Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Nicky watches the breeze ruffle the trees, quietly.

It’s a cloudy day. The wind carries a sting to it, as if threatening to bring in colder weather, ever more present as the last days of summer gradually fade away into the beginning of autumn.

Nicky likes it. It’s not that he dislikes the sunlight – he loves it, but, from how he sees it, the colder seasons have their beauty, too. Everything seems calmer during autumn and winter, and the leaves and the snow are so pretty.

He feels more than sees his mama walk up beside him, sit down next to him on the grass.

“You look lost in thought, kiddo,” she says, nudging him with her shoulder, and Nicky turns to face her with a big smile on his face.

“I was just watching the trees,” he says, brightly. “Aren’t they pretty when they move in the wind?”

His mama watches the leaves in consideration, then hums.

“I suppose they are,” she admits, then nudges him again. “You’ve always had a good eye for things.”

They sit in comfortable silence for several seconds watching the calmness of the forest that stretches before them.

“Mama,” Nicky says, then, out of the blue, “tell me a story?”

She turns to face him with fondness in her eyes.

“What,” she says, “don’t want to see my purple tricks today?”

“Not right now,” he shakes his head, “just a story.”

She hums again, thoughtfully eyes the canopy of the trees in the distance.

“Did I ever tell you the story of Princess Scarlett?” She asks, a strange shine in her eyes.

He shakes his head once more.

She turns her gaze back to the trees, a conspiratorial grin on her lips.

“Well, in a distant snowy nation by the name of Sokovia…”

*****

“So, how much can you give us?”

Dimitri raises his eyes at her, scrutiny written all over his face.

The chilly, bitter wind howls outside the small, inconspicuous shop tucked in-between two marginally larger buildings, at the back of an alleyway, as the snow mercilessly coats every surface exposed to the elements in what’s, surprisingly, not the worst weather Wanda’s ever been caught in. Pietro stands by her side, arms crossed and muscles taut, ready for the first sign that Dimitri’s about to double-cross them to take action.

She hates how he seems to feel the need to act as her guard dog, but she doesn’t begrudge him for it; after what happened to their parents during the attempted coup years ago, she supposes making sure his twin sister is safe is among his top priorities, and, in all honesty, the same goes for her in relation to him.

(He's been by her side literally since the day she was born. She doesn’t see why it should be any different when fencing off stolen goods.)

Dimitri studies the loot laid on the counter before him, his small eyes twinkling with something akin to malice.

“One-fifty.”

Pietro huffs beside her.

“What, for all of it?”

“Take it or leave it.”

“That’s solid gold. You know it’s worth three hundred at least.”

“And I have to resell it to someone stupid enough to buy it,” Dimitri drawls, lazily. “I gotta make a profit, here. Not many people willing to come to a back-alley to buy jewelry. You two draw enough attention to my shop as it is, disappearing in here every other afternoon. It’s getting expensive to buy off the guards who catch onto it.”

“Bullshit, we’re careful,” Pietro spits. “If they’re digging around, it’s because you’re not.”

“You aren’t careful enough,” Dimitri growls. “One-fifty’s my final offer,” he throws a small sack of coins down on the counter. “Take it, or find somewhere else to fence your shit off.”

Pietro clenches his jaw, and Wanda can tell he’s about to pick a fight. Dimitri eyes him like he’s daring him to, and it prompts her to move.

She darts forward, grabs the sack of coin with more violence than she intended to.

“Let’s just go, Pietro,” she grumbles, “he isn’t worth it.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but, before he can say anything, she’s dragging him by the wrist out of the shop and into the freezing cold.

Her boots dig through the layers of snow as she storms away from the alley, Pietro in tow.

“That’s such bullshit,” he growls, anger seeping through every syllable, “we bring in half of the loot in that dump. He wouldn’t even have shit to sell if it weren’t for us.”

“Nothing we can do about it,” she replies, bitterly, shoving her hands in the pockets of her coat and tucking her chin into her ratty scarf. “We’re nobodies. Most we can do is try to survive. It isn’t worth risking one of our only sources of income over being ripped off.”

“He shouldn’t just… be able to get away with treating us like street rats,” Pietro grits his teeth. “Nobody should.”

“We are street rats.” Wanda lowers her voice, shrugging. “Just a couple of orphans with nowhere to drop dead. Gotta eat to live, gotta steal to eat.” She pauses, swallows down the knot in her throat, clenching her jaw. “We’re riffraff, Pietro. The sooner we accept that, the better.”

He's silent for a couple of seconds.

“…it’s such bullshit,” he says again, sighing, and it never fails to hit her, how weary he seems at times like this, how much older he looks, even though they’re only twenty-three. The weight of caring for his little sister for most of his life, of running from the guards, of taking beatings from disgruntled shop owners slighted at having been robbed so she could be spared the worst of it, of sleeping outside in the snow with nothing but a faint fire to keep them both warm and praying they wouldn’t freeze to death during the night, seems to fully settle on his shoulders in these situations, and Wanda can never do anything to ease his burden.

Like most Sokovians, she curses the would-be insurrection from over a decade ago; not because the Tsarina got murdered, even though things were certainly better with her in charge than with the current Tsar, but because, like several people, her and Pietro’s parents became collateral damage.

The guards didn’t care, and the people behind the attempted coup didn’t, either; their parents, just like them, were nobodies, just a couple of no-name commoners trying to scrape by. They got shipped off to the orphanage as soon as the dust from the fighting settled, Pietro and her, but the place was horrible enough that they saw fit to run away and take a chance on the streets a mere month later. Nobody back there bothered to look for them.

Probably for the best.

They’ve been living like this ever since. Stealing what they need to survive, using what little money they can make from it to get baths and decent accomodations and some actual food every once in a while.

It’s no way to live, but they can’t afford anything better.

They try to steal only from people who they deem to be deserving of it, at the very least; rich assholes who regard anyone they consider to be beneath them like one does dirt on their boots, mostly, but also crooked shop owners who treat everyone who can’t pay like they’re something subhuman. It’s not rewarding, it feels like shit, but Wanda and Pietro both have enough anger at the world bottled up inside them to not give a fuck.

“I gotta go check in with Nikolai,” Pietro says when they reach the market square. “See if he’s got any better-paying jobs to offer. We’re gonna need more coin now that Dimitri’s screwed us over.”

He spits at the snow, bitterly.

“Be careful,” she cautions, eyeing the couple of guards that walk past them a few meters away, lost in conversation. “He may be a piece of shit, but he wasn’t lying about the guards being on high alert lately.”

“I’m always careful,” he smirks, smug. “Besides, I’m too quick for them, anyway. They never see it coming.”

“Sure thing, Pietro”, she rolls her eyes, affectionately.

“See you back here in a few?” He asks, and, when she nods in confirmation, he walks off.

Absently, she wanders the market, never once failing to notice the wary, disdainful looks most stall owners shoot her. She and Pietro are well-known by most of them, at this point; the two of them have paid (and, in occasion, threatened) them enough to keep quiet about their… occupation, and have relegated their criminal activities to the wealthier areas of the city, as well as the outskirts, switching it up often enough to throw the guards off their backs and not make them realize the string of thefts is connected – and throwing what little money they have at the guards who do.

(Going a couple days without eating is preferable to being thrown in the dungeons, she and Pietro figure.)

She’s lost in thought, walking through the market without a particular destination in mind, when the sound of an agitated voice pulls her out of her mind.

She follows the source of the ruckus with her gaze, and her eyes land on a very small crowd that has begun to gather around Igor, one of the food stall owners, who has his large hand wrapped around the wrist of a – remarkably calm, considering the situation – woman decked head to toe in heavy winter clothes, a hood drawn over her head and obscuring her hair as well as most of her features. Wanda picks up the pace, approaches them, feeling the violent tension that crackles in the air between the two; something tells her she should probably break it up, even though, by all accounts, it’s absolutely not her problem.

“I fed a starving child,” the woman is saying, utterly nonplussed, and yet, Wanda can feel the danger lingering behind her voice. “I fail to see the issue, here.”

“Stole from me, is what you did!” Igor bellows, fury tinging his entire face. “Walked up to my stall and took something that wasn’t yours!”

“Oh, please,” the woman rolls her eyes, “you can’t seriously be telling me you’re putting a price on a child’s life. I have no doubt your wares are of the utmost quality, but surely whatever they’re worth is but change in the face of-“

“I am giving you one chance, little girl,” he snarls, “to pay for what you stole, with interest, or I will beat it out of you and teach you a lesson before I throw you to the guards my damn self!”

From this distance, Wanda can see the woman raise an eyebrow at him, and she can definitely see the beginning of a challenge start to form on her face before Wanda reaches them both and places herself right next to the hooded woman, raising her hands in what she hopes is a placating manner.

“Woah, hey, Igor,” she says, keeping her tone as casual as she can. “Hi. Hello.” She clears her throat. “Um, what seems to be the problem, here?”

“Keep out of this, Maximoff,” he spits, without fully looking at Wanda, still staring down the woman next to her. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“Come on, Igor,” Wanda lowers her voice just the tiniest bit, in that way she knows makes people reconsider how much of a threat they see her as. “It’s nine in the morning on a Monday. Do you really want to cause a scene in the middle of the market square?”

“Cause a scene?” He fumes, indignant, finally regarding her with his gaze. “Me? She stole from me!” He points a massive finger at the stranger still standing exactly where she was before, and, when Wanda turns to actually look at her, she feels her breath leave her lungs a little bit.

This is probably the most beautiful person Wanda’s ever laid eyes on. Her features are delicate, but defiant, her sharp green eyes studying Wanda like a hawk’s, red eyebrows furrowed, as if trying to figure out what her angle is, here. A few strands of equally red hair peek out from under her hood, going to curl, lightly, next to her temple. There’s something in her eyes, something intelligent, observant, and Wanda feels like this woman’s digging into her mind, staring into her soul, trying to find what makes her tick. She’s shorter than Wanda by at least a few inches, and yet she stands taller than anyone she’s ever known.

Wanda’s never exactly been a sucker for a pretty face, but it would be fruitless and, objectively, a lie, to try and deny that she’s instantly smitten.

The impossibly gorgeous woman raises an inquisitive eyebrow at her, waits for her to say anything in response to the angry man standing in front of the two of them.

She feels her cheeks burn only the slightest bit before her mask is firmly back on.

“Right,” she clears her throat again, turns her gaze back to Igor. “Well, I’m sure this was all a misunderstanding-“

“My behind it was-!”

“But,” Wanda continues, paying no mind to the interruption, “I know I can settle everything out.” He huffs at that. “No, listen, it’s not stealing if she pays for it, yeah?”

He frowns at her.

“I… I suppose.”

“Then, would this be enough to cover it?” She raises her hand up, the one now clutching the very expensive, very fancy-looking bracelet she nicked from the wrist of the beautiful woman with a sleight of hand when she wasn’t looking.

The woman’s eyes widen when they settle on it, at the exact same time a satisfied smirk plasters itself on Igor’s face, and she starts to protest before Wanda lightly squeezes her wrist in warning.

“That… that looks fancy,” he rubs his stubble, a greedy little twinkle shining in the back of his eyes.

“It is,” she raises her eyebrows. “It’s Wakandan-made, you know. Worth a fortune.” It’s absolutely not Wakandan-made; this thing’s as Sokovian as it gets, but Igor’s an idiot, and she correctly assumes he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. “This should be enough, right? I know how hard you work to get your goods all the way to Sokovia.”

She scoffs internally at that; Igor’s a crook, and a well-known one in her and Pietro’s circle, at that – most people know he’s pulled every single possible string to get his goods smuggled into Sokovia, mistreated everyone who worked for him, and beaten bystanders to keep quiet, but, because of his connections to some of the guards, nobody ever did anything about it.

He hums in consideration.

“Very well,” he says, finally, snatching the bracelet out of her hand and clasping it around his own wrist. “But consider this your only warning, Maximoff; I don’t much care for letting the transgressions of your little gutter-rat friends slide.”

(It used to sting much more, way back when, being called things like “gutter-rat” and “riffraff”, but, these days, she’s kind of gotten used to it, to the point it mostly just makes her numb.

Mostly.)

The woman starts to fume beside her, and, before she can protest, Wanda wraps her hand around her wrist, squeezes it again.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” she says, before she walks off and starts dragging the woman behind her; to the stranger’s credit, she keeps up the façade for remarkably long, despite the way Wanda can tell she’s trembling in anger.

Once they’re sufficiently far, the woman finally speaks up:

“That was my mother’s bracelet.” Her voice is icy, angry, and Wanda would feel intimidated if her hand wasn’t clutched around a particular object, right now.

“You mean,” she raises said hand, silently offering the object to the woman walking beside her at a brisk pace, “it is your mother’s bracelet.”

The stranger’s green eyes widen once again, and her brows furrow in what seems to be a mix of awe, annoyance, and confusion.

“How did you-?” Her voice is hushed.

“Same way I took it from you, I suppose,” she half-whispers. “You might wanna pick up the pace, there. That moron’s probably gonna realize he’s been played any second, now.”

As if on cue, a furious bellow of “Maximoff!” rings out in the square, and several heads turn to look at the source of the sound as the large man sprints after them, a hand raised and pointing at her back.

“Thief!” He shouts, almost delirious in his rage. “Goddamned rat! Guards! Thief!”

The guards finally seem to realize something’s going on, their heads turning to Wanda roughly at the same time, and she clasps her hand around the woman’s wrist for the third time before saying:

“Run.”

To the stranger’s credit, she has absolutely no trouble keeping up with her when she breaks into a sprint, even with the snow covering the streets, and Wanda leads her through several alleys and shops, turns several corners, before, just like Pietro taught her, propelling herself up a wall using her momentum and starting to scale the house it belongs to.

She risks a look down once she makes it to the roof, fully expecting to have to help her companion along, but, to her surprise, the woman is already following after her, climbing the wall much more nimbly than someone who’s never done this before should be able to, and Wanda has enough presence of mind to be equal parts impressed and intrigued before picking her pace back up once the stranger makes it onto the roof and kneels beside her.

They’re both soon standing on the edge of a rooftop, staring down at the building next to it, a significant distance away.

Wanda’s done this before, with Pietro, but, despite the strange woman’s skill at navigating rooftops and scaling walls, she can’t be sure she’ll be able to pull this particular thing off.

So, she turns to face her, apprehension bleeding through her every word.

“Do you trust me?” She asks, expectantly.

The woman frowns at her.

“What?”

“They came this way!” The voices of the angry guards are getting dangerously close.

“Do you trust me?” She prods again, more urgently.

By all accounts, she shouldn’t, Wanda thinks; they’ve just met, and they don’t even know each other’s names. Trust is earned, not freely given, and, objectively speaking, Wanda has given this woman no reason to blindly trust her, yet.

And still, for some reason, from the way the woman looks at her, Wanda thinks she does trust her, as strange as it sounds.

Steeling herself, she nods once, briskly, gets a running start, and leaps off the roof of the building onto the roof of the neighboring one.

She always rolls onto her shoulder when she falls, and she’s never gotten injured from this save for her very first couple of tries back when she was still learning, but the impact of falling from this kind of height still always disorients her a little bit, no matter how correctly she does it.

She wonders if the mystery woman is going to trust her enough to follow after her before she hears a thud next to her, and her companion is landing on the roof as well, with much more grace than she had.

(Okay, damn. If there was still any doubt in Wanda’s mind that this lady might have done this sort of thing before, it was just erased.)

“You were leading us to safety, yeah?” The woman smirks, a hint of smugness mixed with amusement plain on her face. “Or did you decide it was better to stand there and gawk, instead?”

Feeling that faint blush creep up to her cheeks again, Wanda shakes her head and starts running again.

*****

“It’s not much,” Wanda says as her mystery companion walks around the empty warehouse she and Pietro are currently bunking in, in-between hauls good enough to afford them hotel rooms in the worst part of town.

(Well, that’s a lie. It’s a dump, but they don’t have anywhere better to hole up in, at the moment.)

“It’s spacious,” the woman observes. “You live here?”

“For now, yeah,” Wanda admits, walks over to where the redhead is standing, sits down on a dusty crate propped on the floor. “Me and Pietro.”

“Pietro?” She turns to face her, curiosity and something akin to disappointment in her beautiful green eyes.

“My brother.” Wanda swears she sees a hint of relief cross the woman’s face when she says that. “We’ve been on the streets for as long as we can remember.”

“Where were your parents?”

A sharp sting pierces Wanda’s heart.

“Dead,” she shrugs, and she can pinpoint the exact moment the woman regrets asking that as sadness washes over her features. “Killed by a stray bomb during the attempted coup thirteen years ago.” She pauses, swallows dryly. “We’re just two of the many orphans created that day.”

The woman studies her with a soft gaze.

“I’m sorry,” she says, sincerely. “I know what it’s like to lose a parent. My mother, she-“ She cuts herself off. “I never knew my birth mother. My parents took me in when I was very little, so, by all accounts, she was my mother. I lost her that day, too.”

“Was she in the palace when it happened?” Wanda observes, and the woman’s eyes widen in apprehension.

“How do you-?”

(Wanda’s kinda glad she’s able to surprise this woman as much as she’s surprising her. It makes her feel strangely proud of herself, despite everything.)

“Please, that coat has got to be worth five hundred at least,” Wanda smirks. “Your accent places you as being from the wealthier side of town. And your ‘Wakandan’ bracelet? Don’t get me started on that. Something like that could only have come from someone who works at the palace.”

The woman stares at her, dumbfounded, for a couple of seconds.

“I definitely need to start watching myself around you,” she chuckles, and the sound is velvet to Wanda’s ears. “You’re sharper than you look.”

“So, you’re saying I look dull?” Wanda smirks.

“Ah, she’s a smartass, too. Noted.”

It’s Wanda’s turn to chuckle. The woman walks over to one of the tall windows, leans on the wall with a sigh as she looks out the cracked, frosted-over glass.

“That always happens when powerful people fight, doesn’t it?” She says, bitterly, her voice low. “The little folk who are just trying to live their lives end up paying the price. This place just… chews people up and spits them out in the snow.”

That surprises Wanda a little bit. She’d have expected a rich girl like her to not give a damn about what Sokovia does or doesn’t do to the “little folk”, as she put it, but between this and the fact that the reason she got into trouble at the marketplace was because she wanted to, allegedly, feed a starving child, maybe she’s different from the usual cut of rich folks Wanda’s interacted with over the years.

(Then again, she figures, maybe the only reason this woman feels so strongly about this is because her own mother got caught in the crossfire.)

“Say,” Wanda pipes up, crossing her arms, “you never told me your name.”

The stranger flashes her that smirk that’s starting to become familiar to Wanda.

“You never told me yours.” She says, simply.

“Touché,” Wanda chuckles. “Wanda.”

The redhead stares at her for a moment, a weird tension in her body language.

“Natalie,” she offers, then, and it strikes Wanda as slightly odd, how foreign the name sounds, but, then again, miss Natalie here did say she was adopted at a very young age.

“I doubt meeting a street thief was in your to-do list for today,” Wanda snorts, but Natalie just squints, slightly, at her, as if trying to read her, like she had back at the market.

“Well, you do seem to be much more than that, from where I’m standing. What sort of thief gives back what they stole, anyway?”

“A piss-poor one?” Wanda shrugs once more, and Natalie laughs, now, the sound ringing clear in Wanda’s ears.

They study each other for a moment, a strange fondness shining in the back of Natalie’s eyes, and, if Wanda didn’t know better, she’d say the redhead’s taken a liking to her.

The sound of royal-sounding horns accompanied by loud cheers and the occasional bark of “make way!” snaps them both out of it. Natalie turns back to the window, rubs at the dust with her sleeve to see better, and Wanda gets to her feet to join her.

Even with the frost coating the glass, it’s relatively easy to make out the parade of people dressed in fancy armor and clothes, flanked by intimidatingly large war horses on either side, with the rider at the front having an expensive-looking, heavy red cloak placed on his back and what’s most definitely a crown on his head.

“A royal entourage,” Natalie groans, distaste clear on her voice. “One of the many greedy fools come to suck up to the eldest princess with jewels and dresses in the hopes of gaining her favor.”

“You know the princesses?” Wanda observes; sure, she works at the palace, so she’s got to know them at least in passing, but, from the way Natalie said it, it sounded personal.

There it is again, that weird, tense pause.

“I’m their bodyguard,” she says, tersely.

Ah. That explains a lot.

“…shouldn’t you be by their side twenty-four seven, then?” Wanda raises a brow.

Natalie shrugs.

“I occasionally come out here for threat-assessment,” she explains. “See if anyone’s planning another coup, an assassination, something like that.” She pauses, then seems to remember something. “Shit, I gotta go back to the palace. I- uh, I need to be by the princess’ side when she meets this guy.”

“Well, by now, the guards have definitely forgotten about us,” Wanda grumbles; she’s used to being a footnote at best in the book of important people as long as she doesn’t piss them off too much. “Mr. Royalty down there is at least a good distraction, if nothing else. Pietro’s probably waiting for me at the square, anyway.”

“Let’s go back, then,” Natalie sighs. There’s bitterness dripping from her every word when she adds: “I suppose I have to do my job.”

Wanda doesn’t ask her to elaborate on that.

*****

The market is crowded when they get back, but it’s relatively easy to locate Pietro.

He greets her with a warm smile that turns curious when he spots Natalie beside her, and she can tell that, like her, he’s able to clock the fact that she’s from the palace on the spot.

“Wanda,” he says, furrowing his brows in an interested manner. “And who’s this?”

“Natalie,” she says, studying Pietro in a way only a royal’s bodyguard would scrutinize someone. “You must be the famed Pietro.”

“Ah, you’ve heard of me,” he chuckles, places a hand on her shoulder. “Come to see the royal parade?”

“Something like that,” she cringes.

Pietro narrows his eyes at something in the distance.

“Excuse me, I think I see a… troublesome acquaintance over there,” he winces. “Probably best if I make myself scarce for the time being. Pleasure meeting you, madam.”

With a gentlemanly nod, he walks off into the crowd.

The two stand in awkward silence for a moment.

“I should probably get going,” Natalie groans, then, as if out of habit, touches her wrist, lightly, and then her face instantly hardens.

“…what?” Wanda frowns.

“Where is it?” Natalie’s voice is icy again, all warmth gone from it.

“Where’s what?”

“My bracelet, Wanda,” she raises her bare wrist for her to see, and Wanda’s heart races.

“I didn’t take it,” she says, hurriedly, and Wanda’s lied to a lot of people over the years, but she’s telling the honest truth right now, because, by god, if there’s someone whom she doesn’t deem deserving of being robbed, it’s Natalie, and she wouldn’t do that, not after getting to chat with her, after seeing what she did for that hungry kid at Igor’s stall.

“You mean, you didn’t take it again?” Natalie’s words are harsh, angry, and, for some reason, even though Wanda’s only known her for a couple of hours, her heart splits in two.

“No, I- Natalie, I swear-“

“You know what?” Natalie huffs, coldly, her eyes slabs of hard emerald, “you are a thief.”

Without another word, or so much as a glance in Wanda’s direction, she storms off, angrily.

Wanda briefly considers cutting through the crowd after her, but thinks better of it; she’s going to the palace, and Wanda would most definitely not be welcome there, even if she didn’t steal her bracelet; she is a street rat, regardless.

No, she’s gonna have to be contented with having made an ass of herself in front of the prettiest woman she’s ever seen, and listening to Pietro laugh at her over it-

Her heart sinks with realization.

Pietro.

He must have nicked it. He didn’t realize Natalie wasn’t a mark, didn’t know she wasn’t one of the shitty rich people the two of them steal from. He probably thought Wanda was conning her, setting her up, after Dimitri’s screwed her and Pietro out of money earlier today.

Frantically, she starts to push her way through the crowd of people gathering to see the commotion, eyes running all over for a sign of Pietro. As it turns out, she doesn’t have to search for long; he’d never gone far, to begin with.

“There you are,” he greets, smirking. “I was-“

“Did you do it?” Wanda cuts him off, because if there’s a chance to fix this, even if it’s only slightly, she’s gonna take it.

(She knows she wouldn’t be able to forget Natalie if she tried. She has to make things right, even if not for herself – Natalie deserves to have her mother’s bracelet back, though Wanda has no idea how she’d go about accomplishing such a thing.

She knows what it’s like to not have anything to remember a parent by, and she doesn’t wish it on anyone.)

Pietro frowns in confusion.

“Did I do what?”

“Did you take it?”

His frown deepens.

“The bracelet, Pietro, did you take it from her?”

His lips widen into a smile in realization, as he raises his hand, and, sure as hell, there it is, hanging from his fingers, golden and encrusted with rubies and ridiculously fancy, with all the sentimental value it carries for someone who undoubtedly hates her right now.

“Did you ever doubt me?” He says, smug, proud, and, at any other time, Wanda would be, too, but, right now, it just frustrates her.

(She doesn’t blame him. He had no way of knowing. Still, she dearly wishes he hadn’t done that.)

His face falls as he takes in the fact that she’s not happy about that at all.

“She… wasn’t a mark, was she?” It’s not a question. It quiet, hard to hear over the crowd’s ruckus.

“Nope,” she says, popping the P. “She’s actually a really nice person.”

Pietro winces.

“My bad,” he says, meekly, genuinely. “At least she’s gotta have several more like this one, right? I mean, she’s clearly loaded.”

Wanda wishes she didn’t have to tell him this.

“This is her mother’s bracelet.”

Pietro watches her with apprehensive expectation on his face; as if he can guess what she’s about to say, but hopes he’s wrong about it.

“…her… dead mother,” she elaborates.

“Shit,” he curses, guilt settling heavy on his posture, in his eyes. She knows how much this kind of thing means to him, too; Wanda wasn’t the only one who lost her parents, that day. “Wanda, I’m so sorry-“

“You didn’t know,” Wanda shrugs, voice thick with something she can’t quite name.

“Shit,” he says again. “Now I’m glad I didn’t immediately fence this thing off.” He pauses. Then, meekly: “What should we do with it?”

She knows he’s no longer comfortable with the idea of selling it, not now that he knows how much it means to someone who’s done nothing wrong, but they can’t exactly carry it around; that’s just asking someone else to steal it from them.

Wanda hums in consideration as an idea begins to brew in her head.

“Say,” she says, conspiratorially, “how do you feel about doing something kind of crazy?”

He furrows his brows at her, but she can see that familiar mischievous twinkle start to show in his eyes.

*****

Natasha sighs in boredom.

She’s barely listening as prince something-or-other from kingdom whatever, whose name she can’t be bothered to remember, prattles on about how happy he can make her and how prosperous Sokovia would become as a result of their union. Usually, Natasha tries to at least hear her suitors out, even if she has no intention of ever taking their hands in marriage – it’s a matter of basic courtesy, really, and Natasha wouldn’t be caught dead being discorteous even when she’s outright insulting someone, because she prides herself on being classy – but this guy probably takes the cake as the worst suitor she’s ever had the misfortune of being introduced to.

