tasted of copper.

Your eyes fell to the top of the car that was now underneath you. It was covered in something shiny. Something red.

Your lungs couldn’t take it anymore. They couldn’t take the cold, couldn’t take the exertion, the stress, none of it. And it felt. You could feel them. The more you ran, the more it hurt and soon you could focus on the pain in your side instead of the pain in your head.

Memory suppression.

There was no thought about stopping, your feet just slowed their movements until you collapsed to your knees on the cold, damp forest floor. You felt the end of a stick dig into your hand, splitting the skin. The blood was warm; it was comforting. Each gasping breath felt like you were inhaling shards of glass, each one more painful than the last.

And it felt.

“I feel angry,” you said as you sat at the top of the wall and watched Nicky continue to climb.

“You always feel angry,” he grunted. He was stuck. As usual.

“I don’t know why,” you sighed. “I can’t think of anything that would make me angry.”

“It’ll go away,” he said as his face finally pulled up and you could look him in the eyes. “Good kids don’t stay angry.”

“Am I a good kid?” You asked softly. He smiled.

“The best.”

You let out the most feral, unhinged, excruciating scream you could possibly produce. It hurt your throat and left it feeling raw.

But it felt.

The sun had started to rise before you could get up from your position on the ground. Your knees were stiff and soaked to the bone and the stick in your hand had broken off. It would leave a splinter that would need to be dug out. There was a lingering ache in your throat and lungs and that migraine still wouldn’t go away. And when you started walking mindlessly back to the house, you could feel blisters on your feet and heels; a few of them even popped.

But at least it felt.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?-”

“-We were about to call the police-”

“-You look like a stray dog-”

“-We just cleaned the entry-”

“-Where do you think you’re going?”

You couldn’t recall getting home. But you continued walking through the house as your parents called after you, practically dragging yourself up the stairs until you made it into your room. The door fell shut and the lock clicked into place and all you could do was fall back to your knees.

The cold wooden floor didn’t feel so bad. At least it felt.

—---

You wished you were numb again.

The day of mourning came and went, each second testing your patience and wearing you thin. You hadn’t slept, hadn’t showered, hadn’t even gotten up from your spot on the floor. You could hear your phone vibrating on the wood, almost loud enough to wake the dead. Maybe it would wake Nicky, you thought before finally checking it to make it stop.

Not even noon and you had 17 missed calls, 72 texts, and a plethora of messages from the vast array of other social media outlets. A large number were from Yoko, then Ajax, the rest of the group, and your family back home. Two or three calls from Momma Weems and your family. But your eyes started to sting when you saw the name for two messages.

Nicky.

You clicked on them immediately, desperately hoping to see what he had said. Something in the back of your head was screaming at you not to open them, not to get your hopes up. Your eyes trailed over the messages, reading them once, twice, three times before it finally clicked.

It wasn’t Nicky.

You had given Wednesday his phone.

You hadn’t ever changed the name.

Nicky: Thing wishes to know if you’ve made it back safe.

Nicky: I wish to know as well.

Fuck. Now you were making Wednesday feel things too? Why would she even care anyway.  It wasn’t like she loved you anyway, wasn’t like she even really cared. You knew she didn’t do love, she had said it to her mother time and time again. Why would she care if you were safe.

Didn’t she know Nicky was the one who needed the attention?

You growled at nothing in particular before throwing your phone across the room, hearing the screen shatter when it hit the wall. The sound made you flinch and you instantly felt that guilty feeling deep in the pit of your stomach. It vibrated again.

You didn’t check it.

—---

“You need to eat something before you go,” Mabel urged you once again as you finished buttoning up your shirt.

“‘m not hungry,” you mumbled. Your fingers faltered on the buttons; it wasn’t fitting like it was supposed to.

“You haven’t eaten in five days,” she said in a far softer voice. It was humiliating.

“Too busy planning,” you said, finally deciding to give up and instead throwing a jacket over the crooked, too-big shirt. “I’ll eat when I’m dead.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m not laughing.”

You moved past Mabel and went down the stairs to meet up with your parents. It was the day to finalise plans; something that you knew was going to cause argument after argument. There had already been too many screaming matches the past few days, none of which ever came to a definitive conclusion.

Maybe today would be different.

“That jacket is unprofessional,” your mother said with a slight frown.

“The shirt doesn’t fit,” you said without looking up at her. Your fingers toyed with the shattered phone in your pocket.

“We will have it tailored,” your mother sighed, “again.”

“We will discuss it later,” your father said as he ushered everyone to the car. “We need to get going so we won’t be late.”

You sat in the back with the both of them while Jenkins started the drive to the funeral home. With a thunk, your head hit the window and you looked out at the houses passing by. The harness was pulled painfully tight and your wings were already stiff, but you didn’t care. At least it felt, right?

The phone in your pocket vibrated, and you pulled it out slowly to look at the two new messages.

Yoko: You don’t have to answer me, but answer Wednesday. She’s losing her mind

Ash: just saw your pop in town. told me about nicky. im so sorry

You exhaled through your nose and slid the phone back into your pocket without answering. There was no time to answer anyone anyway, you had planning to do. Although you shouldn’t be, he was still the source of the migraine that refused to go away.

Memory suppression. Just the thought made you sick and your mouth feel like you had swallowed cotton. How could he do that? How could he just hide your memories from you? Your own memories. He had no fucking right, those were your memories, not his.

“We’re here.”

You pulled your head back from the window and blinked a few times, doing your best to hide the anger. As you uncurled your fists, you could feel your nails pulling out of the skin; you had left four perfect crescent shaped cuts on your palms. Thankfully your pants were black, and you wiped the slightest bit of blood off on the legs.

The next thing you remember is sitting in one of the chairs across from the funeral director. You couldn’t recall getting out of the car, or introducing yourself. Hopefully you had done well or you would get an earful once you left.

“Today you will select the casket and can order the headstone,” the funeral director said as he slid over a bunch of paper.

“Casket?” You asked, turning your head to look at your parents. “We never agreed on burial.”

“Your mother and I have made the executive decision,” your father said with a smile.

“Then make a different one,” you said with a slightly raised voice.

“I’ll give you three a moment,” the funeral director said with a professional smile. Everyone stayed silent as he grabbed a few things and left, shutting the door behind him.

“Do not question our decisions in front of strangers,” your father said, his polite smile falling immediately.

“He didn’t want to be buried,” you said. Your chest felt tight, like it was caught in vice grips.

“He shall be buried with the other Smiths,” your mother said while you chuckled humourlessly. You pushed your chair back and stood up, walking to the other side of the table and pacing.

“He said he didn’t want to be buried,” you argued; the migraine was back. “Said it creeped him out and he would rather be cremated.”

“We never heard him say such a thing,” your mother said with a sigh.

“Maybe because you were never there,” you scoffed before freezing in your tracks.

Instantly the atmosphere in the room changed from uneasiness to aggression. You could feel the hair on the back of your neck and arms stand up and your breath caught in your throat as you squeezed your eyes shut.

“I beg your pardon?”

Fuck.

“I’m sorry-”

“-We were never there?” Your father asked, louder this time. 

You could hear the chair scrape against the floor and you turned your body to face him. He looked furious and the migraine came back stronger than before. Almost like someone was pushing glass into each individual fold of your brain. You could feel your palms getting sweaty.

Fight back, the voice in your head said. He abandoned us. Fight. Back.

“You weren’t there,” you said with a shaky voice. Be confident. “You left us and didn’t come back.”

“Did you ever stop to ask yourself why we would even consider doing such a thing?” Your father asked.

“Let’s focus on the burial,” your mother cut in, “we can talk about this later.”

“It’s because you produced two freak kids,” you said, your voice stronger, more confident. Your father walked around the table to come closer. Keep fighting. “Could you imagine if that got out?” He looked furious. “If anyone discovered that the high and mighty Smith family had two Outcast kids that they hid away-”

-your head jerked to the right as the slap echoed in the otherwise silent room. Keep it together, you thought as your lower lip started to quiver. You held back the stinging in your eyes as you stood up taller and turned back around to face him. It was times like this where you wished you were smaller so you couldn’t look him in the eye.

“You will never say such a thing again,” he said as he jabbed a finger into your chest. “Do I make myself clear?”

Hit him back.

“Crystal,” you whispered through clenched teeth.

“He will be buried,” your father said with another jab. “That’s final.”

You could feel the persistent stinging of your cheek as you all sat down and the funeral director came back in. He didn’t comment. You didn’t prompt him to.

—---

Mabel had worked for the Smith family for 23 years, she knew when to hold her tongue. But when you all came back from the funeral home and she saw the new blooming bruise on your cheek, she felt a mix of anger and pity. She wouldn’t pretend you were the best at holding your tongue; you never had been. But your father also allowed you to push his buttons until he snapped.

She didn’t have to ask to know that was exactly what happened.

The days leading up to the funeral reminded her an awful lot of when you were younger, with the obvious differences. You were still reckless, almost even careless. Accidentally breaking things, roaming around the house without direction, doing anything and everything your heart desired without seeking permission or forgiveness.

There were times when she would be cleaning and would hear the sound of the grand piano lingering in the air, and she would sneak around the corner to watch you. Back ramrod straight, slender fingers poised perfectly over the keys, face completely neutral as you read the music on the stand. It was beautiful to hear you play again, and the occasional jazz tune that would sound when you were certain your mother wasn’t around was all the more enjoyable because of the slightest smile on your face.

Other times Mabel would catch you leaving the house without warning, not coming back until late in the night with dazed eyes and dried tear tracks on your cheeks. Those were the nights she would gently take you by the shoulders and guide you back up to your room. You did nothing to assist her as she cleaned you up and dressed you in something comfortable so she could put you to bed.

She did her best to ignore each and every new bruise or scratch or scar.

It was impossible to get you to eat. You dropped weight faster than she could keep track of, and no matter how many meals she left in your room, they always went untouched. She tried to keep small snacks like protein bars in your room in the hopes that you would eat them, but she had no way to tell if you did or not.

On evenings where guests would come over and you would be “encouraged” to socialise, she took note of the amount of drinks you would have each evening. It was always far too many, and she and Jenkins would end up carrying you back up to your bed before everyone had left for the night. You would always accept your scolding with a grimace and two Tylenol the next morning and go about your day.

You would pick fights with your parents. Never over anything important, always little things and they were starting to pick up on that as well. At first they had fought back, getting into screaming matches with you and sending you off to your room. But then you tried to start fights over the silverware, or the way your shoes fit, or even how bright the lights were in the room. It didn’t take long for your parents to stop arguing back and just ignore you.

Mabel noticed that almost made you more angry.

Other times, your parents would nit pick at you as well. Over your hair, or the style of clothing you wore. If you had worn the same shirt twice or tracked mud into the house. Your speech quickly became more "professional" and you selected your words carefully in an effort to retaliate. It was far less outwardly destructive, but Mabel could still see the damage it inflicted reflect in your eyes.