He’s pretty, he has a smooth voice, and that’s where the pros end. Natasha can tell, from the way his eyes glint in malice when he looks at her, that this is a man who’s used to getting everything he wants, when he wants it, as long as he throws enough money or threats at it. From the hidden meaning in his words – which he, undoubtedly, thinks she won’t be able to pick up on – she can tell exactly what he wants; to use Sokovia’s military power to attack his own nation’s enemies, and walk away with a pretty trophy wife on his arm as a bonus.

No, Natasha’s not giving him the time of day.

Beside her, Yelena rolls her eyes, equally unimpressed, lounging on the steps of the throne room as if she isn’t a princess herself, Fanny comfortably draped on the floor at her side. Her father sits on the throne, a stone-cold look on his face as he no doubt reads the suitor’s true intentions like Natasha herself has. On her other side, her and Yelena’s bodyguard, Rio, watches the prince with hard, mean eyes that would probably make him tremble on the spot if he weren’t so sure of himself; his guards, however, seem to notice the hostility hanging in the room, from the way their eyes nervously dart between Natasha, Alexei, Yelena, Rio, and Fanny. It’s almost as if they expect to be, quite literally, kicked out of here.

(She’s dangerously close to doing so, admittedly. Her mood’s sour enough as it is after the debacle at the market earlier today, without this idiot adding to it with his treating her like a brainless beauty.

Natasha resists the urge to sigh as she remembers Wanda. She was charming, if a bit awkward, and she was, in all honesty, growing to like her.

She usually doesn’t read people wrong like that. She wishes she hadn’t read her wrong, because the disappointment stung more harshly than it would have otherwise.

It’s only fair, she thinks, bitterly. “Natalie” did lie to her. She wonders how much of what Wanda told her about herself was true – if that was even her real name.

Her hand absently caresses her bare wrist, and she grits her teeth.)

“Your Imperial Highness?”

Prince So-and-so’s voice snaps her out of her thoughts. He sounds incredibly bored, and insufferably arrogant. His voice drawls on every syllable, and Natasha wishes she could outright tell him to fuck off.

She raises her eyes at him, impassively.

“I was saying-“ he begins, but Natasha cuts him off before he can continue:

“Yes, I’m perfectly aware of the fact that you were attempting to explain my own nation’s laws to me.”

Yelena barely even attempts to stifle her chuckle beside her. Ultron, her father’s counselor, a blonde man with the coldest blue eyes Natasha’s ever seen in her life, and one who never fails to make his feelings on the princesses’ behavior known, shoots her a disapproving glance from his spot next to the Tsar.

“I just meant that, since you need to marry a prince in order to be crowned Tsarina-“

“It strikes me as funny,” Natasha frowns as she cuts him off, straightening her spine, raising her chin, “that you march into our home like you own it, start preaching about our nation in such a cocky manner, and list off the ways a union between us would be beneficial like you’ve spent hours in front of the mirror practicing your speech, when you can’t even be bothered to properly read our laws. If you’d been paying attention before you hurried here to try and gain some sort of military advantage via an alliance by marriage,” his face goes pale when she says that, “you’d have noticed that the law very clearly states that I have to be married to someone of noble or royal blood, not a prince, in order to keep the nobility’s beloved status quo. It doesn’t have to be a man, you see. Adopted heirs are very much valid in Sokovia. I, myself, am one, as you surely know, since you went through the trouble of looking up so much about our nation.”

He looks livid. His face goes as red as a tomato, and Natasha’s pretty damn sure he’s never been so humiliated in his life – at least, not in public. Her father, Yelena and Rio look very much amused at it all, even though Ultron looks like he’d like nothing more than to march over to her and slap her across the face.

Prince So-and-so clenches his jaw, tightens his grip around his own belt.

“Forgive me, Your Imperial Highness,” he stammers, anger barely noticeable in the back of his voice as he clearly swallows his pride to try and salvage a situation that was hopeless for him from the start. “I wasn’t aware that you… preferred the ladies.”

“I don’t, actually,” she says, tersely. “I have no preference, as you so eloquently put it; both men and women are equally attractive to me. I am, however, attracted to certain types of personalities, of which I can very comfortably say yours is not a part of. Put simply, so that you can understand, I don’t ‘prefer’ you.”

Yelena actually barks out a laugh beside her, now, as she casually strokes Fanny’s head, and Ultron looks like he’s about to explode.

Prince So-and-so widens his nostrils, clenches his jaw even further, and, for a moment, Natasha thinks he’s about to do something violent – and Rio and Yelena must feel the same, because their hands subtly move to grip the handles of the swords hanging from their sheathes on their belts – but he just fumes at her for several seconds, nods at her father behind her, and says:

“Thank you for your time, Your Imperial Majesty.”

With that, he turns around and storms out of the throne room, followed closely by his flabbergasted guards.

It’s only when they’re fully gone, out of the palace, that Ultron storms up to her, jaw tightened in anger.

“What the hell,” he spits, hands shaking beside him, and Natasha doesn’t miss the way Rio stalks closer at that, her hand still resting on the pummel of her sword, her eyes flashing green but for a moment, “was that?! You can’t just humiliate suitors like that!”

“Can’t I?” She replies, nonchalantly. “I am in my home, and he showed up uninvited. I was also under the impression he was trying to humiliate me, first, by treating me as if I was dull in front of his entourage and my entire family.”

“You’re a princess!” Ultron’s eyes narrow at her behind his square spectacles in frustration. “You can’t afford to treat the royals of foreign nations like that; everything you do reflects on Sokovia! When will you learn this?”

“If my daughter is in need of discipline, Ultron,” her father cuts in, his voice and face hard once more, “then I’ll do it myself. You forget your place.”

A flash of cold, offended rage goes by in Ultron’s eyes before he adjusts his posture, pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he composes himself.

“Forgive me, Your Imperial Majesty,” he says, clenching his jaw again. “I meant no disrespect, of course.”

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to,” Alexei says, and then eyes him, expectantly, harshly.

Natasha watches as someone forcefully swallows their pride to address her with respect for the second time in less than an hour, and, somehow, she can tell Ultron’s even more wounded by it than Prince So-and-so had been.

“And apologies to you, Your Imperial Highness,” he says, between grit teeth.

She knows it kills him inside, to show her deference. He’s always viewed it all as spectacularly unfair, that a couple of brats with no name, no background and no birth parents, could be elevated to princesses simply because Tsar Alexei and the late Tsarina Melina “took pity” on them; that a foreign sorceress could show up in Sokovia one day and be given the role of their bodyguard, while he, a foreigner also, was delegated to counselor – as if that position didn’t come with immense privilege over most people on its own, but Natasha’s always suspected it was never enough for him.

Ultron’s always given her the impression that he’s the kind of person who could never have enough; he’d always want more.

“I am simply worried,” he says, blue eyes shining with bitterness, “that Briardale might seek to retaliate against this slight.”

“What could they do?” Yelena pipes in, shrugging, handing Fanny a snack she pulls out of the pouch fastened to her belt. “The whole reason they were here was to try and gain military might by allying with Sokovia. They have nothing to retaliate against us with.”

“Besides,” Alexei adds, waving his hand at Ultron, “it was simply a jest on Natasha’s part. It’s hardly something worth going to war over. The boy will feel the sting of his pride being wounded for a couple of days, give or take. Then he’ll go on with his life as usual.” He clamps a heavy hand on Ultron’s shoulder, smiling. “You worry too much, Ultron.”

The counselor’s responding smile is tight-lipped, forced.

“Perhaps I do, Your Imperial Majesty.”

With that, he walks off, his body stiff and still shaking.

Rio watches his back like a hawk the whole time he walks away, sharp dark eyes trained on his form until it rounds a corner and disappears from view. One of the servants makes to go after him.

“Leave him,” Alexei waves his hand again, nonplussed. “He’ll come around, eventually. Poor Ultron worries for Sokovia, is all.”

Natasha can’t believe her father keeps the bastard around, but, as much as it pains her to admit it, Alexei’s never been the sharpest tool in the shed; Melina had been the smart one.

(Natasha loves her father, she does. Truly. But he so very clearly isn’t fit to rule, not without someone apt by his side to counsel him – and that someone is not Ultron. Alexei does his best, but, even at his best, so many people in Sokovia starve, so many go by having to sleep in the snow almost every night and freezing to death as a result, and her father has no idea how to fix it.

She remembers the blatant surprise on Wanda’s face when she realized Natasha cared, even though she had no idea she’d been sitting next to the crown princess, and thought she worked at the palace, instead. The commonfolk have no reason to believe the nobility and the royalty give a damn about them, and she doesn’t blame them one bit.

Natasha knows her father hates being in charge. He’d always been happy to let Melina handle things, and had always been the Tsar more in name than anything else. She can tell he’d abdicate if he could, hand over the crown to Natasha or Yelena – if the very idea wasn’t mortifying to her little sister, Natasha thinks – but with the law stating that the crown prince or princess has to marry someone of noble or royal blood in order to be eligible for the crown unless the ruling Tsar or Tsarina dies, his hands are tied.

And god knows Natasha’s suitors, men and women both, have been far from the best. They were all clearly only interested in using Sokovia for their own advantage, and Natasha has no intention of handing over her nation, her people, to someone like that.)

“I’m sure he does,” Rio chimes in, with that butter-smooth voice of hers that carries only the slightest bit of an edge to it, and Natasha can tell she doesn’t believe Ultron’s bullshit for one second.

(She really appreciates having Rio and Yelena by her side. She reckons all her responsibilities would be infinitely more insufferable without them to support her and keep her company.)

She has no idea where Ultron came from, in truth, and Natasha wishes she could read into his angle more easily. He just showed up at the palace flanked by guards, one day, offering his services, and, intimidated by, and tired from, the weight of ruling alone, Alexei had promptly accepted. Rio had been zeroing in on him from day one, ready for the first sign of betrayal, because she clearly didn’t trust him, but, after four years in Alexei’s service, he has never given her one (even though that does nothing to make her lower her guard around him to this day).

Natasha thinks it’s only a matter of time, but she doesn’t mention that.

“May I go, father?” Natasha asks, nonchalantly. “The day has been rather tiresome.”

He approaches her, places a hand on her cheek, fondly.

“You know you don’t need my permission, malyshka,” he says, an affectionate smile on his face. “You are your own woman.”

“And you’re the Tsar,” she says, light-hearted.

He waves his hand a third time.

“Details,” he chuckles. “On your way, then.”

Yelena and Rio need no prompting to follow her out of the throne room.

*****

“It’s such bullshit, huh?”

Natasha turns to face her sister, who absently throws Fanny snacks for her to catch off the air, her feet propped up on the coffee table, and, honestly, anyone who didn’t know who she was would be able to tell she’s a princess. Rio lounges on a plush chair closer to the wall, her dark eyes studying the night sky through the lavish window; she seems lost in thought.

“What is?” Natasha asks.

“This… parade of clowns,” Yelena frowns, still not looking at her. “You constantly get these random-ass buffoons strolling in here, trying to impress you enough to get a free pass into having Sokovia by their side, as if flashy fabrics and heavy jewels were enough to buy a person. You shouldn’t have to deal with that.”

Natasha sighs.

“It is what it is,” she shrugs, and Yelena huffs at her, indignant. “Don’t get me wrong, I hate it as much as you do,” she crosses her arms, directs her gaze to the window, like Rio. “But they know about the law, and they know about Sokovia’s issues. They see that as an in. It’s only to be expected.”

The city sprawls out outside the window, the snow slowly falling down to the ground, covering the streets and roofs in a sheet of white. The lights inside buildings have long since began to make their presence known, people lighting up their lanterns and fireplaces and chandeliers as the night began to fall.

Night always did come early in Sokovia.

“Well, look on the bright side,” Yelena hums, “at least Papa’s not forcing you to marry them. He lets you do your own thing.”

“And Ultron doesn’t like that one bit.”

They both snap their heads to face Rio when she pipes in, still looking out the window, as if entirely disinterested.

(Natasha knows her well enough by now to tell there must be at least a hundred thoughts on the matter running through her head, right now, though.)

“Eh, what can he do?” Yelena spits; she’s never been fond of Ultron, either. “He doesn’t get to tell Tasha who she gets to marry or not.”

“And he would absolutely change that if he could,” Rio sounds outright bored. “All I’m saying is to watch yourselves around him. I’ve been around many untrustworthy people over the years, and that one? He’s not to be trusted.”

“You don’t have to tell us that,” Yelena snorts. “I hate the fucker, myself. Wish Papa would just,” she pauses, clicks her tongue in thought, “get rid of him.” She tosses Fanny yet another snack.

“Hasn’t she had enough?” Natasha frowns when the dog bites on the snack mid-air.

“She’s a good girl. Good girls get snacks.” Yelena scratches behind Fanny’s ear, fondly.

“I’m just saying, careful she won’t get sick. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to give her that many in so little time.”

Yelena rolls her eyes, buttons the snack pouch back up with great ceremony, then raises her brows at Natasha as if asking, “happy?”

Natasha begins to crack a joke about her attitude, a smirk already building on her face, when a knock on the door makes all three of them pause.

Yelena frowns.

“Did you order anything?” She asks, eyeing the door, warily.

“Not that I recall,” Natasha replies, and it’s all Rio needs to shoot to her feet and dart to the door, hand resting on her sword.

Unceremoniously, she pulls the door open with the blankest look on her face she can probably manage, and Natasha has to suppress the surprised gasp when she lays eyes on the two people standing outside the room.

It's her, the woman from the market. Wanda. She has a tray balanced on her hands, several cups of tea arranged carefully on top of it, and her alleged brother – Pietro, Natasha recalls – hangs awkwardly by her side. They’re both decked in servant robes, and look incredibly nervous to be here.

“…tea?” Wanda offers, and Natasha registers Pietro wincing beside her before his face goes impassive again.

Rio narrows her eyes at them.

“You must be mistaken,” she drawls, and, to the untrained ear, her voice is neutral, but Natasha can hear the threat lacing her words, and she thinks Pietro can, too, because he flinches. “Nobody here ordered tea.” She pauses, tilts her head only slightly, and Natasha can see the green flicker in the back of her dark brown eyes. “I don’t recall seeing you in the palace, before. Are you two new?”

“Um…” Wanda stutters. “Uh, yeah. Yes. We got hired just today.”

Rio stares at her, inscrutably.

Wanda’s eyes dart to Natasha, desperate, apologetic, and it’s enough to make Natasha rush to Rio’s side:

“Actually, Your Imperial Highness,” she says, and she sees the exact moment confusion crosses Rio’s face at the honorific, “it was me. I just recalled having ordered tea earlier. With our talk, I just… forgot.”

Wanda raises her brows at Rio. Pietro watches, quietly, anxiety radiating off of him in waves. Yelena says nothing behind them.

Rio stares at her.

Natasha can tell she doesn’t believe her story for a second, but she must pinpoint the recognition in Natasha’s eyes, because she rolls with her bullshit:

“I see.” Without another word, she steps aside to let Wanda and Pietro in.

Natasha pretends not to notice how much Wanda’s hands are shaking as she sets the tray down on the coffee table in front of Yelena, the blonde not once getting her eyes off of the woman.

She and Pietro then stand there, awkwardly, eyes darting between all of the three women who were already in the room.

“If that will be all, then,” Rio says, her tone deadpan, and Wanda worries down on her bottom lip for a second before she speaks up:

“Actually, Your Imperial Highness, if we could just speak to your bodyguard for a second?” She pauses. “Uh- alone?”

Rio’s eyes slowly trail over to Natasha, comprehension dawning in them. Yelena frowns in befuddlement.

The silence that follows is deafening, until Rio mercifully breaks it.

“Of course.” Yelena shoots her a surprised look at that, before she adds, her eyes briefly flashing green again: “We’ll be just in the waiting room over there.”

The warning is polite, but plain: don’t try to pull any shit, because we’ll be very close by and we can and will hurt you.

Yelena makes a show of leaving Fanny in the room with them before she follows after Rio, piercing Wanda and Pietro with her gaze as she does so.

(Natasha’s glad Yelena and Rio both trust her to be able to take care of herself and don’t hover over her the whole day like worried mother hens, and she’s definitely glad Melina and Alexei taught their girls to fight.)

Wanda and Pietro say nothing when they’re alone in the room with Natasha (and Fanny, who huddles over to curiously sniff at a very nervous Pietro’s hand).

“The, uh-“ He stammers. “The princesses are… kind of scary, aren’t they? Especially the tall one. Is, um, is she a sorceress? I’ve heard the Tsar had sorcerers in his court, but I never imagined the princess might be one. I… I think I saw her eyes… uh-” he lets out a small, awkward chuckle. “You- you know what? Never mind. Hm.”

Fanny gives his hand an experimental lick.

Natasha doesn’t reply, and he falls silent again.

“So?” Natasha crosses her arms, after a few more seconds. “What do you want?”

Wordlessly, Wanda reaches into her pockets and pulls out her mother’s bracelet, extends it to her.

“I’m so sorry,” Pietro speaks again, finally, and he sounds genuinely apologetic. “I didn’t know- I thought you were a mark. If I knew, I’d have never…” he trails off, gulps. “I’m sorry,” he says, again, lowering his head in shame and guilt.

Natasha slowly reaches out, accepts the bracelet that’s being offered to her by Wanda.

“Apology accepted,” she hums, clasping the bracelet around her own wrist once more, and feeling a massive weight lift off her shoulders.

(It’s silly, she supposes; it’s just gold and rubies, at the end of the day, much more useful to Wanda and Pietro than it is to her, but-

But it’s the only thing she has to remember Melina by.)

Something gnaws at Natasha.

“I’m… sorry, too,” she says, softly, to Wanda. “For not believing you when you said you didn’t steal it.”

“I didn’t give you much reason to believe me, in all honesty,” Wanda shrugs. “We barely know each other, yes? All good.”

‘You have no idea how much you don’t know about me,’ Natasha thinks, guiltily – Wanda still thinks she’s Natalie, the princesses’ bodyguard, and she can’t exactly think of a reason to tell her the truth, especially with Pietro here, too.

“Sorry, how did you two even get in here?” She asks, frowning, because, even to Natasha, that’s impressive.

“We have our ways,” Wanda says, and, wow, her smirk is positively smug.

Natasha finds herself smirking back.

(Something about this woman brings out the smile in Natasha, she figures.)

“Listen,” Wanda starts speaking again, nervously, when Pietro walks away from them to give them space, Fanny happily licking his offered hand, “I know I’ve only known you for a couple of hours, and I probably made a terrible first impression, but- but I enjoyed our talk this morning, and I’d like to get to know you better, if that’s alright with you.”

Natasha raises a brow at her boldness.

“Oh, really?” She hums, in response. “What did you have in mind?”

“Meet me by the palace gates tomorrow night?”

Natasha’s heart sinks a little bit.

“I doubt I can,” she admits, bitterly. “I- the princesses, aren’t allowed outside the palace, not after the Tsarina was murdered during the attempted coup. The Tsar worries about them.”

“Not even with you by their side? You could… bring them along.”

Wanda looks like a puppy who’s been left outside in the snow.

“Suppose, for a moment, I can make it,” Natasha says. “How do I know you’ll even be there?”

“I have to return this, don’t I?”

And then Wanda raises her hand, and there’s a brass cup encrusted with emeralds hanging from her fingers, and it never fails to amaze Natasha, the way she can do that without her noticing, because Natasha’s always hyper aware of everything and yet Wanda somehow manages to slip past all her defenses, find all her blind spots and slink through them.

(In truth, Natasha wouldn’t care if Wanda took off with that cup; there are dozens more like it in the palace, and, unlike Melina’s bracelet, it carries no sentimental value. In fact, Wanda and Pietro would probably be able to put it to much better use than Natasha by selling it off, or something.

But, Natasha can tell Wanda’s just fishing for an excuse to see her again.)

Her smirk widens.

“Very well, then, master thief,” she jokes, delights in the way Wanda’s cheeks go red at it. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, then.”

Wanda beams like the sun itself, and she and Pietro give her a polite nod before they excuse themselves and rush out of the room.

Natasha tries to ignore how this is the first time she’s felt giddy in years.

*****

“Can you believe how easy it was to get in here?” Pietro scoffs behind her as they rush down the deserted palace corridors, long having since shed the servant robes that they haphazardly threw over their own clothes. “It’s almost like this isn’t the most guarded place in Sokovia.”

“Maybe save your smugness for later?” Wanda snorts, only half-serious, looking back at him for a second. “We’re not out of here…” The sound of footsteps turning the corner and stopping just in front of her makes her screech to a halt. “…yet.”

A particularly tall guard is planted in front of her, decked head-to-toe in Imperial armor, with a categorically unfriendly expression on her scarred face.

“Evening, kids,” she growls, her voice a rough rasp. There’s no humor behind it.

“Evening.” Wanda would have laughed at the way Pietro’s voice cracks on the word if her heart wasn’t clogging her throat, right now.

(They’re fucked. This is it for them. There’s no way anything they could say would justify breaking into the Imperial palace, and Natalie’s word would probably mean nothing to the guards – she saw the suspicious way the princesses were eyeing her and Pietro.

They’ll be lucky if they don’t get executed, never mind a lifetime of imprisonment.)

Wanda swallows down the knot in her throat, her heart racing in her chest. She feels Pietro squirm on his feet behind her, no doubt itching to bolt out of there and drag her behind him.

And then three other sets of footsteps approach from behind them.

“Guards right behind us, aren’t there?” Pietro says, through grit teeth, his voice shaking.

Wanda can only curse under her breath before the guards grab both of her arms, as well as Pietro’s, and pull them both down the corridor.

Chapter Text

Wanda has no idea where she is.

She and Pietro didn’t get dragged down to the dungeons, or to the Tsar, like she imagined they would be when the guards clapped them in irons, but, instead, were led to the palace grounds in a weirdly hush-hush way, had sacks thrown over their heads, and been propped up into a sled before it took off under them.

She can hear the hooves around her, and it’s easy to tell the guards are accompanying the both of them on horseback – wherever the hell it is they’re going.

(Wanda wonders if they’re about to get unceremoniously killed in the middle of the snow and left there to rot so nobody would have to know the palace had been broken into, but the idea strikes her as odd, since it’s been at least half a day since they got thrown on this sled, judging by the way her dry throat screams for water; it’s a mighty long way to go, just to kill a couple of gutter-rats no one would miss, anyway.)

The cold seeps into her muscles, into her bones, as the bitter wind howls in her ears, and she’s thankful she had the presence of mind not to take off her coats before she threw on the servant robes, because she can’t quite tell if the guards escorting her and her brother give much of a shit if they freeze to death.

After what feels like an eternity, long after the sun has risen over the mountains, someone yanks the sack off of her head, and she blinks in pain when the blinding whiteness floods her eyes.

She looks around as the sack is pulled from Pietro’s head in front of her and he immediately winces when the light hits his eyes; they’re surrounded by snow as far as the eyes can see, not a soul in sight other than the guards who are now diligently marching away from them.

A blonde man mounts an imposing horse next to them, looks down at them with mean blue eyes behind a thick pair of square glasses. He’s dressed in heavy winter coats, but the iciness of the snow doesn’t compare to the one in his gaze.

“What are you staring at?” Pietro spits at him, angrily.

“Just wondering if I may have found myself a couple of diamonds in the rough,” the man replies, almost bored.

Wanda has no idea what the fuck he means by that, and she doesn’t care enough to ask him to elaborate.

“Where are we?” She can’t keep the bite out of her voice any more than Pietro could keep it out of his.

(Honestly, if they’re going to kill them, can’t they just do so? Why all this ceremony, anyway?)

“In a world of trouble, girl,” he drawls, lazily, and Wanda immediately dislikes him, dislikes the arrogance behind his every word, the way he carries himself; this is absolutely the kind of person she and Pietro would be happy to steal from, she can tell as much just from his attitude.

Still, they have to work with him, here. At least, for the time being.

“Listen,” Pietro seems to come to the same conclusion as her, “is this about the bracelet? We’ve already settled it with the bodyguard-“

“What would a bodyguard,” the man interrupts, coldly, “be doing with the Tsarina’s bracelet around her wrist, kid?”

Pietro’s frown mirrors her own.

“Tsarina?” Wanda says. “No, she said it belonged to-“

“-her mother?” The man cuts her off, scoffs in disdain. “Well, at least she told the truth about one thing, I suppose.”

Realization slowly dawns on her.

“Wait, so you’re saying-“ She stammers. “You’re saying Natalie is the-“

“Natalie, is it?” He chuckles. “It never fails to entertain me, how much it amuses Natasha to meet commoners.”

Wanda feels her heart break in her chest.

(She barely knows her.

This shouldn’t hurt this much.)

“What, did you think she liked you?” The man mocks. “She was toying with you. You’re not the first commoner she has entertained, you know. Neither of you are.” He chuckles, low, rumbling. “She’s only allowed to marry someone of noble or royal blood, kiddo. Riffraff like you never had a chance.”

Disappointment settles on Wanda’s bones, crushing, heavy. Her hand tightens around the cup in her pocket.

Well, she supposes, at least she and Pietro have this to sell, still.

“What’s your point, asshole?” Pietro snarls. He’s quickly losing his patience; whether at this man’s attitude, or at the princess’ deception, Wanda can’t tell, but she hardly thinks it matters, right now.

The man narrows his cruel blue eyes at him, dismounts his horse, stalks closer to the sled.

“You were born worthless,” he says, casually, almost as if he’s amused by the whole situation, and anger rushes through Wanda’s veins like blood. “And you will die worthless.” He pauses, then adds in, in a marginally mellower tone: “Unless you do something about it.”

“...what do you mean?” Pietro frowns at him, his patience still thin and ragged.

“You know, for people like us,” he says, “ it doesn’t ever get better unless we force it to.”

“I’m sorry,” Wanda tilts her head in disdain, “people like us?”

The man stares at her for a second before raising his hand.

The brass cup she borrowed from the princess is hanging, loosely, from his fingers.

She pats her pocket in reflex; sure enough, it’s gone.

“I was once like you kids, you see,” he says, tossing the cup back to Wanda. “Forced to steal just to survive. A scavenger. A street rat.” He pauses again. “Only, I thought bigger. Steal an apple, and you’re a thief. But, steal a country?” A vicious smirk spreads on his face. “You’re a conqueror.” Another pause. “Why stop there? You’re either the most powerful person in the room,” he tilts his head at them, “or you’re nothing. And, right now? You two are nothing.”

“What are you trying to get at, here?” Pietro sighs.

The man’s smirk grows into a grin.

“I can make you both rich,” he says, in a tempting tone. “No more stealing to afford food and accomodations, no more squatting in abandoned buildings, no more sleeping in the snow, wondering if you’ll live through the night to see the dawn of another equally cruel day.” He pauses, looks directly at Wanda, then: “Rich enough, even, to impress a princess. Why not? All you would need to do is grab something for me.”

That gives Wanda pause.

She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t tempted; she’s never met quite anyone like Natalie – Natasha – and something about her draws Wanda to her in a way nobody else ever had. If being rich would make her see her as more than- than a scoundrel, then she’d like to take the opportunity.

More importantly, she and Pietro could really use the money. They’ve both been tired of this lifestyle for years, now.

She shoots Pietro a glance, can tell he’s thinking the same as her, and then narrows her eyes at the blonde man.

“If we said yes,” she starts, cautiously, “what would we have to do?”

The grin the man flashes her chills her to the bone, much more than the cold ever could.

*****

“Not far from here, there is a cave, filled to the brim with riches. Among them, is a simple oil lamp. You two will go in, and grab that lamp for me.

You will be surrounded by more wealth than you could ever possibly hope to see in your lives; gold, jewels, diamonds, fabrics, artworks, priceless objects from all over the world, all piled on top of each other. Touch none of it.

You will be tempted, probably more than you have ever been before. Resist it. You must take nothing but the lamp; it is imperative that you touch absolutely nothing else, do you understand? Take that lamp, and bring it to me.

I will be waiting for you two at the mouth of the cave. Do not disappoint me.”

“What do you think?” Pietro asks under his breath, his teeth grit, as the wind mercilessly beats them and lambasts them with snow, when they start to approach the cave; the cloak of the night has settled over the sky for a while now, and Wanda wonders if Natasha’s waiting for her by the palace gates, feels her heart tighten in her chest at the thought.

(Her hand closes around the cup in her pocket once more.)

The cave is an unassuming hole in the mountain, icicles hanging from the ceiling in a way that gives the entrance the appearance of a jagged maw, waiting to swallow whole whoever dares approach it.

Wanda knows trouble when she sees it.

“Honestly?” She replies, her own voice a barely above a whisper, itself. “Either this is just a hole in the ground, and we’re being set up, or this ‘simple job’ is much more complicated than this guy is letting on.”

Pietro winces.

“Wanna try bolting?” He offers, and Wanda takes a look around at the guards still flanking them.

“And go where? We don’t even know where we are, and we wouldn’t last two days in this weather.”

Pietro sighs, as if saying, 'point taken', and quietly marches on, grumpily.

When they reach the entrance of the cave, the blonde man stops, places his arms behind his own back, expectantly, and then Wanda can begin to make out a figure starting to come out of the darkness.

It’s a man – or, at least, something resembling one. His skin is strangely textured, looking more like metal than actual skin, and, most notably, most of it is colored an odd shade of maroon, almost like the color of ripe grapes; the rest of it seems to vary between soft gold and dull emerald green. His eyes are the bluest blue Wanda’s ever seen, and there’s what appears to be a golden gem embedded in his forehead. He’s draped in dark green robes that reach the ground, with an ochre cloak buckled around his shoulders.

It makes Wanda’s hairs stand on end.

The strange man stops just outside the entrance, slowly studies everyone standing in front of him (and she notices the guards grow nervous around her and Pietro, almost skittish, although their contractor – kidnapper? – seems unbothered by his presence) before his eyes settle on the blonde man standing just a few feet away from Wanda and Pietro.

“I have told you this countless times before, Ultron,” the man says, calmly, a serene expression on his face, and his voice is smooth, pleasant to listen to, with only the hint of some strange, metallic twinge at the back of it. “Only those who are worthy may enter here.”

The blonde man – Ultron, this strange figure addressed him as – chuckles, smugly.

“Surely you don’t begrudge a man for trying, guardian” he says, and positions himself behind Wanda and Pietro, just between the two of them, to push them both forward at the same time with a couple of rough shoves to their backs that almost make Wanda lose her footing and stumble down to the snow.

Quickly, taking notice of Pietro’s worried hand on her arm, she composes herself, raises her head to look at – whoever, or whatever, this is.

He studies her with an inscrutable expression on his face, his eyes boring holes into her, and Wanda feels scrutinized like she never has before, not even with Natasha. He stares her down for several long seconds before doing the same to Pietro, who squirms beside her, no doubt uncomfortable under his gaze, before the man speaks again, in that same serene tone:

“Greetings. I am the Vision.” He pauses, gestures to the entrance of the cave behind him. “This is the Cave of Wonders. Only those whose worth lies far within may enter this place, and live.” He pauses. “Diamonds in the rough.”

Ah. So that was what Ultron meant, earlier today.

(Between this and what the Vision has told Ultron, she wonders how long he’s been trying to get this oil lamp out of this cave.

She can’t shake the feeling that she and Pietro are just the latest test subjects in whatever it is he’s trying to accomplish; best case scenario, he gets the lamp, whatever he needs it for, and, worst case scenario, two orphaned thieves with no name and no family die. It’s a win-win for him.

He can afford to keep trying. She and Pietro only get one chance.)

(She gets the feeling Ultron’s not about to keep his end of the bargain, and that she and her brother are gonna walk out of here as empty-handed as they went in – if they walk out at all – but they quite literally have no choice here; it’s either this, or certain death.)

“Remember,” Ultron says, lazily, behind them, “take nothing but the lamp.”

The Vision extends his arm towards the cave in a welcoming gesture, his face as blank as ever.

Swallowing down her anxiety, she reaches for Pietro’s hand beside her, and he takes it, wordlessly. She notices how badly he’s shaking.

Together, they take a step into the chilly darkness of the cave.

She barely registers what’s happening well enough to scream before the ground gives out under them, and they’re sliding down an icy slope into the pitch-black depths of the Cave of Wonders, hands still clasped together.

*****

The air is knocked out of her lungs when she lands, and she hears Pietro hit the ground next to her with a dull thud, having involuntarily let go of each other’s hands as they tumbled down to the bottom of the cave.

Groaning, Wanda forces herself to her feet, Pietro grumbling as he does the same beside her.

“So, quick question,” he says, wincing as he places a hand over his ribs, “if you had to take a wild guess, how likely would you say you think it is that we die down here?”

“Honestly?” Wanda cringes. “Fifty-fitfy chance at least.”

She hears something clank in the distance, the sound echoing in the massive, empty cave.

“...sixty-forty,” she corrects, sighing. “Come on. We’re already here, might as well see what the big deal about this oil lamp is.”

Pietro lets out a heavy breath, but doesn’t protest as he follows behind her.

She squints her eyes, trying to see better in the darkness. A strange purple light seems to glow, faintly, across the cave, with no visible light source. And then Wanda looks down at what it’s reflecting on, and her breath catches in her chest.

Ultron’s words couldn’t possibly do what she’s seeing justice. Piles upon piles of gold coins, innumerous brass goblets like the one in her pocket, tiaras, and gemstones fill the room. Ornate mirrors are propped up against them, beautifully detailed paintings haphazardly thrown on top of pearl necklaces and sapphire pendants, a lovingly crafted bronze statue depicting a godly, long-haired figure clutching a heavy hammer in their right hand standing in the further end of the chamber. In one of the treasure piles, a large, golden gauntlet with five sockets seemingly meant to hold gemstones in them catches Wanda’s eye, lying abandoned on top of a broken staff, equally made of solid gold. A horned helm sits on the ground next to it.

This is a veritable dragon’s treasure horde, like in the books her and Pietro’s parents used to read them when they were kids.

(And, just like a dragon’s horde, Wanda’s painfully aware that she shouldn’t touch anything in here, no matter how much something pulls at her, urges her to take everything she can fit in her pockets.)

Pietro gasps next to her.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes, in awe, taking in all the priceless items around him. He starts to walk down the only path available for them to take, leading directly to the center of the chamber. “We would be set for life with all this. The richest asshole in Sokovia wouldn’t hold a candle to our wealth.”

“You heard Ultron,” Wanda reminds him, a note of warning in her voice. “We shouldn’t touch anything but the lamp.”

“I wasn’t gonna,” Pietro grumbles. “I just... wish I could. I wish we could walk out of here with all of this.”

“This is more gold than we could ever possibly make use of in our whole lives,” Wanda snorts, following behind him. “I wouldn’t even know where to start spending all this on.”

“I would,” Pietro chuckles, good-humored. “First thing I would do, is book ourselves passage on a ship to Wakanda. Get us a vacation, in a place where we don’t have to wear three layers of clothing during the day just to keep warm, for once.”

Wanda hums in consideration.

“Would you leave Sokovia, if you could?” She asks.

Pietro pauses, thoughtfully.

“No, not really,” he says, finally. “It’s still my home, despite everything. But, I want to see the world. Don’t you?”

“I’ve never really thought about it,” she admits. “I guess, I’ve always just thought that, wherever you go, I’d go, too.”

Pietro smiles at her, impossibly fondly.

“Damn it,” he jokes, “and here I was, thinking I could use the money to finally get away from you.”

She barks out a laugh, punches him on the shoulder, playfully.

“Please,” she snorts. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”

“I know,” he laughs, too, throws an arm around her shoulders, pulls her in for a side-hug. “You’re too stubborn.” He slows his pace, and his laughter dies down as he squints at something in the darkness. “What’s that?”

Wanda follows his gaze to where something thrashes underneath a loose stone, seemingly trying to pry itself free.

If Wanda didn’t know better, she’d think that’s a-

“Is that a broomstick?” She says, flabbergasted. Pietro only frowns next to her.

“...it’s moving,” he points out, his eyebrows shooting up, as if he’s trying to register what he’s seeing.

Before she can stop herself, Wanda hurries down to where the abnormally large broomstick is trying to pull its tail out from under the stone.

“On its own? Wanda, hi?” Pietro adds, still in the same spot, as if trying to remind her of what, exactly, she’s looking at, here, spreading his arms in exasperation.

She hears him sigh behind her before he follows after her.

“It’s stuck,” she says, once she reaches it, and the broom seems to move with even more desperation. “Help me move this,” she places a hand on the stone.

He eyes her, warily.

“We’re not supposed to touch anything in here but the lamp.”

“We don’t have to touch the broom,” she huffs, “just the stone. Come on, I can’t lift this on my own.”

He sighs again before walking to the other side of the stone. Wanda places her hands underneath it, steels her arms to pull it up.

“On three,” Pietro says, from his side of the stone. “One, two...” they both lift the cumbersome thing with as much strength as they can, and, as soon as it’s inches above the ground, enough for the broom to pull its tail free, the objects darts off and flies into the darkness, disappearing from view. Wanda and Pietro immediately let go of the stone as soon as the broomstick flies away from them, both grunting with the effort of having lifted it up.

“Not even a ‘thank you’,” Pietro grumbles, dusting off his hands.

“Come on,” Wanda snorts. “Let’s go find that lamp and get out of here, already. Something’s off about this place.”

“What, other than the eerie purple glow and the uncannily large piles of treasure?” He scoffs. “You don’t say.”

Wanda flips him off.

He laughs, openly, before following her further into the chamber.

It doesn’t take long to find the lamp.

It’s simple, unassuming, especially compared to everything else in here, made of dusty, dented brass. It’s propped up in a small pedestal, as if inviting them to take it.

Something incredibly uncomfortable twists in Wanda’s stomach at the sight of it.

She forces herself to ignore it.

“So,” Pietro breathes next to her, quietly, “who takes it?”

“I’ll do it,” Wanda says, apprehensively. “Watch my back for any...” she trails off. She can’t really imagine what would be waiting in the darkness of this cave to pounce on her as soon as she touched the lamp.

Could be nothing. Could be anything.

“...flying broomsticks?” Pietro offers, a shit-eating smirk on his face. Wanda rolls her eyes, and steps towards the lamp, cautiously.

It seems to thrum with some sort of dormant energy, she senses, and she’s always been more sensitive to this type of thing than Pietro – but, other than that, it appears to be a perfectly ordinary, banged-up, old oil lamp.

It makes a chill run down Wanda’s spine.

Steeling herself, holding her breath, she extends her hands, and takes it.

Nothing happens.

She starts to breathe out in relief, turns to face Pietro, when an ominous rumble echoes through the cave.

Her eyes race around the chamber, and she spots Pietro, a glazed look on his face, holding a large diamond in his hand.

Her heart sinks.

“Pietro!” She cries out, in alarm, as the cave begins to shake around the two of them, and she sees the haze wash away from Pietro’s eyes as he realizes what he’s done.

“...I- I don’t know what-“ he drops the diamond, horrified, and Wanda believes him, because there was obviously something wrong with this place, it was clear to her from the moment she stood in front of it.

It bewitched people. There was a reason nobody Ultron’s thrown in has made it out with the lamp, she realizes.

“You have touched the forbidden treasure,” the Vision’s voice rings out around them, as serene as ever, and, if Wanda didn’t know better, she’d say he sounds almost regretful. “The two of you shall never again see the light of day.”

The walls of the cave start to crumble, snow beginning to flood in like an avalanche, and it’s all Wanda can do to keep upright as she sprints to Pietro’s side, lamp safely tucked in her hand.

“We need to book it out of here, now,” she says, urgently, and her brother looks around in desperation.

“How?” He yells. “The way in was a goddamned downward slope!”

Wanda tries to think, tries to consider their options, but, as the entire place collapses all around them, it begins to sink in that they’re shit outta luck.

“Remember your earlier question?” She winces, her heart racing in her chest. “Make that ninety-ten, actually.”

Pietro shoots her a disbelieving glance, as if he can’t fathom that she’s joking around at a time like this.

(In truth, she can’t either, but she jokes when she’s nervous and he’s around, and, right now, she feels like she might explode into a pile of nerves.

No one could blame her, really.)

She watches with her heart in her throat as the snow starts to wash away everything in its path, from the pedestal to the piles of gold and jewels, and it starts to sink in that she and Pietro are about to be buried under it, when something starts to become visible in the distance.

Wanda has just enough time to register what it is before she grabs Pietro’s hand, frantically, and rushes to the top of one of the massive treasure piles, dragging him along with her.

“Wanda, wha-?”

“Just trust me!”

He blinks at her, flustered, but doesn’t protest.

As soon as the broomstick is within reach, she squeezes Pietro’s hand in here, and shouts:

“Jump!”

He follows without question, and, not a second later, they’re both mounting a flying broomstick, Pietro clinging to Wanda’s waist behind her as it flies through a collapsing cave.

(Wanda risks a glance back just in time to see the rush of snow swallow the gold pile they’d just been standing on.

If Ultron doesn’t keep his end of the deal, she’s going to personally punch him in the throat.)

“What were you saying about a ‘thank you’, earlier, again?” Wanda huffs, high on adrenaline, and Pietro laughs behind her in disbelief.

They can see the mouth of the cave just ahead, and Wanda’s beginning to think they might just make it out of this in one piece, when a stray chunk of rock hits the broom on the tail, just strongly enough for it to be knocked off-course, and she and Pietro are sent careening off into the stone wall, breath leaving her lungs with the impact for the second time tonight when she hits the rock, Pietro grabbing her arm just in time, as the broom spirals down into the wave of snow below.

(Wanda’s kind of sad to see it sink. It seemed to be at least partially sentient, and it did just save their asses.

Unfortunately, there’s not enough time to ponder on that, right now.)

Pietro holds onto the edge of the wall just below the cave’s entrance, clinging to Wanda’s wrist for dear life.

Ultron stands above them, impassive. The Vision is nowhere to be seen.

“Help us up!” Pietro yells, desperately. Ultron raises a brow at him.

“Hand me the lamp, first,” he drawls.

“Fuck that, your hand, first!”

“You’re in no position to make demands, boy,” Ultron says, as bored and unimpressed as ever. “The lamp.” He extends a hand.

Pietro curses under his breath.

“Wanda, can you-?”

“Here,” she tosses the thing up the ledge, next to Ultron’s feet, gritting her teeth.

“Your hand,” Pietro urges, as Ultron picks up the lamp with a blank look on his face.

He hums in consideration, looks down at the both of them, malice glinting clear in his blue eyes.

“How about my foot, instead?”

Wanda’s heart sinks when she realizes what he’s about to do.

“You fucking-!” Pietro starts to swear, but it’s replaced by a yell of pain when Ultron stomps on his hand, makes him let go of the ledge, and they’re both falling-

Pietro tries to propel Wanda up in a last-ditch effort, tries to throw her to safety, but it isn’t enough, and Wanda knows she isn’t gonna make it to the ledge.

But she’s absolutely gonna try to pull Ultron down with her.

Roaring in anger, she grabs his leg, makes him lose his balance only enough to lose his grip on the lamp; and she doesn’t manage to make him fall, but she does manage to make him drop the lamp into the icy abyss below-

And then they’re both falling, her and Pietro, alongside the accursed object that got them into this much trouble in the first place, and she hears Ultron screaming in rage as she plummets, until he’s too far up for her to hear him, anymore.

*****

“Still waiting?”

Yelena’s voice would have startled Natasha if she hadn’t heard her approach, in the first place.

She stands next to the palace walls, as far as she’ll dare go when not in disguise, because the last thing she needs right now is for Alexei to worry about her safety.

“No,” Natasha lies through her teeth, “I just... wanted some air.”

“Ah.”

Natasha can tell Yelena doesn’t believe her one bit.

“...she did promise,” it escapes her mouth before she can stop it. Yelena shoots her a sympathetic look.

“Did she?” Her sister asks, gently. “I don’t remember her doing that.”

Natasha shrugs, impassively.

(It’s hard to hide her disappointment.

Twice now, she thought Wanda was different from the suitors who only gave her the time of day for her influence and wealth. Twice now, has she been proven wrong.

It stings more than it has any right to, but Natasha doesn’t feel things, and so she buries it down.)

“I mean, I probably should have seen this coming,” Natasha chuckles, humorlessly. “She is a thief.”

Yelena raises a brow at her.

“A thief who went through the trouble of infiltrating the palace to return what she stole? Seems counterintuitive.”

Yelena has a point, but, at the end of the day, Natasha’s pride has been wounded one too many times by that woman.

“She probably just felt bad about it because it was Melina’s,” Natasha shakes her head. “That cup was just a cup. She can steal it without feeling guilty over it.”

(In all honesty, Natasha doesn’t begrudge her for taking it. Truly. She knows her and her brother’s life can’t be easy, and she knows Wanda owes her nothing, not really, even if she did know she was the princess.

It’s just... Natasha hoped to have a real connection with someone other than her sister, for once, she guesses.)

From the way Yelena eyes her, Natasha can tell she doesn’t quite agree with her, but her sister doesn’t argue.

“Well,” Yelena’s tone is impossibly soft, “I’ll be inside if you need me.”

With that, she squeezes Natasha’s shoulder, affectionately, and walks off.

Natasha sighs as she looks up at the falling snow.

*****

Everything hurts.

She feels like she’s been run over by one of the royal entourage’s war horses, and trampled underfoot, to boot- a thin coat of snow covers her body, and that, combined with the much thicker layer of it underneath her, makes her shiver, the cold sinking into her veins like liquid ice.

With great effort, she forces herself to her knees, grunting in pain. Her head throbs, and, despite everything that’s happened, the strange purple glow still illuminates the cave, making it possible for her to see.

By all accounts, she thinks, she should be dead.

(Maybe she is. Maybe this is some sort of frozen hell she’s been thrown into, modeled after the last place she ever saw in life.)

She looks around for her brother; can’t see a single sign of him, even as her neck screams in protest when she carefully turns it to look for him.

“Pietro?” She calls out, her voice hoarse, and the way it scratches her throat when it crawls out makes her let out a cough.

Nothing.

Panic begins to build in her stomach. She can’t – can’t – imagine Pietro being dead, can’t stomach the very idea of it; if he’s dead, then so is she.

(If he’s dead, she’ll lie down in the snow and wait to die, too, because he’s all she has left, and she can’t imagine her life without her twin brother by her side.)

“Pietro?!” She calls again, more urgently, hobbling to her feet, and her head is flooded with a barrage of please be okay, please be okay, please be okay-

“Wanda?” She hears from the other side of a pile of rocks blocking off a passage, and relief instantly floods her, air once again filling her lungs now that she feels she can properly breathe.

He sounds tired, and battered, but otherwise okay.

“Are you alright?” She asks, still worried, regardless.

“Just dandy,” he grumbles. “You?”

“I’m fine.” She pauses. “Do you see any way out on your side?”

She hears him hum in thought.

“A couple of tunnels, I think,” he calls out. “I don’t know if any of them lead to the exit.”

‘If there even is one,’ Wanda thinks, downtrod.

“What about over there?” He asks, and Wanda finally looks around with more attention.

She’s in a relatively small chamber, probably a part of the larger, main one that got blocked off by the rocks and the snow when the cave collapsed. There’s nothing surrounding her but cold, hard stone walls.

As what feels like the pinnacle of irony, Wanda spots the stupid lamp in the center of the chamber, half-buried in the snow.

“Nothing,” she replies, bitterly. “But, hey, the lamp’s here, so, lucky us.”

Pietro scoffs.

“I’m gonna look around over here,” he says. “Maybe I can find our buddy Broomstick.”

“You think it survived that?” Survived. What a strange word, Wanda thinks, to use in relation to a broomstick.

A magically animated broomstick, but a broomstick, nonetheless.

“I sure hope it did,” he says. “It could be our way out of here.” He pauses. “You wait for me over there.”

“Not like I have anywhere else to go,” Wanda plops down on the snow, exhausted, defeated.

Pietro pauses again.

“I’ll be back,” he promises, and she hears his footsteps gradually fade off.

(She doesn’t hear a limp in them, thankfully, she notes in relief.)

She lets out a heavy, heavy sigh, leans her head back against the cold wall.

Once again, she wonders if Natasha has waited for her. If she expected Wanda to show up, or if she was just convinced from the start that she just took the brass cup and ran off.

Unconsciously, Wanda’s hand moves down to her pocket, and she feels an odd tinge of sadness when she realizes it’s empty. She lost the cup during the chaos.

She sighs again, closes her eyes.

She’s been doing this shit for so long.

It would be so easy, she thinks, to just... go to sleep, and let herself freeze over. To let the struggles end.

The idea is more tempting than she’d like it to be.

But then she thinks of Pietro, of how much this would hurt him, how it would destroy him as it would her if their positions were inverted, and she forces the thought out of her head, tiredly.

(A part of her wishes he was here with her right now, but, objectively, she knows it’s better that he didn’t get trapped with her. Their chances of getting out are better this way, as slim as they might be.)

Sighing for a third time, she gets back up.

Absently, she makes her way to the inconspicuous lamp sticking out of the snow in the middle of the chamber.

“All of this trouble,” she mutters, distractedly, kneeling down to dig the thing out of the thick coat of white it’s buried in, “just for you, huh?”

She gets back up, scrutinizes the lamp in her hands more calmly now that she isn’t in any rush.

It’s just as plain as before. Still dented, still dusty, and, now, covered in snow.

The brass is frigid against her hands.

That strange, humming energy still seems to permeate it.

It doesn’t seem too special at all, but, if Ultron was that desperate for it, there must be a reason why.

Absent-minded, she rubs the snow and dust off the surface of the lamp to get a closer look at it.

And then it begins to thrum.

She drops it with a start, taking a couple of steps back, when the simple, unassuming oil lamp starts to glow purple, levitating a few inches off the snowy ground, and then a storm seems to pick up in the chamber, wind raging around her in a circular motion like a mini-tornado, making her hair whip against her face, and, yeah, this is absolutely some kind of magic.

She starts to wonder if the lamp was cursed with some sort of storm spell when a thick, rich purple smoke begins to billow out of it, gathering right in the center of the storm, and, gradually, a figure starts to materialize inside of it; a woman, dark-haired, her outfits changing several times, between several different styles that seem to have been pulled out of different regions around the world, some even striking Wanda as being oddly misplaced in time, before settling on an elegant purple cloak and equally dark robes. Her eyes seem to be closed, and her face is blank.

The wind finally dies down as the smoke dissipates, and Wanda doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare make a sound, as she stands there, dumbfounded, her jaw hanging open.

She can feel the power emanating from this woman like heat emanates from the sun.

(This, Wanda realizes, this is what – who – Ultron was after.)

The woman takes a deep breath, and her eyes finally open, revealing rich blue irises that run all over the chamber as she takes in her surroundings.

She doesn’t seem to be feeling any particular sort of way until her eyes finally land on Wanda, and then her expression instantly sours.

“Oh,” she says, humorlessly. “Fantastic.”

Wanda can only blink at her.

“I suppose you expect me to,” she gestures with her hand, mockingly, and her tone is entirely sarcastic, unimpressed, “cross my arms and call you ‘mistress’, now, huh? Hate to disappoint you, sweetie, but that’s not quite my style. I usually prefer it to be the other way around, you see.”

Wanda still says nothing.

The woman narrows her eyes at her, as if gauging her, waiting to see what she’s gonna do. The silence stretches on, painfully, awkwardly, and, not for the first time tonight, she wishes Pietro were by her side.

“Well?” She says, finally, her voice haughty, almost a scoff, as she stares Wanda down exactly from where she’s standing.

Wanda furrows her brows.

“Well, what?”

The woman looks at her like she’s an idiot.

“Would you look at that,” she snorts, mockingly, “she does speak, after all.” She pauses, saunters closer. “Your wishes, honey?” She says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You do have those, yes? I’m assuming that’s why you went through the trouble of digging up this abysmally gaudy thing from a mountain of exercises in bad taste in interior décor.”

With that, she pokes the lamp still resting on the ground with her foot, and it finally dawns on Wanda that she seems to have just summoned a genie.

(An honest-to-god, real, lamp genie, like in the stories Mama and Papa used to read her and Pietro.

She knew about sorcerers, but a genie?

No wonder Ultron was so angry when she made him drop the lamp. No wonder he wanted it so badly. As far as she knows, the powers of a genie are nearly unlimited.)

“Hold that thought,” the woman holds up a finger, adjusts her hair like she doesn’t have a care in the world. “I am not a genie, hot stuff,” Wanda feels her cheeks burn, at that. “I am a witch. Best get that into your pretty little head right now.”

Wanda brushes aside the fact that this woman – this witch – seems to be able to hear her thoughts, because, for someone as powerful as Wanda thinks this lady is, that’s probably gonna be the least impressive thing about her.

“Oh, honey,” she chuckles, velvety-sweet, smug. “You have no idea how impressive I am, I promise you that.”

Wanda swallows, dryly. She’s gonna have to watch her thoughts around her.

“You say you’re not a genie,” she says, clearing her throat, still not daring to come any closer. “What about the lamp?”

Distaste washes over the woman’s expression.

“An unfunny woman’s idea of a joke,” she says, bitterly. “She thought it would be hilarious to lock me up inside an ugly, tiny oil lamp and put a spell on me to make me bark like a mongrel whenever some idiot rubbed the thing and asked me for pretty little magic tricks. I didn’t find it nearly as funny, but let’s leave it at that, yeah, toots?”

“...so, by all accounts, functionally, you are a genie.”

The woman huffs in annoyance, rolls her eyes at her.

“You know what? I’m not wasting my energy on this.” She conjures up a plush velvet chair with a flick of her wrist, purple energy swirling around her hand, and sits down on it, crossing her legs in an elegant, unworried manner. “Tut-tut, girlie. Your wishes. I haven’t got all eternity, you know.” She pauses, feigns surprise. “Oh, wait- I do, actually!” She laughs at her own joke, loudly. “Little bit of witch humor, there. You wouldn’t understand.” Then, weirdly, she narrows her eyes at Wanda. “At least, not yet.”

It makes Wanda feel like this woman knows something she doesn’t (which is probably true, all things considered), and she hates every bit of it.

The woman watches her, expectantly.