But through all of your anger and self destruction and attempts to grab anyone’s attention, you always treated her and Jenkins with the utmost kindness and respect. That was what reminded her of when you were young. It was in the gentle “thank yous” or the soft smiles when she would hand you something. The questions about her son, or about Jenkins’ wife and cats, or any of the neighbours.

She knew you were a good kid. She knew, and Jenkins knew, and that was probably what hurt them the most through it all. You were a good kid with no one to truly lean on and no one to help guide you through this loss. And they knew it was just going to build and build and build inside you until it exploded.

The day before the funeral was the day you would see Nicky for the last time, and Mabel could see the fear and anger in your eyes. She and Jenkins had fully prepared themselves for your mental state when you got back, but even they couldn’t have prepared themselves fully.

You came into the house dazed, not hearing a single thing your parents were saying. But then it was like a switch had been flipped and you clenched your jaw before making a snide remark back to your mother. It didn’t take long to turn into a screaming match, and Mabel and Jenkins watched in horror as you balled up your fist and swung at your father.

The fear in his own eyes was evident even though your fist connected with the brick wall beside him; whether on purpose or not, you had missed him completely. Tears fell from your eyes and you screamed again as your father pulled you into a hug. Mabel watched helplessly as you tried to push him away before finally giving in and crying into his shoulder.

You held onto him like your life depended on it as your blood dripped down the pristine, white walls of the house.

“Your tie is crooked,” Mabel told you on the morning of the funeral. You had been struggling to get ready for over an hour, and no amount of makeup could hide the bags under your eyes or the lingering bruise on your cheek.

“So are these fucking buttons,” you mumbled as you ripped your dress shirt open to start over. She could feel you getting angry again. It was probably from the lack of sleep.

Or lack of food.

Or lack of help in general.

“Stay still,” Mabel huffed, setting the laundry basket down on your bed and standing in front of you.

You sighed, but remained still as she got to work on your shirt. It had been tailored only a few days before and still seemed a bit big again; it broke her heart. But she did her best to ignore it and focused on buttoning up your shirt properly. Your violent treatment had loosened two or three buttons, but she certainly wasn’t going to bring that up to you.

“How have your school ties survived this long if you can’t do them yourself?” She asked, her eyes darting up to meet yours. She almost thought you smiled.

“Wednesday always fixes them for me,” you said. You didn’t look down, but that was alright, she was focused on your tie anyway.

“You like this girl?” She asked softly. If your parents heard, they would have started screaming.

“A lot,” you answered just as softly. “I think I love her.”

“That’s a big emotion for you,” she said not unkindly.

“I hope I don’t fuck it up,” you whispered.

“You won’t,” she said with a smile as she patted your tie down. “You’re all set.”

You turned to look up at the mirror, eyes squinting and your jaw clenching before you relaxed. Mabel kept her smile to herself; she didn’t want to unintentionally encourage you to fight the reflection. You stood up straight and pressed your tie flat once again before slipping the suit jacket on.

“Thank you, Mabel,” you said softly, and you quickly leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. Your lips were chapped, but it was expected.

“I’ll see you when you get home,” she said with a smile. You smiled back once, halfheartedly, before walking out of the room.

She really hoped your anger wouldn’t explode at the funeral.

—---

The whole car ride made Wednesday feel sick to her stomach. It had been a short flight down to D.C. and now she, Thing, Yoko, and Weems were finishing the trip with the short drive to the funeral. The rest of the gang had opted to stay at Nevermore for the time being; they didn't want to overwhelm you. The funeral was supposed to be outside, or so your mother had said, but it looked like rain. Usually perfect for such an occasion.

Just not this one.

She checked the phone again, hoping you had finally answered. It was a foolish hope, she knew that much, but it still resided in her chest. No one had heard anything from you since you had left the harvest festival, not even Yoko or your family. She shouldn’t have expected you to answer her of all people.

But she hoped you would have.

“We shall give her space,” Weems said once she pulled the car through the gates to the cemetery. It was connected to the reception hall, where everyone would go after the service.

It reminded Wednesday an awful lot of the cemetery back home.

“Except you, Addams,” Yoko said, drawing Wednesday out of her thoughts.

“Why me?” She asked.

“You give her peace,” Weems answered.

Well, that was comforting; surprising, Wednesday knew. To know that everyone else could see her effect on you; had they seen your effect on her? They probably had. Enid certainly had, and that was more than enough torture. But if they said she gave you peace, then who was she to argue.

Once the car was parked, everyone got out. Thing climbed onto her shoulder as she unfolded the umbrella. She waited patiently as Weems and Yoko got out as well, each holding their own umbrellas, before they started the short walk to the grave.

It seemed the rain had ruined the original funeral plans, seeing how no one was sitting anymore and the chairs were in the process of being removed. Wednesday and the small group stood off to the side and waited. They hadn’t exactly been invited, but who was going to stop them? Especially at a funeral.

You were one of the lead pallbearers, the one on the front left. Wednesday felt her heart drop into her stomach at the sight of you; dark eyes, clothes hanging off your smaller frame, your wings invisible beneath your suit jacket. But the worst part was you didn’t seem sad. No, you looked angry.

After lowering the casket back to the ground, you hesitated, your fingers running across the wood before you walked to stand near your parents. They tried to offer you an umbrella but you ignored them. You simply stood in the rain, looking down at Nicky’s casket as an old, unsteady man started talking.