“Sorry,” Wanda furrows her brows, shakes her head to try and clear her thoughts, “how does this... work, exactly?”

The witch eyes her, blankly.

“How does what work?” Her tone is deadpan, impatient, even if her face betrays nothing.

“This whole... wishes thing.”

The witch blinks at her.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, do you mean to tell you you don’t know how to make a wish?” She hasn’t moved an inch from where she’s sitting, her pose still intact.

“Please,” Wanda scoffs, “as if there isn’t a catch to this. There always is, with this sort of thing. Nothing is ever free.”

“Oooooh,” the woman feigns surprise, “a wise soul, hardened by the world! I bet you’re real tortured, aren’t you, sunshine? Real broken inside.”

Wanda pushes down her growing annoyance at this woman’s attitude; snapping at her would probably not be the wisest idea, even if, from what she can gather, she can’t actually do anything without Wanda ordering her to.

She’s just gonna have to keep her talking and see where it goes.

“Let me tell you, that accent really is something,” the witch leans back on the chair, smirks at her. “I bet you have all the pretty girls falling at your feet, don’t you? They like that sort of thing, from my experience.”

Wanda chooses to ignore that comment.

The woman stares at her for a couple of seconds, that smug smirk still on her face, before it abruptly falls.

“You’re no fun,” she sighs, bored, at Wanda’s lack of response, then leans back against the chair once again, crossing her arms, leisurely. “Okay, then, pay attention, because I’m not in the habit of repeating myself. Rule number one: no, you can’t wish for more wishes. That isn’t remotely as amusing or smart as you little geniuses imagine it is. It got really tiring at around the thirty-fifth time and I’d rather not deal with it anymore, thank you. Rule number two: I can’t make anyone fall in love with you, please do not try to use me to circumvent consent because I have no time or energy for that sort of pathetic mentality, nor any desire to interact with it. Rule number three: I can’t bring anyone back from the dead. There are some things not even I will mess with, and this is one of them. Got all that? Good. Now get around to your wishes so I can go back to doing nothing in my ugly little lamp. It may be mind-numbingly boring, but at least it’s warmer than this.”

Wanda blinks at her again.

“Why so many rules?” She asks. “I thought you were all-powerful.”

The witch rolls her eyes in exasperation.

“I don’t know,” she huffs, impatiently. “Go ask the bitch who put me in this thing. It’s her spell, not mine.”

“Huh,” Wanda raises her eyebrows in mock surprise, “I didn’t realize genies could curse.”

The witch narrows sharp blue eyes at her, slowly points a finger in her direction.

“I see what’s happening here,” she says, smirk crawling back onto her face. “I wasn’t meant for you, was I?”

“Sorry?”

“You’re not wishing for anything because you have nothing to wish for. You haven’t thought about it.” She barks out a laugh, sounding genuinely amused. “You didn’t even know I existed, did you? Oh, this is precious.” She crosses her arms again. “So, where are they?”

“Where is who?” Wanda fails to suppress her frown.

“You know. The mean, power-hungry bastard who threw you in here to grab me for them. That is what happened, yeah?” She props her head up on her hand, leaning her elbow on the arm of the chair. “They’re never willing to risk their necks to get a hold of me. Always sending in some poor schmuck to do it for them, then getting rid of the loose ends afterwards. I’ve seen it way too many times.” She gives Wanda a lopsided grin. “I’m familiar with the type who usually seeks me out, and you, toots, are not it. They don’t usually just stand there buggy-eyed when I come out of the lamp, like they have no idea what’s going on. There tends to be a lot of maniacal cackling going on, instead. It’s embarassing, really; no one can quite pull off the cackling like me.”

“How can you tell I’m not just as power-hungry as them?” Wanda challenges.

“Oh, sweetie,” the witch chuckles. “I’m in your head right now, remember?”

Something about the way she says that makes a shiver run down Wanda’s spine.

“Well, sort of,” she shrugs. “I can’t see everything, admittedly, only what’s going through your head at the moment. You’d best keep that in mind. Anyway, what was it they wanted?” She asks, nonchalantly, as if sharing gossip. “Power? Money? It’s usually one of the two.” She pauses, hums in consideration. “Often both. Those things are unfortunately closely related and these people tend to lack imagination.”

“I don’t know,” Wanda admits through grit teeth. “Power, I’m assuming. He never told us.”

The witch stares at her with a forced, stretched smile.

“Wonderful,” she says, her expression unchanging, “there’s a stray, then.”

“...what?”

“You just said, ‘us’. I am intelligent enough to presume that means there’s someone else with you, and my powers of comprehension are good enough for me to understand you weren’t talking about your boss when you said that.” She sighs. “You do have a brain, hon. Please use it.”

Wanda’s genuinely about to tell her to fuck off.

“Go ahead,” she chuckles. “I wouldn’t be able to retaliate unless you told me to. No need to worry.”

“You conjured a chair from nothing,” Wanda points out.

The witch lets out a heavy breath.

“Let’s reiterate,” she says, interlacing her fingers. “I can’t do anything bad to you that you don’t directly order me to by rubbing the lamp and saying ‘I wish’, and then adding whatever bullcrap you want me to do to you. I can do anything for or to myself and anyone else as long as it isn’t setting myself free or disobeying the orders of the lamp holder if they’re in accordance with the rules, or hurting the holder in any way unless they ask me to.”

“That’s an awful lot of rules,” Wanda brings up, again, crossing her arms.

“I told you, go take it up with the hag who bound me to this thing. Now, are you gonna wish, or am I gonna have to conjure myself a bed and a fireplace to become marginally more comfortable in this place?”

“If you can’t do anything bad to me I don’t wish for, then why can you read my mind against my will?”

“Package deal, I’m afraid. I can’t exactly control it. Believe me, I like it as much as you do. The things I’ve seen in lamp holders’ minds,” she shudders, disgust plain on her face. “You don’t envy me, trust me on this. Of course,” she adds, cheekily, “you could always wish for me to not do that. I’m sure that’d overwrite whatever it is the spell does to make me able to do it.”

Wanda furrows her brows. She sees exactly what the witch is doing, here; trying to trick her into wasting her wishes on something stupid.

“Nice try,” she scoffs. “Also, I’m pretty sure you never told me how many wishes I get.”

“I’m sure I mentioned it in passing at some point,” the woman pouts. “No? Oh, well. You get three, hon. Make ‘em count, cause you ain’t getting any more than that.”

“And I can ask for anything?”

“As long as it doesn’t break any of the rules I’ve very clearly and eloquently went over, yes.”

Wanda hums in consideration.

“Can I have some time to think it over?”

The witch stares at her, blankly.

“Gee, you sure are cut from a different cloth than most idiots who seek me out,” she huffs. “The majority of people burn through all their wishes in under forty minutes without properly thinking even once. But, sure, go ahead. Take your time, it’s not like you’re trapped in an icy cave, in more danger of freezing to death the more you stay in here.”

“Technically, you’re trapped here, too.”

“No, sweetheart, I’m trapped in my lamp. I can’t exactly turn into an icicle, but if you do, I’ll just go back in there, and, believe it or not, I’ve been in less pleasant places. Trust me, the situation is much worse for you than it is for me.”

Wanda pauses, considers something that has been swimming around in her mind for a while, now.

“I can’t exactly keep calling you ‘the witch’ in my head,” she sighs. “Can I ask you your name?”

The woman’s eyes twinkle.

“Is that a wish?”

“No.”

“Figured as much,” the witch shrugs, smirking. “You’re much too sharp to fall for that, it seems, but it was worth a try.” She pauses, and then purple energy flares around her and makes her dark hair flutter around her face like it would in the breeze, makes her blue eyes flash in a striking shade of violet. “Name’s Agatha Harkness. Pleasure to officially make your acquaintance.”

The grin she flashes Wanda is positively wicked, and it makes her breath catch in her chest a little bit.

“Wanda Maximoff,” she offers, in return, and Agatha lets out a low, rumbling laugh.

“Freely offering your full name to a witch?” She says, clearly amused. “Unwise. Maybe you’re not quite as sharp as I thought.”

“I believe in making things even,” Wanda states, simply.

“Oh, careful with that line of thinking, sunshine,” Agatha smiles at her, dangerously, the look in her eyes almost predatory, and Wanda swears they flash purple again for the briefest of seconds. “It might get you into trouble.”

“From you?”

“Maybe.”

Wanda studies her for a moment.

“How do I know I can trust you?” She asks.

Agatha sighs in annoyance for what feels like, at least, the sixth time.

“Good god,” she groans. “Are you not listening, girlie? Maybe you should wish for your ears to be cleaned up. I can’t double cross you even if I want to, because I’m currently bound to you. And, believe me, I do want to.”

As if Wanda needed any more of a reason to be cautious around her.

“Openly admitting you want to stab me in the back,” she raises her brows at Agatha in mock admiration. “Wow. That sure builds trust.”

“It’s not about trust, cupcake,” Agatha growls. “It’s about power. I’m all-powerful, and yet, contradictorily enough, I don’t have the power to betray you. That’s just something I have to live with. Don’t take it personally, I’ve betrayed much nicer people than you before I got stuck in this thing. It’s not you. I’m just not fond of people in general. Let’s get this out of the way right now, so we can get down to business, yeah?”

“Is that why she bound you, whoever she was?” Wanda’s sharp, pinpoint in her accuracy, because it makes Agatha’s eyes narrow at her, and, if she didn’t know better, she’d say she sees a tiny little hint of some deep, personal hurt flash briefly in her blue irises before it’s gone. “Did you screw her over?”

“Why, why, why.” The witch’s voice is just above a snarl. “It’s always about the why with you. So many questions. Do you ever stop asking? You’re not getting anything out of me other than whatever you wish for, little Wanda Maximoff. My name was enough, and it’s the most I’m willing to give you for free. Either make use of your wishes, or leave me alone. Your presence is starting to give me a headache I probably can’t magic away since it’s related to you.”

Pietro chooses that moment to run back to the blocked-off passage, and it makes Wanda snap her head to face it when she hears his hurried footsteps draw closer.

“I found Broomstick!” He calls out, nearly giddy. “No exit, but, if we can clear this passage, I bet we could fly out of here on it.”

Agatha’s piercing blue eyes are fixed on Wanda for a couple of seconds.

“Ah,” she says, making no attempt to lower her voice. “The stray.” She chuckles. “Tough luck, kiddo. You two were buried in here. Flying or not, there’s no exit. Not by any... normal means.”

She shoots Wanda a glance full of implication, as if suggesting her to wish them all out of the cave.

Pietro’s quiet for a moment when he hears her speak.

“Uh, who is that?” He asks, confusion tinting his voice.

“What Ultron wanted us to bring him,” Wanda replies, before Agatha can speak up again.

“’What’?” The witch places a hand on her own chest in mock offense, huffs indignantly. “I am not a ‘what’, miss Maximoff! Why, I’ve never been so insulted in my nine-hundred years of life!”

Wanda has no idea if she’s being serious about that lifespan, but she decides not to ask.

“...what do you mean?” Pietro addresses Wanda again, paying Agatha no mind. The witch has a smug little smirk on her face, no doubt finding all of this immensely amusing.

“Go ahead, sweet-cheeks,” she drawls. “Tell him.”

“The lamp is magical,” Wanda says, deadpan. “He wanted a genie, Pietro.”

“Ugh,” Agatha groans. “Not a genie.”

“...a- a genie?” He repeats, dumbfounded. “Like, a literal lamp genie? Like in the stories?”

Agatha throws her arms up as if to say, ‘I give up’.

“More or less, yes.” Wanda ignores her again.

“...then, she could get us out, yeah?” Wanda hears it, the way excitement builds in his voice. “Hey, genie, I wish for you to get us out of here!”

(Pietro has always loved the stories of genies, and magic, and dragons, much more than she ever did. She was always much more into the grounded, feel-good stuff.)

“Ah-ah,” Agatha raises her voice again, trying to get his attention. “You don’t get to wish for anything, pumpkin. She’s rubbed the lamp. She gets to pull the shots, here, not you. Besides, you have to be rubbing the lamp to cash in your wish. It’s much more bureaucratic than your fantasy books made it sound like.”

“...oh.” Pietro can’t quite hide the disappointment in his voice, but he quickly recovers: “Well, then, Wands? What are you waiting for? Wish us out!”

Agatha eyes her expectantly.

An idea begins to brew in her head, and she quickly hides it, puts up all mental barriers possible and tries to think of it as little as she can so Agatha won’t read it.

The witch seems the prideful, cocky type. Maybe enough to fall for it.

“I mean, I would,” Wanda sighs, kneeling down and picking up the lamp, hanging it on her belt and covering it up with her coat, “but, in all honesty, I don’t think she can get us out.”

Agatha blinks at her, her expression dangerously blank.

“Excuse me?” She smiles at Wanda from her chair, humorlessly, a hint of a threat behind her voice, shining in her eyes.

“Well, with all the rules in place,” Wanda forces herself to wholeheartedly believe every word she’s saying so her deception won’t show through, “I think she can only get me out, at best. If she can even do that – I mean, this cave is magical, right? The Vision did say we’d never see the light of day again.”

She sounds genuinely distressed. Pietro is quiet on the other side of the rocks blocking off the passage, and Wanda wonders if he’s figured out what she’s trying to do, here, since they’ve always been on the same wavelength; comes with being twins, she supposes.

(If she pulls this off right, she can walk out of here with three wishes, still.)

“Um, did I get that right, sweetie?” Agatha leans in closer to Wanda, still not getting up, something dangerous lacing her every honeyed word. “You think that chunk of scrap metal animated by some cheap magic is more powerful than me?”

“He seemed pretty powerful,” Wanda shrugs. “Ultron’s guards were afraid of him. He definitely made me much more uncomfortable than you do.”

Agatha’s eye twitches the tiniest amount. She finally gets to her feet, chair disappearing behind her in a cloud of purple smoke as she stalks closer to Wanda.

“I’m really starting to think you’re genuinely hard of hearing,” she drawls. “What part of all-powerful did you not understand?”

“So powerful, you can’t get two people and a broomstick out of a cave unless someone claps their hands and tells you to?” Wanda furrows her brows, narrows her eyes. “Sounds like a lie.”

“I can get us out of here,” Agatha snarls between grit teeth. “Whenever I damn well please.”

“And yet, we’re all still here.”

Purple energy starts to swirl around Agatha, and her eyes flash that same shade of violet as before. Wanda feels the raw, sheer power radiating off of her, and it hits her like a charging bull, how dangerous this woman truly is, in how much trouble Wanda would be if she weren’t bound to her, forced to obey her every whim, in how much trouble anyone Wanda points her at will be if she desires to ruin someone else’s day.

She completely understands why Ultron was so desperate to have her lamp in his hands.

Wanda can barely take in the magic swirling around her and Agatha before the world around her flashes white and she’s suddenly standing outside in the snow with the frigid wind buffeting her face, a befuddled Pietro standing a few feet from her with the flying broomstick clutched in his hand, looking slightly disoriented. The sun is probably high in the sky, judging by the amount of light, but the sky is too cloudy for her to be able to tell.

“Are we?” Agatha says, then, still right in front of her.

“...huh,” Wanda smirks. “Guess I was wrong, Pietro. She really is all-powerful.”

Pietro shoots Agatha an awed, impressed look.

“I suppose I should get around to thinking about those three wishes, then,” Wanda hums.

Agatha huffs out a little laugh.

“Uh, correction” she says, haughtily, “two wishes. You used your first one to get us out of the cave, sunshine.”

“Did I?” Wanda’s smirk grows.

“We’re out here.”

“But I don’t remember ever saying the words ‘I wish’,” Wanda tilts her head, endearingly. “Or rubbing the lamp, for that matter.”

A scowl settles over Agatha’s face as realization slowly sinks in.

And then, to Wanda’s surprise, she laughs, heartily.

“Oh, toots,” she says, elegantly marching away from her with a flourish of her cloak as she conjures up a large gazebo, complete with four lounging chairs and a coffee table in the middle, and walks up to it. “I gotta hand it to you, you know how to play a girl. First time I’ve ever been had like that.” She takes a seat on one of the chairs, lounges back, lazily, unworried, as if the weather wasn’t freezing and merciless. “I couldn’t even see it brewing in your mind. Funny, that.”

She smirks at Wanda again, in that same way she had back in the cave, as if she knows something.

Wanda ignores it once more, joins her at the gazebo alongside Pietro, taking a seat opposite her.

“Live on the streets as long as we have,” Wanda shrugs, “and you learn to play people.”

“Impressive, I’ll give you that,” Agatha chuckles. “I’m not even too mad about it. But, let’s not pull anything like that again, yeah, hon? I’d hate to develop a grudge against you.”

“So...” Pietro starts, nervously, sitting down, as well, “you’re really a genie, then?”

Agatha rolls her eyes.

“If I never hear the word ‘genie’ again, it’ll be too soon.” She says. “Let’s get this out of the way, then, sport: I am a witch. Got that?”

“But... the lamp...?”

“A joke in poor taste,” it’s all Agatha says in terms of elaboration. “That’s all you need to know.”

Pietro hums, shrugging.

“Fair enough,” he drops the subject. “So, Wanda, what will you wish for?”

“Yes, Wanda,” Agatha’s eyes glint, mischievously, as she closely studies Wanda, “what will you wish for?”

Wanda pauses, ponders on it.

“In all honesty, I’ve never really thought about that,” she admits, diverting her gaze to the empty expanse of snow stretching out before the gazebo. “I never imagined I’d come across a magical lamp. I mean, I guess I’ve often wished we had money, me and Pietro, so we could get off the streets. Or that our parents hadn’t... that they hadn’t...” she trails off, a knot beginning to form in her throat before she shakes her head to clear her thoughts. “Anyway... I don’t know.” She shrugs, then turns to face Agatha once again. “What would you wish for, if you were in my place?”

Agatha stares at her, her face inscrutable.

“In all my nine-hundred years of life,” she says, shaking her head in disbelief. So, she hadn’t been joking about her age, then. “And countless lamp holders, you’re the first person to ever ask me that.” She pauses, furrowing her brows at her. “You’re surprising me on every turn, you know that, Wanda Maximoff?” She chuckles again. “You should feel proud. That’s not an easy feat.”

Wanda blushes, oddly enough.

“Well, do you have an answer?” She asks. “Or haven’t you thought about it, either?”

“Oh, no, that’s easy,” Agatha laughs. “I’d wish to be free. No longer bound to that stupid little oil lamp.” She sighs, forlorn, her eyes distant. “Free to use my powers as I wish, instead of having to obey literally anyone who picks it up.”

Both Wanda and Pietro narrow their eyes at her at that; how much havock would this woman cause if she were free to ‘use her powers as she wished’?

“Oh, don’t give me that look, now, either of you,” Agatha huffs. “And I know what you’re thinking, toots, I can still read your mind. At least, when you’re not actively hiding your thoughts. No need to worry, my days of making people miserable for my amusement are over.” She pauses, her expression notably more serious. “I just wish to be left alone, so I can live my life in peace. That’s all.”

She seems genuine, and, weirdly enough, Wanda believes her, even though Pietro’s still eyeing her with suspicion plain in his eyes.

“Well,” Wanda says, “maybe I can use my third wish to set you free.”

Pietro shoots his eyebrows up at her, in disbelief. Agatha slowly turns her gaze towards her, blue eyes sharp.

“Now why on earth,” she drawls, “would you do something so unbelievably foolish as that?”

“You said you’re not gonna use your powers to wreak havock. I believe you, and I don’t really have much to wish for.”

Agatha scowls at her.

“I don’t know if you’re trying to get a rise out of me, sweetie,” she says, “or if you genuinely mean that, but, either way, you’ve gotta stop switching between smart and stupid. Pick one, you can’t be both.”

“Um, Wanda,” Pietro pipes in, “maybe you should wish us out of this weather and back to the city?”

The city. Wanda remembers Natasha, suddenly.

She wants to see her again, but she’ll be lucky if the princess ever gives her the time of day after Wanda’s second “theft.”

“Oh,” Agatha grins, “I know that look. Who’s the lucky gal?” She pauses, hums in consideration. “Or guy. I’m not judging.”

“She’s... well, she’s a princess.”

Pietro’s eyes widen in realization. He undoubtedly immediately knows she’s talking about Natasha.

“Aren’t we all?” Agatha chuckles. “Queens, really, more like, considering all the bullshit we have to deal with on a daily basis, but, hey, semantics.”

“No, no, she’s- she’s a literal princess,” Wanda explains.

Agatha raises her eyebrows, impressed.

“You don’t aim low, do you, hon?” She smirks. “Anyway, not much I can do about that. Can’t make people fall in love with you, remember?”

“No, we had a connection,” a fond little smile slowly, involuntarily spread on Wanda’s lips. “I think she... liked me. At least, a little.” She sighs, bitterly, remembering Ultron’s mocking words. Why did she ever think someone like her had a shot with a princess? “But she can only marry a...” she trails off. A thought begins to form in her head.

(She wants to use her wishes to their fullest potential, especially if she does carry through with using her third one to free Agatha, and, while she does want Natasha to see her as more than a scoundrel, she recognizes that securing financial stability for herself and Pietro is much more important. She could wish for both separately, but...

But this would kill two birds with one stone.)

“Hey, Agatha,” she starts, “could you make us royalty?”

She sees a proud grin begin to form on Pietro’s face.

Agatha’s impossibly blue eyes twinkle.

“You’ve impressed me, toots,” she says, “so this heads-up is for free: careful what you wish for. There’s a lot of gray area in that request. For example,” she flicks her wrist, and, absurdly, a group of around seven people, all dressed in very fancy clothes and with crowns on their heads, materializes on top of a snow dune, all looking incredibly confused and on the verge of panic. “I could make you royalty.”

“What would we do with that?” Pietro snorts.

“Exactly.” Agatha snaps her fingers, and the confused royals disappear into a cloud of dark purple smoke. “There are so many loopholes I could exploit, abuse, if I thought it was funny. Be specific with your wishes, sweetheart, as much as possible.”

“Noted,” Wanda says, and then turns to look at Pietro.

She’s not wishing for anything unless they’re both on board.

He nods, a big grin on his face.

Wanda takes in a deep breath.

“Okay, Agatha,” she palms the lamp on her belt, more nervously than she wishes, and gives its side a gentle rub, “I wish for you to turn me and Pietro into wealthy royalty.”

Agatha’s smirk grows into a wicked grin, and, as if satisfied that she finally gets to fully flex her powers, she cackles, purple swirling around her body and her eyes glowing violet as she raises her hands, palms up, magic storming in and around them.

Wanda begins to worry that she wasn’t specific enough when they’re teleported away again, and, when she looks around, she sees the city in the distance, the gazebo nowhere in sight.

“I am not working in the middle of nowhere,” Agatha huffs, then begins to circle around Wanda like a vulture, her hand cupping her chin, thoughtfully. “Let’s see, then.”

Wanda feels horribly scrutinized as Agatha walks around her, looking her up and down, humming in consideration all the while, like someone inspecting goods before buying them.

“Um-“ Pietro begins, but Agatha raises a hand to silence him without taking her eyes off of Wanda.

“Shush, pup,” she mutters, “don’t interrupt me when I’m working.”

She hears Pietro scoff, but he doesn’t protest further.

Finally, Agatha stops in front of Wanda.

“Hm,” she says, “yes, I think red is your color.”

With that, she snaps her fingers, and purple magic starts to swirl around Wanda as her clothes change completely from her ratty, old winter coats into deep, rich crimson finery fit for a princess, complete with a heavy cloak draped on her back.

Agatha hums again.

“Something’s missing,” she furrows her brows, tilts her head, studies her a little more for a couple of seconds, then flicks her wrist. “There. Perfect.”

Wanda picks up a strand of her hair; it’s now ginger. She raises her hand to touch the weight on her forehead, delicately, and feels her fingers touching a cold tiara akin to a crown, propped on her head.

Agatha turns to regard Pietro.

“As for you,” she walks closer to him, observes him for a moment. “Hm. How about the royal pet?”

“Wait, wha-?”

He can’t complete his sentence before Agatha’s flicking her wrist and purple energy is enveloping him, and, when it recedes, a small monkey wearing a little red scarf and a beret is standing in his place.

Pietro curses at her as best he can without the ability to actually speak.

“Hey,” Wanda says, angrily, “that wasn’t the deal.”

“But he looks so adorable like this,” Agatha smirks at her.

Wanda stares her down, icily.

“No?” Agatha sighs. “Okay, relax, pumpkin. Learn to take a joke, will you?” She snaps her fingers and Pietro’s back to normal, his hair disheveled and a particularly sour expression on his face. “Let’s see what we can do about you, then.”

She then starts to circle him like she had Wanda, and, after a couple of minutes, she stops in front of him, as well.

“I’m thinking blue.”

With a gesture of her hand, Pietro’s clothes are transformed just like Wanda’s had been, and, soon enough, he too is decked in royal finery, his own colored in several shades of blue and grey, most notably navy, and a crown, not unlike hers, is resting on his forehead. His hair has been slicked back, bleached blonde, and his stubble has been shaved in a more even manner.

He looks every bit the prince Wanda’s always known him to be.

Wordlessly, with a proud smile on her face, Agatha conjures up a tall mirror, large enough for them both to see themselves in, and her breath hitches in her chest when she sees her reflection.

She looks regal. Menacing.

Powerful.

Pietro is equally breathless beside her.

“Well?” Agatha crosses her arms, smugly. “How did I do? Pretty good, right? Personally, I think I have a knack for this sort of thing. I mean, look at how I dress, yeah?” She laughs at her own joke.

It takes a moment for Wanda to regain her composure.

“And,” she breathes, turning back to Agatha, “no one will recognize us back in the city?”

“Not a soul, hon. Not unless you want them to. My magic is powerful enough to scramble people’s brains like that.” She whisks the mirror away with a flick of her hand. “Now, royalty needs a nation to rule over. You two...” she pauses thoughtfully. “Are... princess Scarlett, and prince... Mercury...” Pietro snorts at that with a ‘what, really?’, but Agatha pays him no mind. “From the kingdom of... Westview.”

“I’m pretty sure that place doesn’t exist,” Pietro points out.

“Um, yes, it does. It has always existed. I say so. Broomstick!” She calls, and the object flies to her side. She gestures towards it, and it takes on the appearance of a spear. She promptly hands it to Pietro. “It’s your broom, you carry it.” She pauses. “Well, technically, it’s a spear right now, but I only changed its appearance. It’s still your broom.”

Pietro hangs the spear on his back, over his cloak, then turns to look at Wanda, blankly.

She just shrugs in response.

“One final touch,” Agatha says, and, with another gesture, her robes are transformed into much more mundane, but still fancy, clothes, and her hair is arranged into an elegant updo. The deep purple cloak is replaced by a long coat in the same color. “You two will need a royal advisor, I’d say.”

She rubs her hands together, conspiratorially.

“Now, sunshine,” she addresses Wanda directly, “you’d best get your game face on, because I do believe you have a princess to woo.” She dusts herself off. “Showtime, Princess Scarlett.”

Chapter Text

The increase in the noise is gradual.

Natasha is sitting in a chair in the balcony, bored out of her mind, a book she has read dozens of times, already, laid open on the coffee table before her. An equally bored Yelena is absently petting Fanny, looking down at the city below them. As usual, Rio is nearby, leaning against a wall, looking lost in thought, her arms crossed.

She barely registers the cheering and the music, at first, until it eventually grows too loud to ignore.

Yelena, who’s already looking at the streets, is the first to get up.

“Another entourage? So soon after the last one?” She ruminates, and then, strangely enough, lets out a quiet, shocked gasp. “Uh- Tasha-“

Natasha doesn’t even bother turning her head.

“I don’t care how many entourages show up, Yelena,” she says, casually, still focused on her book. “I’m not bothering with them until they actually come into the palace and I’m forced to deal with whatever royal is trying to pander to me, this time.”

“This one, you’re gonna want to see,” Yelena breathes, her voice hushed by awe.

And then, to Natasha’s surprise, Rio, showing genuine interest for the first time in the years Natasha’s known her, walks forward, places her hands on the balcony railing, and, shockingly, smiles.

(It’s only barely a full smile, truly, more a wide smirk than anything else, but, by Rio’s standards, she might as well be beaming.)

It makes Natasha sigh and turn to look at whatever’s causing such a commotion, and, as soon as she lays eyes on it, even she’s got to admit that this entourage is, at the very least, impressive.

Whoever this is for has spared no expense; the entourage is led by dancers who move in flawless synchrony, flanked closely by guards dressed in the fanciest armor Natasha’s ever seen. Further back, an honest-to-god martial band plays a lively tune as they follow behind the dancers. After them, come people holding the leashes of goddamned lions and bears, with the cavalry and standard bearers right behind them, and then, smack dab in the middle of the entourage, is a massive, ornate palanquin, carried by several burly men and women, and, sitting in it, are two people; the blonde man dressed in blue and grey, and the woman decked in the reddest red Natasha’s ever seen, her bright ginger hair complementing her outfit. They’re both liberally tossing gold coins to the crowd, who cheer as they grab the money in the air and off the snow on the ground.

Just beside the palanquin, an elegant, dark-haired woman in a deep purple coat walks along, leisurely, carrying herself with the confidence of a queen.

Yelena whistles beside her.

“Loaded, aren’t they?” She mutters.

Fanny whines in confusion.

Natasha clenches her jaw. She doesn’t give a shit how loaded they are. She’s tired of strangers trying to buy her affection.

Alexei walks out into the balcony, dumbfounded, Ultron right beside him as per usual, and, additionally, Kate, the captain of the guard (and Yelena’s secret girlfriend – royals aren’t supposed to date anyone who’s not a noble or also a royal, as Natasha knows all too well, but Yelena and Kate aren’t nearly as subtle as they swear they are), on his other side, her bow already in her hand, eyes running over the crowd below for any sign of trouble.

“What’s this ruckus about?” Alexei says, frowning in curiosity.

Once the entourage stops before the palace, the woman in purple makes her way to the front of the group and raises her voice, addressing Natasha’s father:

“Your Imperial Majesty, Tsar Alexei!” She calls out, imponent, regal. “If we may have a moment of your time? Allow me to introduce princess Scarlett and prince Mercury of Westview,” she gestures behind herself as the entourage guards bow in deference, “come to seek an audience with Her Imperial Highness, princess Natasha!”

The crowd cheers again. Rio then fucking chuckles, and it’s almost enough to startle Natasha, because she swears there’s fondness in it.

“Of course,” the woman says, under her breath, dark eyes twinkling, and Natasha notices they’re fixated on the woman in purple.

(Does Rio know her from somewhere? Come to think of it, her bodyguard never did share her story beyond the basics.)

“We come bearing gifts,” the woman continues, “and it would be our utmost honor if Your Imperial Majesty would grant us your time.”

Alexei raises an eyebrow, and Natasha can tell he’s intrigued. He hums, thoughtfully.

“Sokovia welcomes you,” he replies, then, warmly, “princess Scarlett and prince Mercury of Westview. We would be honored to have you as guests in our palace, and in our fair city.”

Cheers erupt from the crowd once more as the woman in purple bows her head, respectfully, a smirk on her face.

Natasha huffs, angrily, and storms out of the balcony before anyone can try to stop her.

*****

“What’s taking so long?” Pietro whispers, as he, Wanda and Agatha stand, awkwardly, in the throne room, the guards and Ultron their only company.

(The blonde man eyes them with suspicion clear in his blue eyes, but, otherwise, he shows no sign of having recognized Wanda and Pietro – or Agatha, at that.)

“Relax,” Agatha whispers back, her smile impeccable, her posture flawless.

The doors further back on the right side of the room open, and Wanda feels nervousness flood her entire body.

“Here they come,” Agatha whispers. “Act natural, both of you.”

Wanda swallows, dryly.

The Tsar is first; he’s a tall, burly, friendly-looking man with a cheerful air about him and something jovial in the way he carries himself. Right behind him, is Natasha, and Wanda can’t help the way her breath catches in her chest when she sees her, dressed in royal finery, her red hair arranged into a braid that falls loosely over her shoulder.

(Wanda doesn’t think she’ll ever stop being caught off-guard by how staggeringly beautiful this woman is.)

After Natasha, comes the blonde woman who was in the room a couple of days ago when she and Pietro broke into the palace, and, sure enough, her large, fluffy dog happily trots by her side; next to her, is a woman Wanda hasn’t seen before, a bow hanging on her shoulder, light eyes sharp and attentive, black hair tied back into a ponytail. And, finally, closing the group, is the tall, dark-haired woman with the intelligent brown eyes, who opened the door when Wanda brought over tea, the one who managed to be intimidating simply by existing in a person’s near vicinity.

(Wanda doesn’t miss the way Agatha pales at the sight of her, and, for a moment, it worries her, but, thankfully, the witch recovers quickly.

The tall woman’s eyes are trained on Agatha the entire time, a strange little knowing smirk on her face.)

“Your Highnesses,” the Tsar bows, courteously, “welcome once again to Sokovia. It is a pleasure to have you in our halls, and to meet you.”

(God, it’s so fucking bizarre, being addressed as ‘Your Highness’ instead of ‘street rat’; being treated with not only respect, but deference, for once.

Wanda doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to it.)

They all eye Wanda and Pietro, expectantly.

Agatha clears her throat.

“Probably a pleasure to meet him, too,” she whispers.

“Uh- Your Majesty-“ Wanda starts, bowing awkwardly.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Agatha corrects, still whispering, her practiced smile still on her face. “Also, that’s a curtsey, not a bow. Stand up.”

“The, uh- the pleasure is ours.” She says. Pietro nods in agreement.

“Funny,” Ultron drawls, lazily, in that arrogant way that makes Wanda want to throttle him, “I’ve never heard of Westview.”

“It’s south,” Wanda offers, at the exact same time Pietro says, “it’s north.”

An awkward silence fills the throne room for several seconds.

“West,” Agatha corrects, out loud, chipper. “It’s to the west, actually. As the name suggests.” She shoots them a pointed glare without letting her smile fall.

“Of course,” Wanda clears her throat. “What we meant was- uh...”

“We have a north and a south,” Pietro chimes in, and it takes everything in Wanda not to slap her own forehead.

“Stop trying to help me,” Agatha whispers, in a singsong voice.

Natasha looks thoroughly unimpressed. The blonde woman beside her seems to be on the verge of bursting into laughter.

“It’s not that surprising, Ultron,” Alexei says, good-humored. “The world is changing quickly. It’s like there’s a new country every day, isn’t it?” He barks out a laugh at his own joke.

Wanda stares at him for a couple of seconds before laughing along, forced, and she shoots Pietro a glance. Quickly, he does the same.

“What are you doing?” Agatha whispers.

(It’s starting to impress Wanda, how well and long she can hold that smile.)

“Um-“ Pietro says, awkwardly, “yes. You are- very wise, Your Majesty.”

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Agatha corrects again, under her breath. Pietro claps a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t touch me.”

He withdraws his hand, hurriedly.

“The gifts?” Agatha whispers.

“We, uh,” Wanda clears her throat again, “we have gifts. Lots of gifts.”

Agatha claps twice, and the doors to the throne room open behind them, and several members of their entourage walk in, carrying spices, jewels, and gold statuettes; a pair of people cart something hidden under a cloth over to the side of the room, and Wanda hasn’t the slightest idea what it is.

“We have, um- spices, and golden sculptures.”

“And spoons,” Pietro adds, and she sees Agatha blink like she’s dying inside.

“Spoons?” Ultron repeats, confused.

“Tiny spoons,” Pietro explains. “So tiny. Like, why do they even make them that tiny? What are they for, am I right?”

Wanda elbows him on the side, and he stops talking.

“We have jams!” She says.

“Jams,” the blonde woman says, deadpan.

“Fig jams, strawberry jams. Yam jams. Exotic, you know. Truly delicious. Seedless. Best jams I’ve ever had.”

“Drop the jams, hon,” Agatha mutters. “Jewels.”

“Jewels?” Wanda whispers back.

“We have jewels.”

“Uh- jewels!” Wanda raises her voice again. “We have them!” Her eye catches on the covered object further to the side. “And, uh, that!” She points at it.

All eyes in the room move to the object. One of their guards uncovers it. It’s some sort of large circular, golden wheel... thing.

Wanda still has no idea what that is.

Natasha frowns at it in confusion.

“Is that a... wheel?” She asks.

“It’s, um... very expensive,” Wanda offers, because she has no clue what else to say.

Natasha studies her, impassively.

“Impressive,” she says, in a neutral voice. “And may I ask what it is you’re hoping to buy with that expensive?”

“You,” it gets out of Wanda’s mouth before she can even process it.

She feels Agatha stiffen beside her.

(She’s still smiling.)

The room goes silent. She pinpoints the exact moment Natasha’s demeanor hardens.

“...you- your time,” Wanda corrects herself, hurriedly. “A minute of your time. A moment with you. It’s what I meant.”

“Interesting,” Natasha’s voice is ice-cold as she tilts her head. “Are you suggesting I’m for sale?”

“Of course.”

Why. Why does she keep speaking. Someone please kick her.

Agatha looks like she wants to die, her smile more forced than ever. Some of the members of their entourage break their pose for a second to wince at her. Even Pietro cringes beside her.

“...not! Of course not!” Wanda tries to correct, but it’s too late; the damage has clearly been done.

“Wow,” the blonde woman says, dragging out the word, seeming equal parts embarrassed and amused. Even the taller brunette woman’s eyes have left Agatha to settle on Wanda, now.

Natasha nods, slowly, a humorless, tight smile on her face.

“Please excuse me,” she says, glacial. “I need to go find some bread. For the jams.”

With that, she turns around and walks out of the throne room.

“Smooth,” the blonde woman snorts at her before following Natasha, her dog in tow. The tall brunette spares Agatha one more knowing glance full of something Wanda can’t quite name before doing the same.

“Wait, please, I-“ Wanda calls out, “Your Highness, that’s- that’s not what I meant-“

“Leave her alone, sunshine,” Agatha says, under her breath. “That was terrible.”

Wanda wants to use one of her wishes right now to ask Agatha to make her evaporate.

“You’ll get the chance to speak again, Your Highnesses,” the Tsar eyes Wanda with a sympathetic, awkward smile on his face. “I hope you two can join us later tonight in celebrating the city’s anniversary.”

“...of course, Your Imperial Majesty,” Wanda says, meekly, bowing to him.

With a nod just as full of sympathy, the Tsar walks out of the room, as well, Ultron and the woman with the bow following behind him.

The silence that follows when Wanda, Pietro and Agatha are left in the throne room with their “entourage” and the palace guards is quite possibly the most awkward thing Wanda has ever experienced.

“Wow, Wanda,” Pietro breathes, sounding genuinely pained.

“You know, toots,” Agatha’s still sporting that forced smile on her face, “you just keep on impressing me. Nine-hundred years, and I’ve never once been this embarassed. Congratulations.”

Wanda sighs in defeat.

*****

“Did you conjure up all these people?” Wanda asks Agatha, nervously, as they walk into the crowded, lively ballroom, where people dressed in fine clothes mostly fit for the cold waltz along to the tune the Tsar’s band is playing in the other end of the room, servants darting around left and right with drink and food trays expertly balanced on their hands. Nobles chat animatedly all around, holding brass cups of what’s undoubtedly something alcoholic, judging by the tint in their cheeks and the slur in their words.

Westview’s entourage follows the two of them and Pietro, all of them people Wanda has never once seen in her life before. The woman decked in armor just behind Agatha looks around in confusion, as if she has no idea what she’s doing here, or how she got here. Another woman with shaved black hair and elegant finery keeps shooting Agatha livid glances, as if she wants to say something, and is just waiting for the opportune moment to do so.

(Wanda also takes note of a few more people – notably, an older blonde lady and a woman with a streak of red in her hair who both look delighted to be at a party in a palace, another older woman with grey hair and in yellow finery whose expression is much more sour, and a younger lady wearing a pair of glasses, looking more annoyed than anything else.

Most everyone else just looks lost and confused.)

“Who, them?” Agatha gestures around. “Oh, no. I pulled them over from... wherever it is they were.”

“...pulled them over?” Wanda hisses, under her breath. “You kidnapped people?”

“Kidnapping is such a strong word. Let’s say I... borrowed them. Don’t worry, pumpkin, as soon as you’re done impressing your princess, they’ll all be sent home, back to their boring lives without lavish parties in fancy palaces, or crowds cheering on their arrival. The entourage is really only for pizzazz, it’s not like they’ll be living with you if you end up marrying your girl.”

“Didn’t you conjure up those royals back in the snow field?” Pietro points out. “What stopped you from doing the same here?”

“I mean, I could have done that,” Agatha admits, “but this is much easier and much funnier. Besides, you never specified to me how I should create your kingdom.” Agatha smirks. “Grey area, remember, sweetie? I did warn you.”

Wanda scowls at her.

“Oh, for- will you unwind, ‘princess’?” Agatha scoffs. “It’s not like I’m hurting them. I mean, just look at Mrs. Hart over there,” Agatha gestures towards the older blonde lady who’s marvelling at a chocolate fondue fountain closer to the east wall. “She’s having the time of her dear ole’ life. And Geraldine, here?” Agatha claps the armored woman’s shoulder.

“Um, my name is Monica,” the woman says, frowning.

“I made her captain of the royal guard,” Agatha goes on, as if Monica hadn’t said anything at all. “How cool is that, huh?”

“Actually, Agatha,” the woman with shaved hair finally steps forward, hurries her pace a bit to catch up to Agatha from where she was, “this isn’t cool at all. Do you know how busy I was when you magicked me all the way here?”

“Hi, Jen,” Agatha turns to greet her with a sickeningly sweet smile on her face. “It’s so good to see you again after all these years. How’s the potion business?”

“Probably full of late orders now that you’ve gone and pulled this shit,” Jen’s voice is harsh, annoyed, and Wanda can tell there’s some bad blood between these two. She briefly wonders if Jen was the one who bound Agatha to the lamp, but she quickly discards the idea; from the way Agatha spoke of that mystery woman, she had no idea where she was, and didn’t seem to be able to get a hold of her, either. “Why do you always do this?”

“Do what, hon?”

“Go out of your way to fuck with people. I thought you’d cut that out after you went and disappeared for centuries, but, no, here you are, toying around with people’s lives again.”

“Oh, this time it isn’t at all my fault, sweetheart,” Agatha smirks, maliciously, then vaguely gestures towards Wanda. “Take it up with her if you’re so bothered. Technically, you’re here on her request.”

Jen narrows her eyes at Wanda.

“Hey, just to be clear,” Wanda hurries to clarify, “I didn’t ask for this.”

“It’s true,” Pietro rushes to his sister’s aid, resolute. “All she asked was for us to be turned into royalty. She didn’t even say anything about a kingdom.”

Jen studies them both for a moment, then sighs.

“I believe you,” she says, bitterly, but genuinely. “I know how Agatha operates only too well.” She shoots a pointed glare at the purple-clad witch.

Agatha just shrugs.

“Don’t take it personally,” Jen continues, “but I really have no time to play pretend in a country thousands of miles away from where I live, so I’ll be going home, now.”

Agatha clicks her tongue, mischievously.

“Hate to disappoint you, Jen,” she says, raising her eyebrows, “but, uh, no, you won’t. Also, call me ‘Agnes’ in front of the royal family; we kind of have a ‘smoke curtain’ thing going on, you know.”

“Please,” Jen scoffs, ignoring her request. “You’re not the only one with power, here.”

“At any other time, that would be true, but, because of the circumstances, and due to the fact that all of this is for her,” she waves a hand at Wanda, “you’re all stuck here until second order, I’m afraid.”

Jen narrows her eyes at Agatha again.

“You’re full of shit,” she snarls, low.

Agatha rolls her eyes and throws her arms up.

“Go ahead, then,” she says. “Go home. What’s stopping you, right?”

Jen flicks her wrist.

Nothing happens.

She tries again. Still no result.

“You can’t be serious,” Jen growls, through grit teeth.

“Told you.” Agatha’s smirk is way too cocky and way too satisfied. “Terribly sorry, but, as long as my magic is related to the princess, here, it’s absolute. No other magic can break it, unless a certain something changes hands, and they do something about it using my magic. And this really is all you need to know about this.”

Jen closes her eyes, takes in a deep breath, as if trying to keep her temper in check.

(It looks like there’s some bad blood between these two, and Wanda’s absolutely not interested in prying.)

When she opens her eyes back up, there’s something akin to disappointment shining in them.

“Does Rio know you’re back and pulling your usual shit?” She asks. “Do you even know how long she’s been searching for you?”

Something briefly cracks in Agatha’s unbothered façade, something deeply personal and incredibly painful.

“How would I know that?” She says, tersely, her voice oddly neutral. “We haven’t really spoken in... quite some time, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“She was devastated when you disappeared.”

“She should have taken it up with my mother, then, hm?” Venom laces Agatha’s every word. “Wasn’t she the most likely person to know my whereabouts?”

“She did talk to her,” Jen exclaims, frustrated. “Your mother would give her nothing, no matter what she tried. Rio ended up just giving up on getting anything out of her and went to look for you on her own.” Jen shakes her head. “What is even going on with you? Why are you using your magic to satisfy the whims of other people? This isn’t like you, at all.”

There it is again, that hurt. Agatha’s throat bobs, and, for a moment, Wanda wonders if she’s gonna tell Jen about the lamp.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she says, instead, voice hard and hoarse, and Wanda can see the exact moment Jen gives up on trying to get through to her.

“You know what?” She says, sighing. “Whatever. Do whatever you want. You always do.” She turns around and starts to march further into the ballroom.

“Where are you going?” Agatha asks, feigning disinterest.

“To get a goddamn drink,” Jen says without looking back. “And, since I'm stuck here, at least try to enjoy the party. Away from you.”

With that, she disappears into the crowd.

The older woman in yellow finery, with the grey hair, shoots Agatha a pointed, disapproving look before following after her.

Agatha sighs, seemingly somewhere else entirely.

The woman with the red streak in her hair (also wearing armor, Wanda’s only now noticing) walks up to her, places a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“It’s...” she clears her throat, awkwardly. “It’s good to see you’re okay, Agatha.”

Agatha glares at her.

“Shouldn’t you go enjoy the party with your little friends, Alice?”

Alice shoots her a sympathetic glance before following after Jen and the other woman.

Agatha is silent for several seconds, looking smaller than she really is, and then, as if she’s flicked her wrist to transform herself, the unbothered, haughty attitude is firmly back in place as she turns to face Wanda and Pietro.

“Sorry about that, huns,” she says, adjusting her coat, nonchalantly. “Old acquaintances. You know how it is.” She claps her hands once. “Well then, go enjoy the party! The night is young, and all that.”

“What will you be doing?” Pietro asks.

Agatha blinks at him, inscrutably.

“Apparently, there is someone here I should try to catch up with,” she says, blandly. She then addresses Wanda directly, her tone noticeably less charged: “You should probably take the opportunity to fix your mess from earlier today. Go and find your princess, and convince her you’re not as much of a fool as you made of yourself. We’re telepathically linked, anyway, so holler if you need anything. In your mind, obviously. Don’t actually do it out loud, it would look stupid, and you really don’t need any more of that.”

With that, she pats Wanda’s cheek, patronizingly, and winks at her before walking off, as well.

With Agatha and the entourage having spread around the ballroom, Wanda and Pietro are left standing there, feeling as out of place as they would probably look if not for Agatha’s do-over.

“Sooo...” Pietro starts, “are you gonna go look for your sweetheart?”

Wanda winces.

“If she even wants to see me after what I said to her in the throne room.”

He hums, thoughtfully.

“She thought you’d stolen from her,” he points out, “and she still wanted to see you.”

“No, she thought Wanda stole from her,” she corrects. “Princess Scarlett just... made her sound like an object.”

She deflates where she’s standing.

(Why, oh why did she say that? What on earth came over her for her to say that?)

Pietro’s silent for a moment.

“Why all this, anyway?” He asks, gently. “I think she liked you as you were, before. I noticed how she looked at you when we came here to bring back her bracelet. I don’t think you needed all the gold, and the jewels, and the... whatever that wheel thing was, for her to look at you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Wanda sighs, bitterly. “I was still a street-rat. Nothing serious could ever come out of it. You heard Ultron, she can only marry nobility or royalty.”

Pietro’s expression sours at the mention of the man’s name.

“Okay, first of all,” he says, “even if he’s telling the truth about that, what even is this about marriage? There’s no law forbidding you from talking to her, is there? Can’t you just... date her normally, and see where it goes?”

“Leaving aside the fact that I sincerely doubt it’s any different for dating,” Wanda scoffs, “and that she had to disguise herself to even get out of the palace, let alone talk to commoners face-to-face like that, even if, by some miracle, she liked me enough to stick with me, she’d have to marry to take the throne, eventually, because it would definitely be demanded from her. And that spouse would definitely not be me.” She pauses. “I’d just be setting myself up for heartbreak by being myself, Pietro. The world has only ever taken from Wanda,” she says, hoarsely. “Maybe princess Scarlett of Westview can have something Wanda Maximoff can’t, for once.”

Pietro eyes her with immeasurable fondness, in that way he always does before he hugs her, but he can probably tell it wouldn’t look “appropriate” right now for high and mighty royals to casually hug like that, during the party thrown to celebrate the anniversary of the city they’re visiting.

So, instead, he changes the subject:

“Do you, uh... do you wanna check out that chocolate fountain with me?” He smirks, lopsided. “It’s been at least a year since I’ve last had chocolate.”

Any other time, Wanda would go with him, but she can tell he’s genuinely excited about the party, and she doesn’t want to put a damper on his mood by being all gloomy next to him.

“You go,” she smiles, affectionately. “I’ll just hang out here for a while.”

Worry fills his blue eyes.

“You sure?” He asks, nervously. “I can stay with you, if you’d like.”

“Positive,” she waves a hand at him. “Go have fun. Don’t worry about me, I have Agatha in my head. You heard her, if anything happens, I can call for her.”

“Do you trust her to come?”

“She has to,” Wanda smirks. “Anyway, I have the lamp, I can use it in case of emergency. Honestly, go enjoy the party.”

Pietro gives her one last concerned look, but her words seem to be enough for him, because he, too, soon slinks off into the crowd.

She hugs herself, awkwardly.

(What is she even doing? Why did she think this would work? She can’t ever be a princess, no matter how much she looks like one.

She’ll always just be a street-rat, dressed in fancy clothes or not.)

She’s not left alone for long, because, coming seemingly out of nowhere, Ultron approaches her, his face as smug as ever, his gait lazy and unworried.

(God, Wanda hates the fucker.)

“Princess Scarlett,” he drawls, a little smile on his face. “I’m glad I was able to catch you without your brother and your... servant.” The way he pauses before that last word, seems to emphasize it, makes alarm bells ring in Wanda’s mind, but she tries to keep a neutral face. “I was hoping to speak with you in private. You see,” he lowers his voice, “I know who you are.”

Wanda’s heart sinks in her chest.

“You... do?” Her voice is hushed, low. She hopes her panic isn’t showing on her face.

(Agatha said no one would see through her magic.

Had she been lying?

Could she lie to Wanda?)

“Yes,” he smiles. “You are a woman of great ambition.” Ultron’s grin grows, and Wanda tries not to let her relieved sigh be too noticeable. “I, myself, am a man of great ambition, you know.” He pauses, leans in, that (unfortunately) familiar malicious twinkle beginning to show in his eyes. “We can help each other out, don’t you think?”

“I... don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” Wanda replies, brusquely.

“Ah, my apologies. Ultron, counselor to His Imperial Majesty, the Tsar.” He pauses. “You are after the princess’ hand. Allow me to help you with that.”

So, that’s what he wants. Now that he lost his genie, he’s trying to gain some sort of advantage via having a potential political ally indebted to him when he gives her the princess.

(He disgusts Wanda.)

“Sorry, but I really must go find my-“

“Perhaps,” he says, pointedly, his smile much stiffer, forced, now, “I’m not making myself clear-“

“Your Highness?” A silk-smooth, low voice rings out from her right, and, there she is again, the tall, dark-haired woman from the other day, the one who was with the princess. “May I borrow you for a moment?”

Ultron narrows his eyes at her.

“We are kind of busy, Rio-“

“This takes priority, I’m afraid,” the woman cuts him off, coldly, and, with a hand on Wanda’s shoulder, leads her as far away from him as she can, walking all the way to the other side of the ballroom.

(Rio. The name sounds familiar to Wanda. Where has she heard it before, exactly?)

Once they’ve both stopped, Rio turns to face her with those observant, sharp dark eyes, making Wanda feel like her soul’s being stared into. It makes her squirm a little.

“I don’t think I need to tell you to be careful around Ultron,” she says, her voice neutral.

(Oh, she absolutely doesn’t need to tell Wanda that – or Pietro, probably, for that matter.)

“Yeah, I got that from the way he speaks,” Wanda says, bitterly. “Screams evil, to me.”

“Evil is one way to put it.” Rio is quiet for a moment as she observes Wanda. “Have you spoken to the princess, yet?”

That catches Wanda off-guard.

“I... was under the impression she didn’t want to speak to me, anymore.”

Rio studies her again.

“You mean, because of how you made a complete fool of yourself in front of her, this afternoon.”

(Ugh.

Maybe Agatha can erase that moment from existence if Wanda wishes for it.)

“I said I wanted to buy her,” Wanda groans, “so, yeah. More or less.”

Rio tilts her head at her.

“You know,” she says, her voice lazy, the hint of a smirk on her lips. “I think there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

(This startles Wanda more than Ultron’s words had, because there’s something... otherworldly, about this woman, and Wanda would immediately believe it if someone told her Rio could see right through Agatha’s magic.

It makes her worried.)

“...what do you mean?”

“When you look at yourself, what do you see?” Rio’s tone is neutral, unworried, but there’s something in it that makes Wanda feel seen, almost like she had felt back at the cave when the Vision scrutinized her. “Fancy clothes and a crown? Because I see power.”