Wednesday simply watched you the whole time. Watched the difference in your posture, your back straight and head up. She took note of the way you clasped your hands in front of you even though she could see the scabbed over skin pulled taut across your knuckles. She watched the muscles in your jaw tighten and relax, over and over and over as you blinked too many times to keep the tears at bay.

You were upset, rightfully so, but Wednesday couldn’t have found you more beautiful. Not because you were suffering, not because you were struggling, but because you were. You were handling everything so well, at least on the outside, and she couldn’t help but admire the way the rain fell down your face, caressing the skin in comfort.

Your family, you included, looked impeccable standing there together. Wednesday could only imagine how powerful all of you would have looked if the four of you had been together; you, Nicky, and your parents. Standing there in perfectly tailored suits, manicured to perfection, neutral expressions on your faces. Is that how you would have looked if you had stayed with them? Would she have had the same pull toward you?

She waited until the funeral itself was over before making her way to your side. Everyone else - including Thing - had gone inside to escape the rain and start the reception, but you didn’t move a muscle. Her shoulder brushed against your arm when she got close enough, and for a moment your shoulders fell and your jaw unclenched.

“I’m tired, Wends,” you said in such a quiet voice that Wednesday almost couldn’t hear you over the rain. “And I feel alone.”

Time to use the comfort teachings everyone had been helping her with for the past two weeks. They had drilled it into her head time and time again, through all hours of the day and night until she could recite it properly. It was robotic sounding, she knew that much, but it was a start. She hoped it would work.

“It’s okay to feel sad,” Wednesday said. You stiffened beside her. “But you are not alone.”

“Did Yoko teach you that?” You asked, immediately catching on. She should have known better.

“I-,” don’t lie, “-yes,” she admitted. “I’m not particularly adept at comfort.”

“I don’t want comfort,” you said, turning to look at her. The rain had finally started washing off the makeup from your face and she thought she could see something on your cheek. “I don’t want pity. I want you to be real with me.”

“Real?” Wednesday inquired with furrowed brows.

“Yes, Wednesday, real,” you huffed. “Be real with me and tell me what you’re thinking.”

Now that you had put her on the spot, she wasn’t sure what she was thinking. She was thinking of the now-obvious bruise on your cheek and where it had possibly come from. She was thinking of the bags under your eyes if you had been getting enough sleep, which clearly you hadn’t.

Part of her was thinking of her own parents, as unusual as it would be. How they had fallen in love at a funeral and had confessed their undying devotion to each other. Funerals had always been a romantic event for the Addams family, and she was aware this was for your brother, but she couldn’t deny she knew what her parents had meant every time they reminisced.

Oh. That’s what she was thinking.

“I am thinking…,” she paused, blinking at you twice, three times and looking away. You wanted real. She looked back up at you to meet your probing gaze. “I love you.”

Your brows knit together as you looked away from her for a moment.

“What?” You asked quietly.

“You asked what I was thinking,” Wednesday clarified slowly. “I was simply thinking that I-”

“-Don’t say it again,” you interrupted.

And right there, right then, Wednesday felt her cold dead heart break in her chest.

“You did not just say that,” you said with a huff. “Did you really just confess?”

“Yes,” Wednesday said indignantly. “It’s what I was thinking at the moment.”

“We’re at my brother’s funeral, Wednesday,” you said, far louder this time. “Do you really think this is the time?”

“You asked,” she said again. “Why would you ask if you didn’t want to know?”

“I can’t,” you said as you held your hands up and started backing up. “I just- I can’t do this right now.”

Wednesday let her umbrella fall as she watched you walk off toward the reception hall with hands on your head, covering your ears. She could feel the rain slowly seeping through her coat, but all she could really focus on was you. Only you, and how her father had been right.

Love was agony.

—---

You were going to be sick. You could feel it in your chest, your lungs, your stomach. Your mouth wouldn’t stop salivating and you were going to be sick. How could she say that? How could she tell you that now? Your palms were sweaty when you dragged them down your face, ignoring the makeup that you wiped off with it.

It should have been exciting to hear Wednesday say such a thing. She was capable of love, a genuine love, and had even felt so strongly as to verbally tell you as such. And it had been ruined because they had killed Nicky and now you couldn’t even enjoy the single fucking good thing in your life.

You felt sick.

Your parents were standing in the middle of the room, talking and laughing with some lawyer or congressman or senator or whoever the fuck else could put up with them long enough to talk. It was like they weren’t even upset, they weren’t even devastated that their son, their first born, was currently being buried six feet under. Didn’t they care?

You felt sick.

Weems, Yoko, and Thing were off to the side, talking with each other. They looked up, almost as if sensing your staring, and gave you sad smiles. They pity you, the voice in your head spat in disgust. You frowned at the thought and turned around, looking for someone, anyone to talk to. Hell, at that point you would’ve taken the old man off to the side that was giving you a look that made you rather uncomfortable.

Your eyes fell on a couple standing next to the fireplace, talking quietly with each other. Something about them seemed familiar, but you couldn’t quite place from where. But you stopped caring when you saw the subtle cloud of smoke fall from the taller one’s lips and you quickly made your way over.

“Mind if I steal a hit?” You asked when you got nearby. The taller one smiled sadly.

“Sure,” they said as they handed the vape over.

You grabbed it and brought it to your lips, inhaling deeply. It scalded your throat and stung your lungs as you held it in for far too long before slowly exhaling. You watched the smoke as it evaporated into the air, leaving nothing but a sickeningly sweet smell in its place.