...what is she trying to get at, here?

(Wanda doesn’t for one second feel like Rio’s aiming for a power grab like Ultron had been – Wanda’s sure the woman is plenty powerful, already, actually – so, what’s her angle?)

“With power,” she continues, leaning, lazily, against the wall behind her, and crossing her arms, “comes confidence. Where’s yours, I wonder? Buried inside you?” Wanda gulps, and she thinks Rio notices it, because her smirk grows. “I think you know who you are, deep down.” She pauses. “Maybe you’ve always known, though you’ve never really acknowledged it. But it’s always been there, hasn’t it?”

Okay, Wanda’s positively spooked.

“...uh- sorry, I- I don’t understand-“

“You look powerful,” Rio continues, her eyes sharpening even further, “and you are powerful. Now, all you need is to act powerful. Claw your way out. Be unapologetically yourself, exactly as you are.” Something in the way she says that makes Wanda feel like she knows about her, about the fact that she isn’t a princess, but, weirdly enough, Wanda doesn’t get the feeling Rio’s gonna expose her lie to Natasha. “Jewels and gold and an impressive entourage aren’t gonna grant you Natasha’s affection, Your Highness. She has enough of those, and she’s tired of people trying to buy her. The way to Natasha’s heart is through confidence in yourself; in who you are, and what you do. What she wants is authenticity.” She runs a finger down Wanda’s lapel, casually. “Remember that, tonight.”

With that, she walks off.

Wanda stands exactly where she left her, her jaw slightly agape.

Rio knows.

There’s no doubt about it.

Wanda doesn’t know how much she knows, but she knows that she knows something, and that is enough to make her heart twist into a knot in her chest, even though it doesn’t seem Rio’s planning on telling Natasha or the Tsar anything-

And then it dawns on her.

‘Does Rio know you’re back and pulling your usual shit?’

It all makes perfect sense. The way Agatha had gone pale when she laid eyes on Rio in the throne room, the fact that she said she had to go off to “catch up with someone” earlier tonight, the way Rio’s eyes had only left Agatha once during their meeting, when Wanda had accidentally said something incredibly insulting to Natasha.

Rio knows Agatha, and, if she knows Agatha, and is as old as Jen had suggested, then she probably knows her magic, as well, possibly well enough to not fall for it.

(Wanda doesn’t quite know how to feel about this. On one hand, the fact that someone here sees through her and Pietro’s deception makes her heart race in her chest, but, on the other, Rio didn’t seem to be threatening her; in fact, if Wanda didn’t know better, she’d say Rio was trying to encourage her.)

Absently, Wanda’s eyes run all over the ballroom, and end up landing on Rio again, the tall woman now nodding along to whatever a random noble is saying, seemingly bored. She catches Wanda’s eye, then nods once, and, subtly, turns her gaze to the back of the ballroom, suggestively.

Wanda follows her eyeline to Natasha’s back, the princess making her way out of the room and, Wanda guesses, back to her chambers.

Rio raises an eyebrow at her, as if asking, ‘are you gonna take my advice, and go talk to her without using any of the gifts and the bullshit as a front, or are you gonna leave without knowing what could have been?’

For some reason, Rio’s gesture makes a flood of confidence surge through her.

An idea begins to form in her head.

She needs to find Pietro.

She’s gonna need to borrow Broomstick.

*****

Natasha’s tired.

She’s tired of the parties, of the entourages, of the etiquette, of the endless suitors who only seem to think of her as a way to gain power and influence, as something that can be bought instead of a person with thoughts and feelings and desires.

Yelena and Kate try to tell her to unwind and have fun – it’s a party, after all – but her heart’s not in it.

(Of all the suitors she’s had march to her door over the years, this was the first time any of them have openly admitted to wanting to buy her.

She guesses she shouldn’t be surprised, at this point, but it never, not once, fails to fill her with rage.

She knows that, to these people, she’s better seen, and not heard.)

Princess Scarlett is attractive, Natasha will give her that. But what is that worth when the only reason she’s here is to claim Natasha as a trophy wife, just like everyone else?

(Besides, there’s something... odd, about her. About her, and her brother, and especially about that advisor of theirs. There’s a strange twinkle in that woman’s eye Natasha can’t quite name, but it unnerves her, nonetheless.

She didn’t fail to notice how entranced Rio seemed to be with her. That, alone, would be weird enough.)

And, as much as she despises Ultron, she’s with him on one thing: she has studied maps and history books pretty much all her life, and yet, she’s never heard of, or read about, any place called Westview, much less a kingdom.

Lost in thought, she lets out a weary sigh, sinks further into her chair.

She just wants to go back to her chambers.

(Oddly, her mind goes to Wanda. She wonders what the woman is doing right now, if she’d have made this party more fun to be in, with her effortless charm, and her attractive accent, and the cute way she wrinkles her nose.

All these royals and nobles wish they had a fourth of the allure that the girl from the market had to her.)

She sighs again.

“Not a fan of parties?”

The accented, smooth voice makes her snap her head to look at whoever’s just joined her, and she’s met with the sight of a relaxed-looking prince Mercury, standing by her side with a cup of wine in his hand.

(There’s something so familiar about him, but Natasha can’t begin to fathom what it is. She’s pretty sure she’s never seen the man, or his sister, in her life.)

“Only when they’re hollow,” Natasha replies, dryly.

Mercury winces in sympathy.

“Mind if I sit here?” He gestures to the chair beside her, and she nods, as if to say, ‘go ahead.’ He stares at the party in front of him, wide-eyed. “You know, I’ve never really had many opportunities to attend parties.”

“Do your duties keep you away from them?”

He tilts his head, thoughtfully.

“I suppose you could say that.” He pauses. “Your father throws good parties.”

“He’s always been good at that.” Absently, she toys with Melina’s bracelet on her wrist.

Mercury’s silent for a second.

“I don’t blame you for being angry at my sister,” he says, genuinely. “She was...”

“An ass?” Natasha offers, fully expecting him to be offended.

To her surprise, he chuckles, sincerely, instead.

“That’s one way to put it,” he says, good-natured. “Honestly, that was probably the most embarrassed I’ve ever been in my life, and that’s saying something.”

“Most princes would just huff indignantly at me saying that,” Natasha smirks.

“Then, most princes are asses, too,” he shrugs.

(Maybe Natasha’s pegged these two wrong.

Scarlett did seem mortified by what she’d said in the throne room. Maybe she’s just... awfully socially inept.)

“You could say that again,” she sighs for the third time, props her head up on her hand in an entirely princess-unlike manner. “Princesses aren’t much different, honestly. No royal is. They all come in here and throw money at me, and expect me to fall at their feet.” She pauses, a knot beginning to form in her throat. “It’s like I’m a thing to them. It’s infuriating.”

He hums, pensively.

“W- Scarlett, probably didn’t help things by saying what she said, then,” he says. “I know I’m not her, but, we’re twins, so I might as well be the next best thing, right?” He chuckles again, sheepishly. “And, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry for what she said. I know she’d apologize if she were here, too.”

“She did seem pretty convinced she could buy me,” Natasha replies, bitterly.

“Nah, she’s just terrible at conversation,” he smiles, gently. “She’d be totally hopeless without me to help her along, honestly.” He pauses, his tone a bit mellower. “Look, I know what she said was awful, but... I know she doesn’t see you as a thing she can buy. I may not be able to speak for her, but I know my sister, and she’s not like that. I promise.”

“Forgive me for being skeptical,” Natasha scoffs.

“No need to apologize. Like I said, I don’t blame you. She didn’t give you much reason to feel differently. But... give her a chance, if you’re willing? She might still surprise you.”

His eyes twinkle with affection when he says that, the smile on his lips completely genuine, and it catches Natasha off guard, how pure he sounds, how different from how the royals who come seeking an audience with her are.

Is his sister like this, too?

How bad can she be, if her brother’s this nice?

“I just,” she finds herself confessing before she can stop it, and maybe it’s because of how strangely at ease she feels near him. “I just wish I didn’t have to marry anyone just to take the crown that is, by all accounts, mine. I mean, it’s my father’s now, but- but the people are suffering so much, and I could do something about that, and even he agrees with me, but I’m not allowed to just because I don’t have a spouse. Don’t get me wrong, I’m perfectly aware that I’m much luckier than most people, and I’m not complaining, but...” She trails off.

“But you wish you were treated like a person first, and a princess second,” he offers.

“...well, yes.”

He gives her a sympathetic smile.

“I guess I know what you mean,” he says. “I get what it’s like to feel... trapped. Like you’ve been assigned a label by other people against your will, and you can never escape it, no matter how hard you try.”

That’s right, she supposes, he’s a prince, too. He’d know what it’s like.

“But, honestly?” He continues. “You’ve gotta keep trying, nonetheless. No matter how much they push back, or try to shut you down. You have to make yourself heard. If there’s one thing you can’t ever do, no matter what, is go speechless. Because, if you do, then nothing will ever change.”

Something about his words makes her feel choked up.

Quickly, harshly, she swallows down the tears that are threatening to build, buries her emotions under a joke, makes it as light-hearted as she can, hoping her voice doesn’t tremble:

“They should have really let you speak instead of your sister, earlier today. You have a way with words.”

“Ugh, please,” he chuckles. “Did you not hear my tirade about spoons? Trust me, you wouldn’t have wanted that.”

Natasha actually laughs out loud, at that, probably for the first time ever since meeting Wanda at the market.

(She could see herself becoming friends with prince Mercury, if she’s being honest with herself.)

“Oh!” He raises his head in excitement, suddenly, when the band starts to play a new tune. “I love this song!” He turns to her again. “Would you feel too offended if I got up and went dance to it?”

Natasha chuckles, genuinely.

“Not at all,” she says. “Someone might as well have fun tonight.”

He gets up, bows his head to her, lightly.

“It was genuinely really nice to speak to you, Your Imperial Highness.” He says, that same bright twinkle in his eyes, and then he’s off, turning around once to mouth ‘think on what I said!’ to her before disappearing into the crowd.

She looks around the ballroom, out of habit, and her eyes catch on a sight that gives her pause.

Rio is standing awfully close to Scarlett and Mercury’s advisor near the wall, away from everyone else, and they seem to be having a pretty loaded conversation, if the looks on their faces and in their eyes is anything to go by. The advisor’s demeanor is so different from what it had been this afternoon, the flashy, confident attitude gone entirely, replaced by a weight that seems to settle heavy on her shoulders and makes her look so hurt and tired. Rio isn’t much different, displaying the most emotion Natasha’s ever seen out of her, looking genuinely choked up.

Natasha’s eyes narrow when she notices a detail she hadn’t, before.

Are the two of them holding hands?

(Rio is definitely more intimate and familiar with this woman than she’s let on, and, on her part, there’s seemingly more to the Westviewian advisor than pizzazz and elegance.)

Natasha gets to her feet, sternly, her chin held high as she begins to walk out of the ballroom.

She needs to consult her maps.

*****

Wanda steels herself as Broomstick carries her to Natasha’s balcony.

Her nerves are frayed, and she feels like her heart’s about to jump out of her throat, but Rio’s encouragement made her confident enough to at least try this.

She’s glad Pietro handed her Broomstick without any questions, a weirdly knowing little smug on his face as he did so, because she was afraid she wouldn’t have had time to explain what she was planning.

(She’s surprised when Broomstick turns back from a spear into a broom when she mounts it, but she’s stopped trying to make sense of Agatha’s magic a while ago.)

The cold wind whips her face as she flies up, as hidden in the shadows as she can, hoping no one will look up.

(Rio was still in the ballroom talking to Agatha when Wanda excused herself, and she saw the blonde woman who’s always by Natasha’s side cuddling up against the brunette with the bow from earlier today, so she’s hoping she’ll catch the princess alone.)

As silently as she can, she lands on the balcony, tells Broomstick to go hide under it.

The lamps and chandelier inside are lit.

Wanda takes a look at the room. Natasha is there, her back turned to the balcony, seemingly studying something spread on the desk before her. The fluffy dog who had taken a liking to Pietro during their first visit here is lazily sprawled by her side on the floor.

Taking a deep breath, Wanda knocks on the open wooden balcony door.

“Come in,” Natasha says, distractedly, without looking up from whatever it is she’s staring at.

Wanda takes a step forward.

“Actually, I, uh-“ she says, and Natasha immediately turns around, in a fighting stance that makes Wanda’s heart beat a little bit faster. The dog gets up, baring her teeth and growling until she seems to get a whiff of Wanda’s scent, and quiets down, apparently recognizing her. “I was already inside. Sorry.”

Natasha narrows her eyes at her, not fully dropping her stance.

“How did you get in here?” She asks, hushed.

“...I have a flying broomstick.”

Natasha stares her down for a couple of seconds, then scoffs.

“I just...” Wanda starts, “I couldn’t catch you at the party, so I never had the chance to apologize. And I couldn’t leave without doing so.”

“Oh?” Natasha raises a brow at her.

“I’m deeply, sincerely sorry for what I said in the throne room, today,” she bows her head, respectfully. “It was callous, and stupid, and brutish, and, frankly, disrespectful, and I should never have said it. You are a human being, not an object to be bought, and I’m sorry I ever suggested this wasn’t the case. I understand if you never want to see me again after this, but,” Wanda pauses, gulping. “But I just wanted you to know I genuinely regret it, and I truly didn’t mean a word of it.”

(She hopes it doesn’t sound rehearsed. It isn’t.

She’s being as spontaneous and sincere as she possibly can, right now.)

Natasha just studies her for what feels like forever, expression inscrutable, green eyes as sharp as ever.

(It goes on long enough that Wanda starts to wish she’d just kick her out. It’d feel less painful than this nothing.)

“Actually,” she says, then, finally, “I’m kinda glad you’re here, princess Scarlett.”

Wanda lets out a little sigh of relief.

“You... are?”

“Yes. You see, I’ve been looking over all of my maps,” she says, stepping a little to the side, and Wanda can now see the map spread open on the desk, “and, strangely enough, I can’t seem to find Westview in any of them, so I was hoping you could help me locate it on this one.”

Wanda’s stomach sinks.

‘Agatha?’ She calls out, desperately, in her mind. ‘I really need your help, right now. I need to find Westview in one of Natasha’s maps, can you make it appear?’

She gets no response, but she dearly hopes Agatha got her message.

“Of... of course,” she says, swallowing down the knot in her throat. “Let me take a look.”

Natasha gestures towards the map, invitingly, and Wanda steps closer, the fluffy dog licking her hand when she does so.

She tries not to let her hands shake when she picks up the map.

“Westview,” she clears her throat. “Let’s see...”

She holds the map in front of her face, pretending to study it, knowing fully well she’s not gonna find Westview on there.

(How could she? It doesn’t exist.)

She stares at the map for, at least, six full seconds.

“Is something wrong?” Natasha asks, feigning innocence.

“Oh, no, sorry, it’s just- maps are kind of different in Westview, so I’m having a hard time adjusting to this one.”

“Because of the language barrier?”

“...yes.”

“And yet, you speak perfect, fluent Sokovian.”

God damn it.

‘Agatha,’ she calls, again, growing more desperate by the second. ‘Any time, now, please.’

Natasha eyes her, knowingly, her eyebrows raised.

“Uh... there it- there it is,” Wanda mutters, blindly, hoping Agatha will do something.

As if on cue, a marking appears on the map, to the west of Sokovia, depicting Westview, with the name spelled out underneath it, plain to see.

‘Thank you,’ she tells Agatha, breathing out in relief, and she swears she can hear the witch chuckle in response in the back of her mind.

Wanda lowers the map again for Natasha to see, places her finger on top of the little illustration representing Westview.

“There it is,” she says, again, and a frown settles on Natasha’s brow when she sets her eyes on the map.

“I... I don’t understand,” she mutters, picking it up, confusion plain on her face. “How did I not see it there?”

“Oh, you know,” Wanda shrugs. “Maps. They’re... like that.”

Natasha blinks at her.

“Who needs maps, anyway, right?” She adds. “They’re just paper, and fabric.”

Hurt flashes in Natasha’s eyes at that, and Wanda feels like she’s said the wrong thing yet again.

“Maps,” Natasha says, downtrod, “are how I see the world.” She pauses, bitterness in her every word. “They’re all I have of life outside this palace. Maps, and books. That’s what the world is, to me.”

Wanda feels her heart clench in her chest at the pain in her tone.

“I... thought a princess could go anywhere she wanted,” she says.

“Yeah, well,” Natasha fidgets with the bracelet clasped around her wrist, the same one Pietro had stolen the day they met. “Not this princess. Maybe you can see everything you want, go everywhere you want, even to a distant nation to ask for their princess’ hand,” she scoffs. “But I’m stuck here. Me and my sister aren’t allowed outside. It was hard enough to simply slink away from the ballroom without having anyone in my tow ‘protecting’ me; I can’t exist unguarded inside my own home. This,” she runs a hand over the map, sadly, “is the most me and Yelena’ll ever get.”

Wanda’s silent for a moment.

An idea pops into her head.

“...would you like to change that?” She asks, conspiratorially.

Natasha looks back at her.

“What?”

“You seem like you want to see the world outside the palace. Would you like to do that right now?”

Natasha’s eyes twinkle with a hint of hope.

“Are you offering to take me?”

“Yep.”

“...but every door is guarded.”

“Yes, but,” Wanda smirks, walking back out to the balcony, “the balcony isn’t.”

“...what do you mean?” There’s a shred of alarm in Natasha’s voice, now.

“I mean,” Wanda hops over the railing, turns to face Natasha, with a cocky grin on her lips, “that, sometimes, you gotta take a leap of faith.”

With that, she takes a step backwards, keeping her body as vertical as she can, Natasha’s “wait, don’t!” from above ringing clear in her ears, and she’s only falling for a couple of seconds before Broomstick is underneath her, gently floating up, bringing her back to the balcony’s level.

She hears Natasha’s quiet little gasp before she sees her standing there in shock, hands covering her mouth, eyes wide.

“I told you I had a magic broomstick,” Wanda says, smug.

Natasha slowly lowers her hands, moves closer to her.

Wanda offers out a hand.

“Do you trust me?” She asks.

A faint flash of recognition seems to go by in Natasha’s eyes.

“...what did you say?” She breathes.

“Do you trust me?” Wanda repeats, hand still outstretched.

Natasha’s face is impossible to read, right now, beyond the awe plainly written on it.

After what feels like forever, she says, hushed:

“Yes.”

With that, she takes Wanda’s offered hand.

Beaming, Wanda pulls her up, helps her onto Broomstick behind her, and they fly off into the night together.

(Even the falling snow seems more gentle tonight, Wanda notes; not the usual borderline hailstorm it is at this time of year, and she faintly wonders if Agatha’s had a hand in this.)

Natasha’s amazed gasp is clearly audible behind her as they fly over the city, the lights in the buildings below lighting it up like thousands of the fireflies Wanda’s read about in books, but has never actually seen, like the stars she can so rarely see in the sky, usually hidden by Sokovia’s brutal weather. She steers Broomstick over the palace walls, past the market square, and, as she flies over so many areas of the city, far enough away from the palace that she’s sure Natasha’s never seen them in person, she hears the princess say, behind her:

“This is...” she trails off, in wonder.

“It’s something, right?” Wanda chuckles. “Did you ever see your city like this?”

“I have never seen my city at all.”

“You know,” Wanda says, “there’s not much outside the city for quite a stretch of land other than the snow fields, but, if you want-“

“I want to see them,” Natasha breathes. “I want to see every place you can show me.”

Wanda turns briefly to flash a radiant smile at her, confident that Broomstick won’t let them crash, and facing forward again, she leads them past the city walls.

Wanda flies over the snow dunes, hears Natasha let out a breathless laugh behind her when she speeds up a little.

“Your friend is pretty fast!” She says, voice crackling with joy in a way Wanda has never heard her sound before.

“I bet it can go faster,” Wanda posits a question.

“Do it,” Natasha says, excited, and, to Wanda’s surprise, wraps her arms around her midsection to hold on to her.

“You heard the lady, Broomstick,” Wanda exclaims, and, not a second later, they’re zooming, smoothly, over fields of spotless snow, as fast as they can, and Natasha’s delighted laugh rings so clear in Wanda’s ears she can’t help but laugh alongside her.

She doesn’t know how long it takes until they decide to go back to the city, but she decides it doesn’t matter.

*****

They’re both sitting sideways on Broomstick, watching the party go on below them as they hover above the town square at a safe distance, far enough away, just above a building, that they won’t draw any attention from the people below.

“Out of all the places in the city you’ve shown me,” Natasha sighs, almost dreamily, this is, by far, the most beautiful.”

Wanda hums in consideration.

“I never thought of it that way,” she says, “but, I guess, sometimes, all you gotta do is see it from a different perspective.”

Natasha’s head snaps to the side toward her, that weird recognition once again flashing in her eyes.

“I think it’s them, you know,” Natasha nods towards the people partying down in the square. “The people. They make it beautiful.” She pauses, forlorn. “And they deserve a ruler who can see that. I’m not saying it should be me-“

“I think it should be you,” Wanda can’t help but cut her off, a faint blush creeping up her cheeks.

“...really?” Natasha tilts her head at her, smirking. “You think so?”

“Who else would it be?” Wanda breathes. “You’re talented, and strong, and intelligent.” She leaves out ‘and beautiful,’ because she doesn’t think it’s what Natasha wants to hear, right now. “And you actually want it. For them,” Wanda gestures towards the party goers, “not for yourself. Not for power. You want it because you know you can make their lives better. Because you know there’s too many starving children, down there. Because you know that one starving child is one too many. I think that’s admirable.” Wanda pauses, her voice softening. “But, at the end of the day, does it really matter what I think?”

Natasha studies her, so attentively, leans in only the slightest bit, her eyes flicking down to her lips, and, for a brief, delirious second, Wanda feels like she’s gonna kiss her, but she pulls back.

The princess blinks at her, once, twice, then something seems to catch her attention down in the square.

“Huh,” she says, “is that Pietro down there?”

“No, it can’t be,” Wanda says, nonchalantly. “Pietro’s back at the pala-“

She cuts herself off, abruptly, as soon as she realizes what Natasha’s just done.

(She wonders if this was how Agatha felt when Wanda tricked her back in the cave.)

Natasha nods at her, a tight-lipped smile on her face.

“So,” she says, “how many names do you have, princess Wanda?”

“Look- look, I just-“ Wanda stammers, trying to explain.

She’s just screwed this all up again, hasn’t she?

“Who is princess Scarlett?”

“I am princess Scarlett,” she says, then lies through her fucking teeth to the woman she’s now pretty sure she’s falling in love with, even though everything in her screams at her not to do it, because she’s just too afraid to lose her: “I’ve... always been princess Scarlett.”

“Strange how a foreign princess knows the city so well,” Natasha observes.

Fuck.

“I... came to Sokovia early in the year,” Wanda says. “I like to... disguise myself whenever I visit a new place. Me, and Mercury both. Live alongside the people, as one of them. Learn their struggles. So I can understand them better. To know a people, you have to live among them. That sort of thing. But, you already know that,” she reaches. “When we met, you were in disguise, and this is your own city, right?”

Natasha furrows her brow, and Wanda can tell she’s convincing her.

This is so wrong.

She shouldn’t be lying to her.

But she’s... panicked.

She kind of hates herself, right now.

“And, uh...” she continues, regardless, “you saw us arrive. With dancers, and a band, and lions, and- and, how could a street thief have all that?” Wanda can’t help the bitter taste that fills her mouth, at that.

“But how couldn’t I recognize you?” Natasha huffs, frustrated.

Wanda swallows, dryly.

“I guess,” she shrugs, “that people don’t see the real you, when you’re royalty.”

Wanda can see the exact moment Natasha buys her story.

“I’m sorry,” she says, then, genuinely, and Wanda feels terrible. “I’m embarassed. I mean, you’ve seen more of Sokovia in half a year, than I’ve seen in my lifetime.”

A silence filled with a strange tension stretches between them as they look into each other’s eyes.

Wanda clears her throat.

“We, um,” she says, awkwardly, blinking away the haze that’s suddenly settled over her, “we should probably head back.”

“Already?” Natasha sighs, and Wanda can tell she doesn’t want to leave.

“They’ll start wondering where we are,” Wanda’s tone is apologetic. “We should probably avoid the gossip,” she jokes, and, when Natasha chuckles in response, Wanda can’t help the little somersault her heart does in her chest.

Without another word, they fly back to the palace.

(Natasha leans her head on Wanda’s back the whole ride back.)

Wanda drops her off at the balcony, still half-seated on Broomstick as she helps her dismount.

(She gets the feeling Natasha doesn’t need help, what with the way she scaled buildings and jumped off ledges back when they first met, but she accepts it, nonetheless.)

“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, princess,” Wanda’s voice is quiet, breathless, as Natasha leans over the railing, so close to her.

Broomstick, then, definitely on purpose, bucks under her, and makes her lean a bit closer to Natasha when it does so, and then, their lips are inches apart.

Wanda swallows, nervously, not daring to move her eyes away from Natasha’s, unsure if she should ask permission, or just lean back.

Natasha moves first.

It’s brief, more of a press of lips than anything, and it only lasts for a few seconds, but Natasha’s lips are just as soft as she imagined they’d be, and her eyes close on their own, and she feels more than hears Natasha’s soft sigh against her mouth-

And then, she’s pulling away, and it’s over.

Wanda’s dazed for a few seconds.

Natasha’s just kissed her.

Natasha’s just kissed her.

(Natasha’s just kissed her.)

“Good night,” Natasha says, then, softly, and turns around to retreat to her chambers.

“...good night,” Wanda says under her breath, as she watches Natasha shoot her one last fond glance before closing the balcony doors.

Wanda stares at the doors for several seconds before letting out a breathless, disbelieving little laugh.

She can’t wait to tell Pietro about this.

Chapter Text

When Wanda returns to the chambers assigned to her after dropping off Broomstick in Pietro’s room (and receiving an excited high-five from him once he registered the giddiness on her face), Agatha’s already there, comfortably lounging in a plush armchair in the corner of the room, a book in her hands and a cup of tea enveloped by purple magic floating next to her.

“Don’t tell me,” she says, when Wanda walks in, without looking up from her book, “your date went horribly because you made yourself look like an idiot yet again?”

“Actually,” Wanda smiles, sheepishly, “it went great.”

Agatha finally diverts her gaze from the book to raise a brow at her.

“What,” she says, disbelieving, “really?”

“Yeah,” Wanda throws herself on the massive, impossibly soft bed, stares up at the canopy above, dreamily. “She believed me.”

It takes a second for Agatha to realize what she means.

“Oh,” she says, a sliver of amusement tinging her voice, “I see. So, you lied to her.” She chuckles, in that low, smug way of hers.

Wanda feels slightly offended.

“I mean, wasn’t that the plan?” She huffs.

“Oh, I’m not chastising you, toots, don’t misunderstand me. I’ve lied to people for way less. I just think you should be careful this doesn’t come back to bite you, later.”

“It shouldn’t, right?” Wanda shrugs. “I am a princess, technically. I didn’t really lie to her.”

(It doesn’t convince even herself.

Guilt gnaws at her. She pushes it down.)

She thinks she sees the slightest, tiniest hint of disappointment cross Agatha’s blue eyes.

“Took you long enough to drink from that cup,” she sighs, impassively.

“Didn’t you say no one would recognize me, anyway?” Wanda points out. “She knew I was Wanda.”

“Duh,” Agatha rolls her eyes. “I made you into a princess, sweetheart, but I didn’t change your personality. You’re still you, and ‘you’ is a pretty obvious person. Even Mrs. Hart would have seen through you. Please stop insulting your beloved princess’ intelligence like that, my magic can’t make people dull unless you wish for it. All it did in this case was mask you.” She closes her book up, makes her teacup disappear with a snap of her fingers, and gets up from the armchair.

“Where are you going?” Wanda asks.

“Back into my lamp?” Agatha eyes her as if stating the obvious. “You got your girl, didn’t you? Your first wish’s done, hon. That means I’m no longer allowed out here until you rub the lamp again.” Agatha can’t quite hide the bitterness in her voice when she says that. “Either I go back inside voluntarily, or I’m forcefully pulled in, and that’s not pleasant, believe me. I’d rather go back into my cage on my own terms, thank you.” She saunters to the lamp currently resting on the bedside table next to the wall. “Good night, pumpkin. Call me again whenever you decide what else you want me to use my purple on.”

With that, she’s enveloped by the familiar purple smoke, and gradually disappears as it’s sucked back into the lamp, and, soon enough, Wanda’s alone in the room, with the object faintly glowing violet once before it goes dead, entirely, once more just a simple, banged-up oil lamp.

She lets out a heavy, shaky breath as the magnitude of her lie settles on her shoulders, heavy. She picks up the lamp, careful not to rub it, and hides it in a basket full of clean towels set next to the bedside table.

(She’s gonna have to tell Natasha, eventually. She knows that.)

She hopes the guilt doesn’t keep her up, tonight.

*****

“So,” Yelena frowns as she takes in Natasha’s words, “you’re saying princess Scarlett is Wanda? From the market?”

It only took a while to bring Yelena up to speed on what had happened, and Rio has excused herself to her own room next door to theirs; the party has long since ended, and she’s pretty sure it’s past midnight, but she and Yelena are wide awake despite being both in their sleeping robes, sprawled on Natasha’s bed like a couple of teenage girls sharing gossip. Fanny happily snores in her own plush bed in the corner of the room, belly-up and looking supremely comfortable.

(Yelena took the revelation pretty well, all things considered.)

“No,” Natasha smirks, “I’m saying Wanda from the market is princess Scarlett.”

“I mean, that’s what she told you,” Yelena points out. “Do you honestly believe her?”

Natasha hums, thoughtfully.

“I think so,” she says.

(Something gnaws at her, something that says there’s more to this story, and she can’t quite shake it off, but-

But, she likes Scarlett.

She’s kind, and thoughtful, and charming, and adorably awkward, and Natasha enjoys being with her.

The idea of marrying for the crown isn’t nearly as abhorrent as it’s always been to Natasha if Scarlett is the one she’s getting married to.)

Yelena studies her for a second.

“Do you?” She says, then, finally. “Or do you want to believe her, because you like her, and you can’t marry a thief?”

Her sister’s always been sharp.

(Melina had always been so proud of her, for that.)

Natasha shrugs.

“No, I… I think I do believe her. There’s something… really strange going on with her advisor, but…”

She trails off. Yelena raises a brow at her, waiting for her to continue.

She sighs when Natasha doesn’t.

“Look, Nat, just…” she grabs Natasha’s hand, rubs the back of it with her thumb, affectionately. “Just, be careful? I know you like her, and I don’t think she’s a bad person, but… I love you, and I don’t want you to get your heart broken.”

Natasha’s heart swells with fondness for her little sister.

(She’s always slightly envied Yelena’s sheer ability to not give a fuck; like her, her sister’s not allowed to get romantically involved with anyone not of noble or royal descent, but, unlike her, she’s decided she didn’t much care for that law, and fully embraced her feelings for a street kid turned captain of the guard, even if she had to keep it under wraps.

As the crown princess, Natasha never felt like she could afford to think like that, to be that uncaring.

Sure, the crown’s gonna go to her once Alexei passes on whether she’s married or not, but her father is [thankfully; she doesn’t want to lose another parent anytime soon] still young, and the people of Sokovia can’t be allowed to go on as they have been since Melina died until however long it takes for him to leave this world.)

Natasha smiles at Yelena, genuinely, fondly strokes her cheek.

“I love you too, you know that?” She says, sincerely. “I know I’m not always the best at showing it, but… I do.”

Yelena smiles back.

“Okay, we should definitely be going to sleep,” she says, sitting up. “If you’re getting all sappy on me, it can only mean it’s because you’re drowsy.”

Natasha chuckles, heartily, as her sister gets off her bed and walks over to her own on the other side of the room.

“Good night, Tasha,” she says, lying down, tucking herself in.

“Good night, Yelena.”

Natasha sighs as she gets under the covers.

She’s strangely giddy about the prospect of seeing Scarlett again, tomorrow.

*****

Wanda can’t quite contain her good mood as she strolls down the palace courtyard.

The snow’s let down a bit, for once, and several members of the Westview entourage seem to have gotten the same idea as her; she sees Mrs. Hart, decked in several heavy, fluffy snow coats happily studying the large fountain in the middle of the courtyard, and she even spots Jen in the distance, standing next to the woman in yellow from last night, both looking to be in a significantly better mood as they look out towards the frozen lake that graces the palace grounds.

Pietro, himself, has taken the chance to explore the place; he’s been giddy with excitement ever since they walked in here, Wanda could tell. Ever since they were kids, Pietro has always been fascinated by grandeur and majesty, and she knows he’s beyond himself to be in the palace, seeing all of its architecture and decorative artifacts first-hand instead of hearing about them from the people they usually nicked luxury goods from.

(She smiles, fondly, at the thought of her twin brother walking around the palace like an awed little boy.

She’s glad he’s having fun.)

“Scarlett, right?”

The vaguely familiar voice makes her turn around, and she’s met with the sight of Alice, the armored woman with the red streak in her hair she technically met last night, looking just as friendly as she had then.

“I don’t think we’ve properly met,” Alice continues. “Alice Gulliver. I’m, uh… part of your entourage, as you probably know” she chuckles, good-natured.

Wanda winces.

“I’m honestly really sorry about that,” she says, sincerely. “I didn’t know Agatha was going to pull you all here. If I did, I’d have been more specific when I asked her for… well, this.”

“Hey, no harm done, honestly,” Alice shrugs. “To tell you the truth, it’s kind of cool to be here. I’d never been too far from home, so it’s nice to see a totally new place, for once, and I could definitely do way worse than a palace. Besides, it was pretty boring back home. Doing odd jobs as a guard gets old after a while. Here, I’m part of the royal guard. Has a nice ring to it, yeah?”

“Well, Mrs. Hart certainly seems to be having a good time, too,” Wanda smirks, shooting a glance at the older blonde lady, who now appears to be trying to build a snowman next to the fountain.

“Mrs. Hart?” Alice frowns, confused, until she follows Wanda’s line of sight. “Oh, you mean Sharon. Yeah, knowing her, she’s probably in marvel of all this.”

So, Agatha didn’t really know the names of most people she’s sucked into the entourage, not just Monica.

Wanda wishes she could say she’s surprised, but that would be a lie (and she’s lying enough as it is).

“Still, Jen seemed pretty angry last night,” Wanda observes.

“Jen and Agatha… have history,” Alice hums, then adds, once she sees the way Wanda raises a brow at her: “oh, no, not like that. Agatha’s heart is taken for good, I’m pretty sure. Even if she doesn’t admit it. But, she and Jen have never really been on the best of terms.”

Wanda looks again at Jen and the other woman at the edge of the lake.

“Honestly,” Alice continues, “I think that, deep down, Jen and Lilia are kind of relieved to see Agatha’s alright, if only for Rio’s sake. If nothing else, it’s a sort of… closure. Even though they are pretty angry to have been sucked into this, and I don’t blame them.”

“I don’t, either,” Wanda sighs. “I wouldn’t have been too happy in their place, myself.”

“That’s Agatha,” Alice chuckles. “She knows how to step on people’s toes. She’s like that with everyone, really. Even Rio.” She pauses. “So, you’ve asked her for help with the princess, right? I can’t fault you, there. Natasha’s a catch, from what I can see.”

(Guilt eats up at her, again.

She ignores it.)

“Well, I, uh-“ she stammers, clears her throat. “…yes. She is.”

“For what it’s worth,” Alice chuckles, “I think your misstep at the throne room is salvageable. I’ve been in more awkward situations with women, if you can believe that.”

Right. No one knows about Wanda’s broomstick ride with Natasha last night, except for Pietro and Agatha.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Wanda chuckles back.

“Anyway, don’t let me keep you,” Alice says. “I’m sure you want to go talk to your girl. Nice meeting you, princess Scarlett.” Alice winks at her before walking off towards Jen and the other woman – Lilia, Wanda now knows – by the lake.

Absently, Wanda makes her way back into the palace.

(Should she tell Natasha? She doesn’t know how long she’s gonna be able to keep up the façade.

Sure, Agatha’s magic is absolute, as per her own description, save for some very specific caveats, but Natasha’s smart.

Incredibly so.

Besides, she doesn’t want to keep tricking the woman she’s in love with.

Their relationship can’t be based on a lie.

Can it?)

She’s so lost in thought as she rounds a corner when walking down a hallway, that she almost collides with the person waiting for her behind it.

It’s her, the burly woman from the night she and Pietro were taken to the Cave of Wonders, looking just as unfriendly now as she did then, and, for once, Wanda’s glad Pietro’s not with her, because she can immediately tell some bullshit is about to go down and she doesn’t want him to be involved in it.

“Morning, Your Highness,” the woman says, emphasizing the honorific.

(As if Wanda needed any more confirmation she’s in trouble.)

“Morning,” Wanda tries to make her voice as steely as she can, three other guards surrounding her and blocking off any potential escape routes.

(Did Rio double-cross her?

No. She can tell this has nothing to do with her.

No, this stinks of Ultron, yet again.)

‘Not again,’ she thinks, sighing, as the guards drag her off who knows where.

Heart in her throat, she hopes Agatha can still hear her thoughts from inside the lamp.

*****

There’s no sack over her head, this time, as she’s escorted to the counselor’s office overlooking the frozen lake below and tied to a wooden chair which is immediately placed on the windowsill, precariously.

She’s flanked by two of Ultron’s personal guards, their hands holding the chair in place, stopping it from tumbling backwards out the window.

She tries to put on her mask as best she can, then clears her throat:

“Look, there’s been some sort of mistake. Whatever you think I did-“

“Oh, I know what you’ve done,” a familiar lazy, arrogant voice drawls from the other end of the room, and, sure enough, Ultron walks in, closes the door behind him, then moves to the center of the office, stops behind his desk, picking up a thick book. “Diamond in the rough.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Wanda sustains her lie.

“Don’t you?” Ultron hums, opens the book, pages through it as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. “I find it passing strange, that a foreign princess from a nation that doesn’t exist, would have an enchanted broom from the Cave of Wonders in her possession.” He turns the book to face her, an illustration depicting the Vision and the entrance to the cave taking up most of the page on the left.

Her heart sinks. Had he seen her, last night?

She finds she doesn’t have an answer for him, for once, her voice strangled in her throat.

‘Agatha,’ she tries, ‘if you can hear me, I really need you, right now.’

“I wonder,” he paces around the room, unworried, so sure of himself it makes Wanda grit her teeth in anger, “what else did you take from there?”

He pauses, glares at her. It makes a chill run down her spine.

(If Agatha doesn’t hear her, she’s going to die here. She’s sure of it. No one saw Ultron’s guards drag her off, and there’s no one in the lake’s near vicinity, Jen, Lilia and Alice having long since gone back inside, from what she can see when she turns her head to look out the window the chair is perched on.

She wonders if Pietro would feel it, the moment her life was snuffed out. They’ve always been connected on what feels like a spiritual level.

She hopes he doesn’t. He doesn’t deserve that pain.)

“I think you have something that belongs to me,” Ultron says, menacingly, as he steps closer to her, places the end of his staff on her shoulder, casually.

“I don’t-“

“Girl,” he cuts her off, his eyes glacial despite the smile on his face, “it would really be best for you if you stopped lying. The situation is not weighed in your favor, here.”

Wanda gulps.

“Where is it?” He prods, his voice saccharine. “Where’s my lamp, kid?”

‘Fuck you,’ Wanda wants to say, ‘she’s not yours. She’s never been yours.’

She says nothing, instead, staring him down in defiance despite how badly she’s shaking, how fast her heart’s hammering inside her chest.

He sighs.

“I’m giving you one more chance.” The tip of his staff feels like it’s burning against her shoulder despite her thick coat between it and her skin. “The lamp. Where did you put it?”

Wanda’s still silent.

(She can’t let him get his hands on Agatha. She’s sure he’d use her to hurt Sokovia, to hurt Natasha.)

Her best hope right now is that the witch has somehow heard her, but, as the minutes drag on and she’s still half-hanging out a window, she starts to lose hope.

Either Agatha can’t hear her, or she doesn’t care enough to come save her ass.

(She hopes it’s the former, but, knowing Agatha, she can’t be sure.)

Ultron studies her, anger shining in his eyes, before he sighs again.

“Well,” he says, smugly, “if you are who you say you are,” he smiles at her, maliciously, “then you will die a cold, watery death at the bottom of a frozen lake.” She feels her blood turn to ice. “If you survive, it can only have been because of the lamp.” He shrugs. “Either way, I’ll get my answer. I’ll give your brother my regards, princess.”

He pushes his staff forward.

The guards let go of the chair the exact moment she bends backwards, and she can do nothing but scream as she feels her stomach sink when she plummets out the window. Her entire body hurts when she crashes through the ice and sinks into the freezing water underneath it, the feeling like a thousand sharp knives piercing her skin.

(She’s surprised she doesn’t immediately black out, but something surges through her when she falls into the water, something that rushes through her veins and forces her to stay awake despite the cold and the pain.)

She holds her breath as best she can as she finally hits the lake bed, pieces of the chair floating gently away from her, although, unfortunately, her bindings survived the fall – she could try to swim out if they hadn’t, even though she’s never learned how to swim by virtue of living her entire life in a place where water is constantly frozen over.

No, all she can do is lie in the bottom of the lake and wait for the air in her lungs to run out.

(She’s torn between begging Agatha for help, and apologizing to Pietro, in her mind.

She knows neither of them can hear her, though.)

She feels the unrelenting, freezing cold begin to overpower whatever’s forced her to stay conscious when she sunk into the lake, feels her limbs begin to grow numb and her eyelids heavy.

She’s not making out of this one, she knows it.

Bitterly, accepting her fate, she curses Ultron in her mind, hoping he can, somehow, hear it.

And then, miraculously, something slowly sinks to the bottom of the lake, a few inches from her. Something brass, unassuming, and dented.

Agatha.

Feeling a new surge of adrenaline flood her veins, she moves as best she can, still tied to what remains of the chair, towards the lamp now resting near her on the lake bed, inching her way closer, trying to line up her hands, tied at her back, with the lamp just inches from her reach, and her lungs scream at her.

The first involuntary breath hurts indescribably, freezing water flooding her lungs, burning horribly as it goes in, making her cough in reflex, and, consequently, swallow even more water, but she keeps trying to squirm closer, trying to reach behind herself, for just a chance to get Agatha out of that stupid object.

Her strength starts to fail her, and her vision blackens at the edges as she begins to drown in earnest, and, despite it, she’s still trying to get to Agatha, even as her body starts to go limp and heavy, to stop responding entirely.

Her fingers lightly brush against brass before the last thread of her consciousness is severed.

*****

The first thing Agatha registers as she’s brought out of the lamp is how abysmally cold it is, even colder than it had been back in the middle of nowhere where she first saw the sky again in decades, and it’s enough to put a dent in Agatha’s mood, but then she notices all the water around her, and she’s genuinely pissed.

“Um, excuse me, toots,” she huffs, indignantly, turns around to face her lamp holder, “what on earth are you-“

She cuts herself off, feels her blood turn to ice as she lays eyes on Wanda’s limp, motionless form at her feet.

She’s tied to what remains of a wooden chair, her hands bound behind her back, and, from what it seems, it took everything in her just to rub the lamp and bring Agatha out, in the first place.

(She can take a wild guess as to who did this to her, but it’s not important, right now.)

Her red hair floats, gently, around her face, and she’d look peaceful if she didn’t look so dead.

A strange wave of terror washes through Agatha, and she can’t begin to fathom why she gives a damn about Wanda’s life, but the thought of her dying bothers her much more than it had any reasonable right to.

(She chalks it up to not wanting to spend the next who knows how many years at the bottom of a frozen lake, until someone finds her lamp again and starts this bullshit all over from the beginning.

Maybe she wants to believe Wanda will make good on her offer to use her third wish to free her, even though she doesn’t at all have her hopes up.)

“Wanda,” she says, urgently, as she cuts through the water like it isn’t there at all, pulls the redhead up into a sitting position by her lapels, “come on, hon, help me out, here.”

There’s not a single sign of life from her. For all Agatha knows, she might have already frozen to death or drowned, even though she detects her dormant magic still thrumming through her veins.

(She wonders if that’s what’s kept her alive and conscious long enough for her to reach her lamp before promptly passing out.

This girl honestly has no idea how goddamn powerful she is. She probably wouldn’t even have needed Agatha to turn her into a princess if she were a fully blossomed witch, loathe as she is to admit it; she could have done that herself, without so much as breaking a sweat.

Right now, though, she’s dormant, and freezing, and dying.)

Agatha’s mind races.

She can’t outright break the rules. The magic binding her to the lamp is too strong for that. The only reason she was able to get Wanda, Pietro and the broom out of the Cave of Wonders without a wish was because Wanda’s magic had been powerful enough to cloud her mind and make her believe she had made a wish; right now, she has no excuse. Wanda’s unconscious, and can’t wish for anything, and Agatha can’t save her if she doesn’t wish for it. Her hands are as bound as Wanda’s.

And then something clicks in her mind.

Bound hands.

Wanda might not be able to make a verbal wish, but Agatha’s pretty sure written wishes count.

She’s gonna have to use the grey area, here, but it’s better than doing nothing.

Conjuring up a waterproof piece of paper, she magically writes down on it:

“I wish for you to pull me out of this lake right now.”

She grabs Wanda’s wrist, trying not to shiver at how cold she is to the touch, and, conjuring up a pen in her hand, forces her to write down her name on the line she left at the bottom of the page for a signature. She then rubs the redhead’s hand against the lamp, and hopes for the best.

This is the most she can do; she can tell that trying to teleport her back to the palace would be too much. Her mother’s magic wouldn’t allow that.

(Not for the first time in her life, she curses that woman’s name.)

She feels her magical shackles loosen immediately after the paper poofs out of existence, and breathes out a little sigh of relief as she evaporates the chair – and Wanda’s bindings – with a flick of her wrist, and, cradling Wanda’s limp form in her arms and pulling the lamp with her, shoots upwards and out of the lake, taking note of the broomstick nervously hovering above the hole in the ice when she flies up into the air.

(She realizes it must have been the one who brought the lamp over to the lake and threw it down to Wanda; it probably saw her being tossed through the ice and into the water, and rushed to help.

She’s honestly a bit surprised by how smart the silly thing is.)

She doesn’t fail to notice how Wanda’s dormant magic immediately dries up the water covering her body in her arms, her temperature not so horrifyingly low anymore, her skin no longer feeling so much like ice to Agatha’s touch.

(She can only hope it’s enough, because she can’t bring people back from the dead.

And, for whatever inexplicable reason, she doesn’t want Wanda Maximoff to die.)

She flies as fast as she can to the first place she can think of, vaguely aware of the broom zooming after her, and, soon enough, she finds herself in Pietro’s room, not trusting Ultron to not be digging around in Wanda’s chambers for the lamp.

As luck would have it, her twin is sitting in an armchair in the back of his room, a book open in his lap, and he instantly pales at the sight of his sister in Agatha’s arms.

“Wanda,” he says, choked up, panic lacing every syllable, and instantly shoots to his feet, book forgotten and falling to the carpet below, rushing to Agatha’s side as she sets her down, gently, on his bed.

He immediately kneels next to her, his shaking hand flying to tenderly cup her face, tears shining in his blue eyes. His bottom lip trembles.

“Wanda,” he repeats, his voice hoarse, uneven. “Come on. Wands, don’t do this to me, please. Please.” His pleading is so raw as he clutches Wanda’s hand, brings it up to his lips to press a desperate kiss against the back of it, that it manages to make Agatha’s heart clench in her chest.

He turns tearful eyes to her.

“What happened?!” He demands, the first tear rolling down his cheek.

“Someone tried to drown her, is what happened.” It comes out harsher than she intended it to, but she’s never been good at dealing with this kind of situation.

“Then help her!”

“I did. I bent every rule just to get her out of the water. The rest is up to her. I wish I could do more, but I can’t bring anyone back-“

“Stop,” he cuts her off, tersely. “Don’t even suggest that.”

“Look, kid,” she sighs, forlorn, “she was down there for… a while. I’m just saying, if…”

She trails off.

Wanda’s no longer soaked to the bone thanks to her own magic, but she’s terrifyingly pale, and her chest isn’t moving at all.

Agatha’s pretty sure she’s all but dead, right now, and the only thing tethering her to this plane of existence and, subsequently, stopping Agatha from being sucked back into the lamp, is the magic faintly buzzing inside her.

“Don’t.” Pietro’s voice is close to a sob.

Agatha feels bad enough for the boy not to press any further.

“Who?” He chokes out, then, jaw clenched. “Who did this?”

“I didn’t see, but do you really need to ask?”

Rage settles on Pietro’s face like a shroud.

“Fucking bastard,” he growls, shaking, “I’m gonna kill him.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” she says, sternly. “Not right now, at least. The Tsar trusts him completely. You’ll be skewered on a sword before you even get close to him. Don’t be stupid.”

“I don’t give a shit-“

“But you should.” Agatha sighs again. “Come on, hon. Use your brain, here. She wouldn’t want you to throw yourself into danger like that.”

“Stop talking about her like she’s dead!”

As if on cue, Wanda springs to life, coughing violently, water running down her chin as she expels it from her lungs, heaving for air, and Pietro’s body nearly sags in relief; Agatha gets the feeling his knees would have given out under him if he had been standing.

(If she’s feeling relieved, herself, at seeing the redhead breathing again, nobody has to know.)

*****

Everything hurts.

Wanda’s lungs feel like they’re on fire, and her eyes burn in protest when she tries to force them open.

Her throat is raw, like she’s swallowed a cupful of acid. Every breath she raggedly, painfully sucks in makes her nerves sting, and she’s vaguely aware of a tear rolling down her cheek when she gasps for air for the second time, her tongue thick and leaden in her mouth.

Her body’s numb, and, at the same time, overly sensitive, hurting everywhere.

If she’s ever felt worse than this, she can’t remember.

The world slowly comes into view as she forces her eyes open, Pietro’s worried visage coming into focus right next to her. Agatha stands at the foot of the bed she seems to have been laid down on, a somber look on her face.

“Oh, thank god,” Pietro breathes, pressing his forehead against hers, her hand clutched in both of his.

“No,” Agatha sighs, “thank your broom, kiddo. It was smart enough to bring my lamp to your sister. I doubt she’d be breathing right now if it wasn’t for it.”

Pietro shoots Broomstick, who Wanda just now notices is propped up against the wall, cheerfully and proudly hopping in place, an impossibly thankful look.

“Thank you,” Wanda forces out of her raw, sensitive throat, hoarsely, to Broomstick. She then turns to Agatha, trying to blink the exhaustion out of her eyes as her senses gradually come back to her, the muddiness slowly leaving her waterlogged mind. “I thought you said you couldn’t do anything without me wishing for it.”

Agatha’s face is carefully neutral.

“Technically, it… did cost you a wish.” She says, crossing her arms. “I had to bend the rules a little – well, a lot, truthfully – but it did count as one.”

Wanda lets her head fall back onto the pillow, a heavy sigh making her abused lungs rattle in her ribcage.

“I don’t care what it cost,” she says, tiredly. “You saved my life. Thank you.”

Agatha’s strangely silent, her face entirely inscrutable.

“So,” she says, then, finally, still not moving from her spot at the foot of the bed, her posture tense. “Are you planning on doing anything to the nasty piece of work who tried to turn you into an ice cube, sugarplum?”

“What could we do?” Pietro spits, bitterly. “You’ve said it yourself, Agatha; the Tsar trusts him blindly. He’s got everyone fooled.”

A memory then flashes into Wanda’s mind.

‘I don’t think I need to tell you to be careful around Ultron.’

“Actually,” she begins, furrowing her brow, “not everyone.”

She sees recognition twinkle in Agatha’s eyes, and Wanda can’t tell if the witch likes or hates the idea.

Either way, they’re gonna need to find Rio.

*****

Natasha’s worried.

She hasn’t seen Scarlett all day.

Not just that, her advisor (Agnes, Natasha’s learned from Rio last night) and Mercury have disappeared, as well.

Strangely enough, the Westviewian entourage is still in the palace, Natasha occasionally spotting some of them taking leisurely strolls down the hallways.

(Even stranger, Rio seems to have equally vanished a few hours back, having just returned to Natasha’s side a few moments ago, but she can’t even begin to wonder where her bodyguard had run off to, or what she’d been doing.)

Yelena tries to tell her not to worry, but Natasha can’t shake the feeling that something’s terribly wrong.

A feeling which only gets amplified tenfold when Ultron pulls her father aside in the throne room a little after midday, a concerned look on his face which Natasha can immediately tell is fake.

“I overheard princess Scarlett talking to her brother last night, Your Imperial Majesty,” Ultron says to Alexei. “They are planning on coming here with an army, to conquer Sokovia. Now, it appears she’s fled overnight to go bring Westview’s full force to our nation.”

Natasha doesn’t believe him for a second, but-

But where is Scarlett?

Had he done something to her?

Natasha knows he’s vying for the throne, it’s no secret to anyone; he constantly whispers in her father’s ear, trying to get him to pick a fight with the neighboring nation of Symkaria for no discernible reason other than to sate his own thirst for conquest.

She doesn’t at all put it past him to try and get Scarlett out of the way if he’s noticed Natasha’s fond enough of her to consider marrying her; he knows that, if Natasha gets the crown, his days in the palace are done.

She swallows down the bitter taste that fills her mouth.

“Is this true?” Rio says, neutrally, from beside her.

(Like usual, Natasha can’t fully read her, but she gets the feeling the woman doesn’t believe Ultron’s story.)

Ultron turns his smug, cruel eyes to Rio.

“I’m afraid so, bodyguard. I’ve heard it with my own ears, and saw her run off into the night with my own eyes.”

“Interesting,” Rio says, terse. “If that’s the case, then why is princess Scarlett still here?”