“That’s disgusting,” you mumbled as you handed it back to them. The shorter one still hadn’t looked up from the hole they were staring into the ground.

“It’s marshmallow,” they chuckled.

“Like I said,” you said, “disgusting.”

“You’re Nicky’s sister,” they said with a half smile, avoiding your gaze by looking out at the crowd again.

“You’re a couple of strangers,” you said.

“I’m Casey,” they chuckled lightly, “and this is Devon.”

Devon finally looked up and eyed you up and down before looking back to the crowd with the slightest hint of a sneer. If you hadn’t spent so much time with Wednesday, you would’ve missed it. What could they possibly be sneering at you for? It was your brother’s funeral. You felt the muscles in your jaw tighten.

“He talked about you a lot,” Casey said softly.

“How would you know?” You asked way more harshly than necessary. Part of you didn’t care. Okay, none of you cared. “He hasn’t exactly done much talking recently.”

“The three of us were… close,” they said with a distracted nod.

“He was in a coma for four years,” you scoffed, “how close could you be.” You reached over and took the vape from their hand and brought it to your mouth for another hit.

“We were his partners.”

You choked on the smoke, leaving your throat raw and scratchy. Your head spun to look at Casey and Devon, eying them to see any sort of discrepancies in their body language. If Wednesday had taught you one thing, it was how to tell if someone was lying. Avoiding eye contact, licking their lips, anything.

There wasn’t a single sign.

He hadn’t told you he was dating anyone. Why hadn’t he told you? Surely he would have, you two told each other everything. He was your big brother, for fuck sake, he would have told you. Right?

Right?

“We loved him too,” Casey said softly; they still weren’t looking at you.

He lied. He fucking lied.

You looked out at the crowd and took another hit of the vape. Then another. And another. And a fourth one for good measure. It felt like your lungs were going to burn themselves to embers, but you didn’t care. At least it felt. After a fifth hit, you slipped it back into Casey’s hand and continued looking out at the crowd.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, your voice now hoarse and deeper than usual.

“We’ll get through it,” they said. “He’ll get his justice.”

They know he deserves justice too, the voice in the back of your head said. You couldn’t argue with it. But what else could you say? It was too much and you had too many questions. Where had they met? How long had they known Nicky? How long had it been going on?

You felt sick.

You didn’t bother saying anything else to them before walking off, walking through a haze until you ended up with the group your parents were talking to. A few of them tried talking to you, giving their most insincere condolences before going back to their conversations.

It was disgusting. Watching them laugh and talk as if you weren’t standing at a funeral reception. As if you hadn’t been standing at Nicky’s literal graveside less than an hour ago. Heartless, the voice said, they killed him and are using it as an excuse to socialise. 

“I can’t recall what caused his condition,” one of the men said when there was a lull in the conversation.

“A car wreck,” your father said with a few mindless nods of his head.

“That’s tragic,” a woman said. “Drunk driver?”

“An Outcast, actually,” your father answered.

Wait.

“What did you say?” You asked, drawing everyone’s attention.

You felt something tug on your pants, and your eyes darted down for just long enough to see Thing. He was wearing a little black bowtie around one of his fingers. But you weren’t focusing on him; you were too busy thinking about what your father had said.

“I said an Outcast caused the wreck that killed my son,” your father continued. His back straightened as he kept eye contact with you.

“Abominations, the lot of them,” a man huffed before taking another drink of the wine in his glass.

Thing pulled at your pants leg again. You kicked him away, listened to the subtle sound of him scuttling across the floor. Thankfully no one else had noticed him.

“An Outcast didn’t kill him,” you bit back. “You two were the ones that pulled his life support.”

The group around you fell silent, now beyond interested in the conversation. Any chance to get a good helping of gossip, of course. That was how all socialites worked, especially when another socialite was involved. In this case it was your parents; they were going to be the talk of the town for a year.

“No son of mine should have to exist as a vegetable simply because we couldn’t be merciful,” your mother said. “Especially because of some sinful abomination.”

“Stop calling them abominations,” you growled through clenched teeth.

Your fingers were starting to ache as they curled into fists at your side. Your pulse was rushing in your ear and for a moment, you felt your chest was going to explode. That your heart would beat faster and faster, harder and harder until it finally broke free.

You took a single step closer.

“If it were up to me, I’d have them all euthanised,” your father said as he smiled at you with his “show everyone we’re perfect” smile. You took another step forward until you were almost directly in front of him. “The world would be a much better place.”

The sounds of the world muffled in your ears, and all you could hear was the sound of your own breathing. Erratic, shallow, rushed. Something dripped down your neck and your jaw felt like it was going to crack under the pressure. That migraine came roaring back as you stared into your father’s eyes.

Do it.

Your fist connected with his nose before you could even comprehend what was happening. The people around you gasped and stepped back as your father fell to the ground. One of his hands attempted to stop the flow of blood while he held the other out in front of him.

But you saw red.

You knelt down on top of him, only one thing on your mind as you grabbed his shirt collar. He almost looked remorseful for a moment. But only for a moment. Again. You tightened your grip on his collar as you swung again. And again. And again.

Harder.

You could hear Nicky in the back of your head, screaming and pounding against the inside of your skull. Telling you to stop, begging you to let your father go. Each time Nicky pounded against your skull, you threw another punch. And another. Something wet slid down your cheeks and you couldn’t stop.

Something wrapped around your waist and yanked you back. Hard. The wind flew out of your lungs and you instantly grabbed onto the arms around you. You tried to pull them off but your hands were slick and you couldn’t get a good hold. You were stuck.

“Y/N, stop,” the voice said into your ear. Weems?

“Say it again,” you shouted at your father who was frozen on the ground, bruised eyes focused on you. “Say it again, you fucking coward.”

“Breathe,” another voice said before someone stepped in front of you. Yoko?

“You're defending the group that killed your brother,” your mother said as she knelt down to look at your father’s injuries. He was wheezing and covered in blood. "You should do this to them instead."

You tried to lunge forward again, and the arms around your waist almost gave out. You threw a leg out, hoping to kick him while he was down. Just one more. But the arms around your waist tightened again, and Yoko grabbed your flailing feet until you were being carried out of the room.

“Don’t you fucking touch them,” you shouted as you continued attempting to fight and Weems and Yoko struggled to carry you. “I’ll fucking kill you next time.”

You felt sick.

The cold air and rain hit you like a brick wall when you were finally outside. The arms and hands holding you back let go and you fell onto the ground as you stared at the now-closed doors of the reception hall. Your frantic breathing was the only thing you could hear.

“Breathe.”

Another face came into view, and almost instantly your breath caught in your throat. Wednesday’s eyes were wide and focused on your face. They were bloodshot; why were they bloodshot? Her hands were poised to touch you, to check you for injuries, but the moment you felt her hand on your arm you flinched.

You saw red. Only red. You wanted to hurt something. Someone. You didn’t give a fuck who it was, you just wanted to make someone else hurt the way you were hurting. To swing at whoever was closest.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you said as you crawled back across the ground. Wednesday immediately let go.

I don’t want to hurt you, you thought as you pushed yourself up to your feet until you could start stumbling away. Shaky fingers unbuttoned your jacket and ripped the buttons off your shirt until you could reach the harness. They were calling after you; you didn’t know what they were saying. The harness hit the ground and the moment your wings unfurled, you jumped into the air.

You had nearly hurt Wednesday.

You felt sick.

Pink Handcuffs

Natasha/R

Summary: Struggling with nightmares was normal for you, but the simple act of someone reaching out makes a difference.

Warnings: None really? unspecified nightmares, one kinda bad word but this is meant to be sweet and comforting.

Authors Note: Haven’t been on here forever which isn’t a surprise to anyone. I lost all the drafts I’ve had for two years and it made me want to stop writing altogether. I had two completed long works with upwards of 14-18 chapters completely lost so I’m bummed about that. While there’s no way to get any of that work back I’m still writing when I can.

Gif not Mine

It happened again. It happened and you still can’t stop it, change it, move on. The nightmare keeps you in a grip tighter than your hands on your own throat when you wake up. No matter how many years pass you still wake in a cold sweat with tears readily streaming down the sides of your face.

You slowly unclench your muscles starting with your legs and working your way up. After a deep breath you swing your legs over the side of your bed and your feet press against the cold floor, your hands massaging your temples to ease the thumping in your head. A sound could be heard, the lightest footsteps of someone walking down the hallway outside your door followed by light knocks.

“Come in,” you croak. The dryness in your throat creating a scratchy sensation. You clear your throat once. Twice. A third time, much louder, before looking at who’s entered your room. It was the spy.

“You okay? I thought I heard something,” Her voice is the same that she uses in the training room. Commanding and distanced. Even now her arms are crossed and her face looks stern in the moonlight leaking in from the window. You shrug off the question and lean back on your hands.

“Nothing new. ‘m sorry I woke you,” the feeling of the blanket under your fingertips provides enough of a distraction while you try not to make eye contact. There’s a long pause, neither side knowing how to proceed. You’ve never talked to each other outside of training in the 6 months you’ve been on the team.

Then, all of a sudden, she breaks the wall between you two, uncrossing her arms and taking a hesitant step forward. The look on her face would have you believe she surprised herself too with her actions.

“I read your file-“ You scoff. Every interaction starts like this with her. It’s like she has this need to remind you that she knows almost every little detail regarding the documents contained inside. A power move that makes you feel sick right now.

“What about my file Ms. Romanoff?” You ask, exasperated by the social interaction on top of the nightmare and she purses her lips.

“Never mind…” She steps back, hand reaching for the door knob and you watch her slip back out into the hall. She was probably only trying to help and while you know that, you can’t help but keep that safe emotional distance that’s been there all this time. You push your thoughts away as you lie back down, sinking into the soft mattress underneath.

In the following weeks you could feel her eyes watching you more often. Studying carefully. You couldn’t decipher if it was out of concern for your well-being or everyone else’s. Did you want to know? Would you ever know? She was Fury’s top spy before the avengers after all.

It all came to a head when you stayed past the end of team training. You’d been exhausted from lack of sleep the previous night, but that only made you more determined to push yourself harder. If you went to your room you’d immediately try to sleep which would only lead back to the nightmare. So there you were, wrapping your hands to begin using the punching bag in the corner of the room when something was tossed onto the floor next to you.

It was a pair of handcuffs, old with scratches in the metal on top of a manila folder labeled “SHIELD Property: Top Secret”. Before you could crane your neck to see who it was, Natasha spoke.

“Go ahead. Read it,” her voice was softened and her demeanor was encouraging. She watched as you sat on the matted floor, crossing your legs before picking up the file folder and perusing the contents inside. She’d never show you her personal file, but the intel on how Red Room widows were raised would suffice. It was quiet aside from the occasional sound of rustling paper as you took your time absorbing the information, occasionally throwing a concerned glance her way.

“Why are you showing me this?” You asked as you closed the file, holding it out for her to grasp. Instead of taking it back, Natasha chose to sit on the floor space in front of you, picking up the handcuffs and dangling them on her pointer finger, contemplating how to talk to you about this.

“When I went into your room that night you had the same exact look that I do when I wake up from a nightmare,” She trailed off, watching every detail of your face with caution.

“It’s not that big of a deal-“ You shrugged off the insinuation.

“It’s more than a nightmare though… Isn’t it?” She probed. “It’s okay if it is,” She added and you sighed.

“You’ve already read my file. I don’t see why you have to go through this like some sort of interrogation,” you shook your head and Natasha furrowed her brows at the action.

“Your file’s missing your psychological fitness evaluation. That’s what I was trying to tell you,” She lowered her head to try and catch your avoidant eyes.

“Doesn’t sound like a me problem,”

“It’s the epitome of a you problem,” She shot right back. “But… What I also wanted to say was that we’re a team. We all struggle with our own PTSD, but we help each other through it. I’m seeing you struggle with this and I want to help,” She gave you a reassuring smile and for the first time you felt that wall of ice between the two of you starting to melt.

“With handcuffs? Kinky,” You joked and she rolled her eyes as you laughed at yourself.

“I was just trying to prove my point. After years of not being able to stop using them I was able to get support. Even if I can’t get rid of them completely I don’t have to use them anymore, but if that’s where you want to go with it I can go back to being an ass,” She tossed the cuffs your way and you caught them. When you both stood you paused for a moment, letting the new dynamic settle.

“Thank you, I appreciate it… and… I’ll be more communicative about what I need,” You finished and chanced giving the spy a hug. She tensed as your arms wrapped around her, but after the initial shock she reciprocated the embrace. The first of many because, little did either of you know, that in 5 years time you’d be getting married… and your gag wedding gift to your wife would be a cheap pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs.

“Thank you, I appreciate it… and… I’ll be more communicative about what I need,” You finished and chanced giving the spy a hug. She tensed as your arms wrapped around her, but after the initial shock she reciprocated the embrace. The first of many because little did either of you know, that in 5 years time you’d be getting married… and your gag wedding gift to your wife would be a cheap pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs.

get to it

Summary: Lorraine is the only one who won't cause a scene when you go to the gym. Well. You thought Lorraine was the only one who wouldn't cause a scene at the gym.

Word Count: 1.8k Warnings: implications of smut, language, suggestive themes Pairing: Lorraine Day x Fem!Reader (Birb Cinematic Universe Masterlist)

“I’m heading out to the gym!” You called out from the entryway. A range of acknowledgements echoed down the stairs and you nodded to yourself as you grabbed your keys.

“Hang on.”

You froze, your head swinging around to see Lorraine grabbing her jacket from the hall closet. Well, clarification, she grabbed your jacket from the closet and slid it over her head. It swallowed her, almost dropping to her knees and hanging far past her fingers. With a barely concealed sigh, you offered her your hand and led her out of the house.

There was no way you were getting that jacket back.

It was a nice walk to the gym; late enough in the evening for most people to be at home, but not too late where it was pitch black outside. The spring air was full of pollen that had Lorraine sneezing nearly the entire walk. An adorable little kitten sneeze that you made sure to tease her for, leading to an even more adorable blush to dust her cheeks.

“Evening, kids,” Travis said when you and Lorraine stepped into the warm gym.

“Evening,” you both said in unison with small waves.

“Looking beautiful as always, Raine,” he said with a smile before turning around to continue sanitising some of the equipment.

“Thanks, Travis,” Lorraine said softly.

“Thanks, Travis,” you mocked as you pulled her in the opposite direction. “Don’t accept his compliment.”

“You can not be jealous of him,” Lorraine said with a raised brow and arms crossed over her chest. She stepped aside to let you start setting up for your first workout. “He says it every time.”

“I know he does,” you grumbled. The plate slid a little too fast and squashed your finger. And oh did it sting. “He needs to quit.”

“Don’t you think I’m beautiful?” She asked once you sat on the bench.

“Of course I do.”

If you hadn’t known Lorraine as well as you did, you would have missed the change. It was in the way she held herself, the slightest tilt at the corner of her lips, her eyes locking with yours. She stepped forward and rested her small hands on your shoulders, her smile growing a little bigger as she sat in your lap, one leg on either side of your hips.

“Then you have nothin’ to worry about,” she said before leaning forward to give you a quick kiss. Her hands pushed against your shoulders until you were laying flat on the bench. “Now get goin’.”

“I haven’t warmed up yet,” you said, but you really didn’t care. Not when Lorraine’s hands were starting to move from your shoulders down to your stomach.

“I think you’ll be alright,” she said as she slid her hands under your shirt to rest on your hips. It sent a shiver down your spine.

Oh. Oh, you shouldn’t have brought Lorraine.

With an audible gulp, you nodded to yourself and did your best to focus on the bar above you. If you could just get your workout down quickly, then you could go back home and give Lorraine what she wanted. Easy, right? You could probably even cut it short, claim to be too tired.

And once you felt Lorraine’s nails scratch lightly against your skin, your mind was made up. You were definitely going to cut it short. Your breath left you in frustrated huffs as she did everything in her power to make your workout an impossible task.

It started with her deciding to hold onto your waist and lean her weight on you when you attempted to push the bar up for your final rep. Normally it would have been too bad, but you felt the slightest movement of her hips against yours. Your breath caught in your throat at the action, but you thought nothing of it.

Until she did it again.

She gripped your waist to help her grind down into your lap. It was subtle - clever girl - but you felt it. Felt her nails lightly dig into your skin and her thighs tighten around your hips. Any control in your body vanished and the bar fell onto your chest, forcing the air out of your lungs.

“Focus, baby,” Lorraine said with a tilt of her head. “Just one more.”

It took everything in you to push that damn bar up and wrack it.

For the most part she behaved for the other few, though that didn’t mean you actually made any progress. Because no matter which one you decided on - whatever plan you had made beforehand had long been forgotten - she was there to be a distraction. Shamelessly letting her eyes roam over you, or running her hands over you when you were resetting, or even pulling you down into kisses that left your stomach in knots.

“How many more?” Lorraine asked when she let you go after kissing you so hard you couldn’t breathe right.

“I- uh-” you tried to blink the haze out of your mind.

“Use your words,” she whispered.

“Just- just- uh, just a finisher,” you managed to get out. “Then I’m done.”

“Then get going,” she said with a smile and a light pat on your chest.

She was having too much fun with the whole situation, that’s what she was doing. You grabbed her hand and took her over to the pullup bars hanging on the far wall. Travis waved to you both when you walked by, and Lorraine made it a point to wave and smile back. She could be such a dick.

You locked your fingers together and held your hands steady for Lorraine to step up on. It was a joint effort, but she quickly found herself sitting atop the pullup bars, her legs hanging over and swinging carelessly. With the hood of your jacket now firmly pulled over her head, she looked adorable. Nothing like the minx she had been for the past hour.

With a deep breath in, you wiped your hands on your sweats to get them nice and dry. Then, without any chance to change your mind, you jumped up just enough to grab the pullup bar. Only a second of readjustment, and you pulled yourself up, feeling the burn of your muscles from the past hour of workouts.

Lorraine leaned forward and gave you a peck on the lips when you were up all the way, and for a moment, you were rejuvenated. Your pulse was racing and the fatigue in your body disappeared when you lowered yourself back down. The second pullup, she gave you another quick kiss, and you smiled at her before lowering yourself back down.

But then she made you suffer.

You pulled yourself up for the third time and expected nothing more than a quick, light kiss. Nothing scandalous, nothing distracting, a welcome encouragement to keep going. Something that she usually did when she came to the gym with you.

But this time was different. The moment your head popped above the bar again, you felt Lorraine’s hands grab the collar of your shirt and hold you tight. Your back and shoulders and arms already started to ache when you felt her lips on yours. It wasn’t a quick kiss, it was much hungrier, more needy.

Her tongue swept across your bottom lip and without hesitation you parted your lips slightly. She sighed into your mouth and leaned closer. Your arms started to shake when she let her hands trail up your neck and to your cheeks where she held you just as steady.

Lorraine overtook all your senses. The smell of her body wash, the warmth of her fingers on your skin, the taste of her on your tongue, the soft sighs she let out. She had you completely captivated and all you wanted to do was pull her in, envelop yourself in her.

Your muscles didn’t agree.

With a whispered yelp, your grip gave out and you fell back to the ground. You could feel your upper body visibly shake from fatigue as Lorraine climbed down without a care in the world. Her feet hit the foam ground with a soft thud before she walked over and placed her hands on your chest.

“Seems like a good workout,” she said, letting her eyes roam over you again before meeting your own. “We should head home.”

“Gonna reward me?” You asked with a raised brow. Her smile gave her away.

“Of course,” she said. “I think you’ve earned it.”

“I think so too,” you said. You reached out to grab her hips and pull her closer to you, the smell of her shampoo becoming all-encompassing once again.

“Then let’s go,” she said.

She grabbed your hand and started pulling you out of the gym. You made sure to wave to Travis - taking note that Lorraine gave a half-hearted goodbye - and let her lead the way. Your hand was still shaking, and your arms felt like jello, but her hand felt warm in yours.

It was almost comical how quickly Lorraine walked to get home. She didn’t tell anyone hi when she walked into the house, barely even giving you time to shut the door before dragging you up to her room. Her foot closed the door as she shoved you to the bed and quickly climbed on top of you after removing her sweats.

“I forgot to tell you something,” you said when her hands found their way to your bare waist once again. She cocked her head to listen without taking her eyes off the small expanse of skin she had exposed. “I think I’m a bit too fatigued to help you out.”

She froze.

“Beg pardon?” She asked, her eyes wide and searching yours.

“That finisher killed me,” you said with a shrug. “I can’t be of any help tonight.”

She blinked rapidly twice.

“But-”

“-Don’t let me stop you though,” you interrupted. You sat up and placed your own hands on her hips; it always amazed you how soft her skin was. “Go on. Get your reward.”

She looked into your eyes before looking down to where she was straddling your thigh. Her hips moved against your thigh experimentally, a soft sigh falling from her lips as her eyes fell shut. It was mesmerising, watching her grind against your thigh in practically nothing more than your jacket. She was definitely a beautiful sight.

You were brought back to the present when she let out a frustrated groan.

“It’s not enough,” she practically whined, staring you down with her beautiful brown eyes. Usually that worked.

But not that time.

“If you wanted help, you shouldn’t have worked me so hard,” you said with a shrug. Her jaw dropped.

“You can’t be serious,” she said.

“As a heart attack,” you answered with your own smile. You lightly pinched her hip and gestured to her with your head as you waited for her to continue. “Guess you better get to it, sweetheart.”