She registers Ultron go pale when the doors to the throne room open, as if on cue, and, sure enough, in march Scarlett, Mercury and Agnes, all looking particularly angry.

Alexei frowns in confusion. Natasha notices Kate ready her bow, slightly turned towards Ultron.

(She’s never trusted the man, either.)

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Scarlett says, glacial, imponent, “your counselor is lying to you. He’s not who he says he is.”

“Oh?” Ultron’s voice is dripping venom when he turns to face the redhead. “I’m not who I say I am? How… amusing, it is, for you, of all people, to say that.”

(There it is again, the feeling that Scarlett’s not being entirely honest with her, the one that’s been gnawing at her ever since their broomstick ride.

She pushes it down.)

She feels Yelena fume beside her, and, if she didn’t know better, she’d think her sister’s one wrong word away from flying at Ultron’s throat. Fanny growls at him, menacingly.

“You tried to kill my sister,” Mercury accuses, his fists shaking in rage at his side.

(She knew it.

She knew he’d tried to pull something like this.

Anger rushes through her veins like blood.)

Alexei frowns, a steeliness settling over his eyes.

“Is this true, Ultron?” He asks, coldly, colder than he’s ever addressed his counselor as, and she sees it, the moment Ultron’s mask starts to fall in his eyes; she can tell Alexei knows his story doesn’t add up.

(Finally, she thinks, satisfaction flooding through her. Finally, her father is seeing him for who he truly is.)

Ultron blinks, clearly trying to think of ways to salvage the situation.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” he says, his voice faltering, “I’ve- I’ve only ever been loyal to you-“

“Stop skirting around the question, Ultron,” Alexei growls, looking as menacing as he hadn’t in a long time, standing up at his full height. “Did you try to murder princess Scarlett?”

Ultron’s eyes dart around the room, from Alexei, to Natasha, to Yelena, to Rio, to Kate; clearly searching for support from any of them, and finding none whatsoever.

“He wants your throne, Your Imperial Majesty,” Scarlett says, raising her voice in that same regal, imposing tone. “That’s why he tried to get rid of me. He doesn’t want princess Natasha to be crowned Tsarina. That would put a dent in his plans.”

Her father turns to face Ultron again, his mouth twisting in cold, hard anger.

“Natasha and Yelena were right about you,” Alexei says, disgusted and disappointed in equal amount. He shakes his head, bitterly, a tinge of finality in his tone. “You were my most trusted advisor. I hope you realize what you’ve thrown away for the sake of your ambition.” He turns to Kate, then. “Captain Bishop. Throw this… rat, in the dungeons. I want him out of my sight. Permanently.”

Natasha sees the rage glint in Ultron’s eyes at the way her father addresses him, but, when Kate marches up to him alongside two other guards and roughly grabs him by the arm to drag him away, he doesn’t protest.

She feels a weight lift off her shoulders when she sees Ultron be clapped in irons and carried out of the throne room.

*****

Wanda silently watches Ultron be dragged off to the dungeons, finally feeling avenged for both times he’s tried to put her under the ground, now. Pietro buzzes with satisfaction beside her.

(She takes note of how Natasha seems immensely relieved to see Ultron go, as well.

She knew she was way too smart to believe a word out of that man’s mouth.

If Agatha couldn’t fool her, then Ultron definitely wouldn’t.)

“Princess Scarlett,” the Tsar, surprisingly, turns to face her, then, bows his head, respectfully. “Please accept my sincerest apologies. I should have never allowed this to happen to an esteemed guest under my roof, and I am ashamed of how long Ultron had me fooled. I hope this debacle hasn’t soured your impression of Sokovia.”

“Not at all, Your Imperial Majesty,” Wanda says, feeling guilt twist in her stomach at the pride with which Natasha eyes her with. “You’ve… you’ve all been nothing but kind to me and my brother.”

They have, haven’t they?

They don’t deserve this deception.

She knows what she has to do.

Steeling herself, she takes a deep breath.

“Actually,” she begins, her heart clogged in her throat, “there’s… something I need to tell-“

“Please,” Alexei cuts her off, smiling warmly at her. “I know what you’re about to say.”

She freezes.

“You… you do?”

(Had everyone seen past her disguise?

Was she really easier to see through than Ultron?)

“Of course,” he says, chipper. “It is the reason you came to Sokovia, no? And, you do have my blessing.”

Um.

What?

“You,” Alexei continues, “are the most honorable guest I have ever had the pleasure to welcome into my home. Were it not for your integrity, Ultron’s lie would never have been exposed.” She notices Agatha raise her eyebrows, at that. “A more noble and sincere young woman has never before graced the chambers of this palace, other than my two precious daughters.”

Rio’s eyes pierce right into her, knowing. She hears Agatha hum beside her, that fake, forced smile back on her face at full force.

“I- uh-“

“I would be honored,” Alexei finishes, beaming, “to call you my daughter. If,” he turns to regard Natasha, fondly, “that were something anyone wanted.”

Natasha smiles back at him, genuinely, and Wanda falls silent.

Why did he have to say that?

Wanda wants to tell her. She does.

But, after this? Natasha would never trust her again. She’d lose her forever.

That old, familiar panic at the thought of losing those she cares about starts to creep up her spine, again, and she swallows, dryly, not once failing to notice the way Agatha’s eyes are on her the whole time.

She nods at the Tsar, wordlessly.

She’s fucked.

*****

“So, you really did get your girl, huh?” Agatha says to her, once they’re back in Wanda’s chambers. “I confess, I had my doubts. You’re not exactly the most charming person in the room, if you ask me.”

Wanda paces around, nervously.

“I handled myself pretty well, huh?” She chuckles, anxiety lacing her voice. “I almost sounded like a real princess, back there.” She pauses. “Well, I guess… I guess I am a princess, now, right? I guess… Wanda’s gone. I’m Scarlett, now.”

Agatha stares at her, impassively.

“So you’re just gonna… lie to the woman you love, forever, then.”

Something about the way Agatha says that stings her. There’s very little of her usual teasing in her voice, and she sounds uncharacteristically serious.

“What choice do I have, at this point?” Wanda scoffs, bitterly. “You heard the Tsar. You’d rather me and Pietro be back on the streets, stealing to survive? People like me don’t ever get anything without pretending. And,” she sighs, feeling the guilt multiply inside her stomach. “And, I know I said I’d use my third wish to set you free,” she pinpoints the moment disappointment settles over Agatha’s visage, “but- but, I can’t do this without you, Agatha.”

“Do what? Lie?” She chuckles, sourly. “Seems to me you do that plenty well without me, hon. Mostly to yourself.”

“Don’t give me any of that,” Wanda says, feeling defensive annoyance begin to rise in her gut. “You said it yourself, you lied to people all the time.”

“Yes, and look where that got me.” She lets out a sigh that carries the weight of hundreds of years of exhaustion. “In nine-hundred years, you’re the first lamp holder I haven’t been horrendously annoyed by, to the point I bent the rules as much as I could just to save your life. So, forgive me for caring about what you do with what I gave you.” She pauses. “My magic can only do so much, Wanda. Eventually, the truth always leaks through.”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to keep you around to make sure that doesn’t happen, then.” It’s way harsher than Wanda intended, but she can’t stop it from coming out of her mouth.

(She’s just so afraid of losing Natasha over this.

For most of her life, all she had was Pietro, and, it’s not like he’s not enough, he’ll always be more than she feels she deserves, and she’ll always be so, so thankful to have him by her side, but-

But she has something real with someone else for once, despite how fake everything about princess Scarlett is, and the thought of letting go of that only makes her clutch it tighter.)

Agatha stares at her, blankly.

“You,” she says, then, measured, “would rather fall apart, than face your truth.”

Something in the way she says that makes Wanda throw up every possible wall around her feelings, around her thoughts, around herself, and, before she can even think it over, she’s blurting out, harshly:

“Don’t you have to go back into your lamp? I thought my second wish was over with.”

She sees Agatha’s face briefly fall with hurt, and she hates it, hates that she’s the reason it’s there at all, before the witch’s disdainful veneer is firmly back in place.

“As you wish,” she says to Wanda, bitterly, more coldly than Wanda has ever heard her sound, “mistress.”

With that, she disappears into purple smoke, and retreats back into the oil lamp resting on the coffee table.

Wanda stays where she is, guilt and shame keeping her rooted in place.

(She thinks of Pietro, then, and can’t help but picture his disappointed, crushed expression if he’d seen the way she acted, just now.

She’d be breaking his heart, if he knew.)

Feeling anger at herself flood her entire being, she grabs the lamp, brusquely, hangs it on her belt before loosely covering it with her coat, and stomps out of her chambers.

She needs some air.

*****

She doesn’t long how long she’s been walking down the city streets for.

The sun is starting to set, and several people turn to look at her, when she walks by, no doubt impressed by her finery and her crown, awed by the fact that "princess Scarlett" is walking among them so freely.

Their reaction just leaves a bad taste in her mouth, right now, so she storms through the streets with her head down, without meeting anyone’s eye.

(Agatha’s right. She knows that.

She knows Pietro would agree with her, too. She didn’t even seek him out before bolting out of the palace, because she knows exactly what he would have told her, and it would hurt even more coming from him than it had from Agatha.

She’s not angry at Agatha. Not really.

She knows it’s herself who she’s angry at. For lying to Natasha, to the Tsar, to Agatha. To herself.

But she doesn’t have anyone else to direct it at.)

She’s so lost in thought, she doesn’t see the tall, hooded man until he, quite literally, bumps into her.

“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” she scoffs at his retreating form after he fails to apologize. “Asshole,” she adds, under her breath.

Cursing to herself, she starts to make her way back to the palace, in an even worse mood than she had been before she stormed out.

She just hopes Natasha will forgive her when she, eventually, sees through her lie.

(She hopes that happens later rather than sooner.)

*****

Agatha’s unceremoniously brought out of the lamp what feels like, at most, a few hours later, and she takes in the unassuming, empty back alley she’s been summoned into before she turns to face Wanda, a scowl already plastered on her face.

“What? Changed your mind, already, hot stuff? Or are you gonna put that third wish to use to trick… the…” she trails off, freezing when she sees the person in front of her.

That’s not Wanda.

She sees exactly how Ultron got out of the dungeon (let out by the few guards still loyal to him, the ones he generously bribed over the years to drag promising candidates to the Cave of Wonders), how he got his hands on her lamp (nicked it from Wanda like Wanda usually did to other people), when she involuntarily looks into his mind, and, sure enough, there he stands, a manic grin on his face as he takes in the sight of her, the lamp lovingly, carefully held between his hands.

He starts to chuckle, a wild look in his eye, and Agatha feels her heart sink.

“Oh, great,” she mutters, cringing. “There’s the cackling.”

(She hopes Rio still gives enough of a shit about her to help Wanda try and salvage this situation.)

Chapter Text

Wanda doesn’t quite know what makes her stop by the empty warehouse on her way back to the palace, night already having fallen over the city some time ago.

She supposes it’s the shame eating at her, the thought that she’s gonna have to face Natasha and tell her the truth, to face Pietro and tell him she’s turned into a complete jackass in a matter of days.

(She went against Rio’s advice. Fully committed to her deception instead of being herself, of being honest with the woman who liked her for her.

‘You would rather fall apart, than face your truth.’

Is there even anything left of Wanda to fall apart, anymore?)

She sighs, sitting by the cracked window, the same one she and Natasha had seen that entourage arrive on the day she helped “Natalie” give Igor the slip.

Her head falls against the cold brick wall, absently.

Her lungs fill more flooded than when they’d actually been so.

‘What she wants is authenticity.’

Natasha had never been interested in Wanda for what she thought she could give her.

She’d been interested in Wanda because Wanda was Wanda.

Because she wasn’t the usual asshole who came knocking on her door to try and win her over with gold and gemstones.

Only, Wanda has turned into exactly that, hasn’t she?

Just another rich jerkwad, not at all unlike the people she and Pietro usually targeted.

‘Why all this, anyway? I think she liked you as you were, before.’

It’s the memory of Pietro’s voice that cements the decision that has been taking root in her mind over the last hour.

This isn’t her. It’s not who Pietro knows she is. It’s not who Agatha thought she was.

It’s not who she wants to be.

(It’s not who her parents would have wanted her to be.)

The truth, as much as she hates it, is that she’s not a princess. She’s a street thief.

And she’s gonna tell Natasha that truth, as soon as she returns to the palace.

Even, she decides, feeling her heart twist painfully in her chest, if it makes her hate her forever.

*****

Natasha knew everything was going too well to last.

She’s making her way back to the throne room beside Yelena and Alexei, her sister teasing her about marriage, after dinner, and the sight she’s met with when the doors are thrown open by the guards makes her stop dead in her tracks.

Ultron is sitting in her father’s throne, lazy, looking every bit as if he belongs there, despite how wrong the sight is to Wanda, despite how little he deserves to occupy the same seat Melina once did.

She feels Yelena immediately tense next to her, Fanny growling at the sight of Ultron lounging in Alexei’s throne.

(Rio is, strangely enough, nowhere to be seen, for once.)

“Ultron,” Alexei growls once he takes in what’s happening. “What is the meaning of this?” His nostrils flare in anger. “I said I never wanted to see you here again.”

“Ah, but, you see,” Ultron chuckles, “I have every right to be here, seeing as it’s my palace, now.”

Alexei clenches his jaw. Natasha feels her hands tremble in rage beside her.

(She has no idea what’s going on, but she gets the feeling she’s about to find out.)

“Do you know how painful it was,” Ultron gets up, strolls down the steps leading up to the throne, “to have to suck up to you for four years? To have to endure your painful goddamn jokes, to have to bow my head and grovel at your feet and say ‘yes sir’ like a good little servant, whenever you barked an order at me?” Natasha sees years of anger begin to rise up to the surface and finally fully show themselves as Ultron raises his voice. “To have to watch as you ran your nation to the ground in your spineless, stupid incompetence, knowing I could have used your military might to make everyone bow to us, as it should have been from the beginning? To have to smile and nod at a couple of orphaned brats,” and here she has to wrap a wrist around Yelena’s arm to stop her from charging at Ultron, “whenever they so openly disrespected me, and you laughed it off? No. No more.” He pulls something from under his cloak, then, and Natasha sees it glint, faintly, under the light from the chandelier that illuminates the throne room.

It’s an oil lamp, simple, old, made out of brass, and, for whatever reason, it makes her blood turn to ice when she sees it.

“That’s quite enough, Ultron!” Alexei bellows, angrily, but Ultron just chuckles again, in response.

“Oh, yes,” he nods, smugly. “For once, I agree with you, old fool. Yes, it is.”

And then he rubs the lamp in his hands, and Natasha feels her breath leave her lungs, hears Yelena gasp beside her, Fanny starting to bark in alarm as thick, rich purple smoke begins to billow out of the object, swirling beside Ultron, and, after a few seconds, a woman materializes inside it, and-

It’s her. Scarlett and Mercury’s advisor, Agnes, decked in elegant, dark purple robes, her hair down and loose around her face, and she looks entirely unhappy with the situation, shooting Natasha a glance that carries something akin to apology in it, and then it hits her.

A genie.

This was how Scarlett – Wanda, she realizes, it had always been Wanda – had been able to show up here with such a large entourage despite being a destitute street orphan, why Natasha felt like her story didn’t add up, why she couldn’t recognize her and her brother when they showed up here like royalty, like a fog had settled over her mind.

Everything she had, she had used this genie to get.

Oddly enough, the feeling of betrayal doesn't sting as much as she'd have expected it to, but it still hurts, nonetheless.

(Granted, Natasha hadn’t been entirely honest with her from the start.

But she hadn’t lied to try and get something from her.

Were Wanda’s feelings even genuine? Did she truly ever feel anything for Natasha, or was this just another power grab? Was she just like the endless suitors who’d show up at her door?

Did that kiss mean anything at all?)

She tries to ignore the way her heart cracks in her chest.

There are more pressing issues at hand, here.

(Not that she feels she’ll be able to do anything about it.

What can she do against Ultron if he’s got a genie by his side?)

“Genie!” Ultron calls out, arrogantly, and Natasha sees the way Agnes’ face twists in displeasure. “For my first wish,” he rubs the lamp again, “I wish to be Tsar of Sokovia!”

Natasha shoots Agnes a pleading glance, but she can tell it’s useless.

She has to obey him.

Agnes looks like it kills her to do this.

“As you wish,” she sighs, somberly, and snaps her fingers.

And then a storm of purple energy starts to rage inside the throne room.

*****

The alarmed muttering outside snaps Wanda out of her thoughts.

Several people seem to have stopped whatever they were doing, and are now gasping and looking at the palace, something resembling fear in their voices as they point at it with trembling hands.

And then Wanda notices it.

The swirl of purple that seems to explode out of the windows of what she knows to be the throne room, and, if she didn’t know better, she’d say it looked like-

Her stomach sinks.

She tries to swallow her building panic as she pats around herself for Agatha’s lamp.

It’s got to be here somewhere; it’s got to be-

Terror starts to comfortably settle in her bones, colder than the water in that lake had ever been, as it truly sinks in that she’s lost the lamp.

She’s gone.

Agatha’s gone.

And someone had gotten their hands on her, as she can clearly tell by the magic currently swirling around the throne room in the distance.

Her mind starts to race with possibilities; had she dropped it, somewhere? Had she never taken it out of her chambers, in the first place? Is her memory failing her? Did someone come across it on the coffee table where she’d sworn she had grabbed it from?

And then it hits her like a chunk of ice to the head.

The stranger, earlier today. The hooded man who’d bumped into her in the alleyway, rushed off without so much as looking at her.

And, for whatever reason, she can immediately tell Ultron’s somehow escaped confinement and stole Agatha’s lamp from her.

Cold, pervasive fear floods her veins as she watches Agatha’s magic illuminate the palace in an eerie, flickering purple light, as she remembers Pietro’s still in there.

She doesn’t think Agatha would willingly hurt him, but she’s not calling the shots, right now, and Ultron wouldn’t have such scrupules. And he definitely wouldn’t, for a second, hesitate to use Agatha to get Natasha permanently out of his way. She knows the witch has to obey whatever he tells her to do.

Wanda gulps, her throat thick.

She has to get back there.

As soon as she can.

Tightening her coat around herself, she hurries out of the warehouse, praying she doesn’t arrive there too late.

*****

On his part, Alexei seems more confused than anything else, Natasha notices – well, excluding his anger – when grey and red banners are magically hung down from the throne room’s walls, when his crown is yanked off his head by an invisible force and gently floats towards Ultron to settle on his own. The ex-counselor's clothes are replaced by grey finery, an ornate silver sceptre materializing in his hand as he smirks, arrogantly, at Alexei.

Agnes shoots Ultron an angry, disgusted look before she’s pulled back into the lamp in a cloud of purple magic.

“Guards,” Alexei says, between grit teeth, “arrest this traitor, and make sure he stays locked up, this time.”

The guards begin to move towards Ultron, but he raises a hand to stop them.

“Nuh-uh,” he says, smugly. “Last I checked, the guards answered to the Tsar. And I’m the Tsar, now, so you lot answer to me. Not the has-been old idiot, over there. You all know the law. Let’s not make this difficult; I’m sure you want to keep out of the dungeons.”

Natasha’s heart sinks when several of the guards are given pause, exchange hesitant looks among themselves.

And then, to Kate’s eternal credit, she speaks up:

“Fuck you. I’ll never be loyal to you. You’re no Tsar of mine.”

And then she raises her bow, an arrow expertly trained on Ultron’s heart, and Natasha sees the way Yelena swells with affection for the girl she loves.

“I figured you’d be hard to buy,” Ultron sighs. “Unfortunately for you, captain Bishop, you’ve been a thorn in my side for way too long, so I’m taking the liberty of demoting you.”

Several guards then march out of the shadows, the ones Natasha knows he’s been bribing during the years, the ones she tried to warn her father about, because she knew their loyalty was fickle at best, the large, burly woman who’s never been fond of Natasha leading them into a defensive formation around Ultron.

“Ekaterina,” Ultron drawls, lazily, “you’re in charge, now. Marshal an army. We invade Symkaria by morning.”

Natasha’s blood rages in her ears.

He can’t do this. Sokovia can’t afford to get into a pointless war over nothing. Her people would not survive the crossfire.

“Ultron!” Alexei cries out, in rage.

“You can’t do this!” Natasha starts, but then Ultron’s full attention is on her, and, for the first time, he’s fully free to yell at her like he undoubtedly wanted to from his first day here.

“That’s enough out of you, Natasha!” He spits, all of his bitterness at her spilling out at once. “I think it’s well past time that you realize you’re meant to be seen, not heard. Ekaterina,” he turns to the burly woman, “get her out of my sight, and make sure she stays that way.”

Yelena draws her sword when Ultron’s guards start to surround Natasha, Kate moving to her side, protectively, an arrow readied, as Fanny snarls and barks at the guards closing in on them with a viciousness Natasha’s never quite seen from her.

“You stay the fuck away from her, you bastards,” Yelena growls, low, and Natasha can tell, right then, that she’s willing to die over this, over her, because Alexei’s own guards are doing nothing to stop this, intimidated by Ultron’s threat, and confused by the nature of the woman in purple who was just by his side.

“You’d best get your beast of a sister under control, princess,” Ultron snarls, menacingly, “if you know what’s best for her. I am not a forgiving man, and you know what I have in my hands.”

She knows he’s about to make good on that threat, and she knows Yelena well enough to know she wouldn’t care about dying for her.

Swallowing down the anger and indignation storming inside her chest, she turns to her sister.

“Yelena.” Her voice is gentle, forlorn, and she sees the moment Yelena realizes Natasha’s telling her to stand down.

“Tasha-“ she begins, tears starting to well up in her eyes, and it shatters Natasha’s heart into two.

Natasha nods at her, a shaky smile on her face as she tries to reassure her.

“It’s okay,” she says, then nods at the guards who were approaching her.

“Nat, you can’t-!” Yelena tries to protest, again, but Natasha just keeps smiling at her.

“It’s okay,” she repeats, and then Ultron’s guards are grabbing her by the arms.

“Don’t touch her!” Alexei roars, several spears and swords pointing at him when he makes to pull the guards away from her, but Natasha stops him:

“Father.”

It’s all she says, and it’s all he needs to hear to fall silent, a devastated look falling over his face.

She nods at him.

She forces down her tears as the guards start to drag her out of the throne room, her stomach going sick at the sound of Ultron’s victorious little chuckle behind her.

She risks a look back once they make it to the door.

Alexei’s shaking in rage, as is Yelena, her sister on the verge of tears and with Kate’s supportive, steady hand on her shoulder. Her father’s guards stand around, meekly, even though they outnumber Ultron’s forces at least three to one, undoubtedly afraid of the lamp in his hands.

Ultron’s greed and ambition are about to throw Sokovia into ruin, and she can do nothing to stop it.

Despite all her training, all her studying, she’s powerless.

Mercury’s – Pietro’s – voice rings out in her mind, then, the memory of it as clear as day:

‘If there’s one thing you can’t ever do, no matter what, is go speechless. Because, if you do, then nothing will ever change.’

Resolution settles in her heart as she steels herself.

He was right.

She won’t go speechless.

“No.” She says out loud, then, as imponently as she can, pries her arms free, marches back into the throne room, stout.

Ultron’s guards look to him, expectantly, waiting for his orders to drag her out of here again, but he, oddly enough, makes no move to stop her, an amused twinkle in his cruel blue eyes.

She raises her head up high.

“All of you have served my father faithfully and loyally,” she addresses Kate’s men. “My whole life, I’ve only ever known all of you to be nothing but honorable, good men and women. Oksana,” she turns to face one of the oldest guards in her father’s service, “you were by my father’s side when the attempted coup took my mother’s life. You fought bravely, a stalwart shield for the people of Sokovia ever since you came to our doors seeking for employment, and so many more lives would have been lost if not for you. And Ingrid,” she turns to yet another guard, one of the youngest in Kate’s forces, this time, “you were just a girl when your father came to work at the palace, and you’ve been serving us resolutely and honorably ever since you came of age. Not once have you faltered in your duty, and I’ve always been so thankful for that.” She pauses, raises her voice. “But duty doesn’t always equal honor. All my life, I’ve known each and every one of you. Antonia,” she turns to face each of the guards as she names them, in turn, “Olga. Mikhail, Isidora, Andrei. And, all my life, I’ve known all of you to be nothing but noble. Honest. I’ve seen nothing but integrity from each and every one of you.” She pauses. “But, now, the time has come to make a choice.” She eyes Ultron without even attempting to mask the disdain in her voice. “Ultron is not worthy or deserving of your loyalty, respect, and service. He’s not worthy of the honor I’ve always known you to carry.”

“I,” growls Ultron, “wish for nothing but glory for Sokovia.”

“No,” Natasha spits, shaking her head, “you wish for glory for yourself. And you would build it upon the backs of my people.” The deep hurt on Wanda’s face as she told Natasha about the bomb that took her and Pietro’s parents’ lives comes rushing into her mind. She will not allow Ultron to make that happen again, to anyone else. She turns to address her guards once more. “So, what will you choose? Will you stand by him, as he destroys our beloved nation and hurts her people – your people?” She pauses, head held high. “Or will you stand with Sokovia, and resist his tyranny?”

She sees several of the guards exchange a look, and she’s starting to fear she wasn’t convincing enough when, one by one, each and every single one of them moves to position themselves around her, Alexei, Yelena, Fanny and Kate, protectively, turning their backs to them, drawing their swords and spears and shielding them from Ultron’s guards.

(She registers immense pride for her flashing in Alexei and Yelena’s eyes when they look at her, affection plain and clear on their visage.)

“Forgive us our weakness, captain,” Oksana says to Kate, stoically, “Your Imperial Majesty, Your Imperial Highnesses.” She draws her sword, positions herself in a defensive stance. “We stand with you.”

The other guards move in unison, taking up the same stance as her in a synchronized way that makes it sound like thunder clapping inside the throne room.

Natasha feels her heart swell with appreciation for these people.

Ultron seethes.

She knows he can tell that his meager forces have no chance against all of Kate’s men combined, much less with Natasha, Yelena, Alexei and Kate herself fighting alongside them.

(Natasha wishes Rio were here. She wonders where on earth she is, and if her disappearance has anything to do with Agnes; she obviously knew her from before Wanda and Pietro arrived with their “entourage.”)

He seems to come to the conclusion he can’t win this using brute force, because he places a palm on the lamp, again.

(She notices some of Alexei’s guards tense up, nervously, at the sight of it, but their resolve doesn’t falter, and they hold their position.)

“Alright, then,” he scowls. “I tried to play nice, but if you lot prefer it rough...”

He rubs the lamp again, and once more, a downtrod, furious-looking Agnes materializes next to him.

“If you won’t bow before a Tsar,” Ultron drawls, “then you will cower before a sorcerer.”

Natasha realizes what he’s about to ask Agnes for before he even opens his mouth.

“Genie!” He cries out, rubbing the lamp once again. “I wish to become the most powerful sorcerer there is!”

She swears Agnes sighs, tiredly, before she replies, again:

“...as you wish.”

She flicks her wrist, and purple energy begins to surround Ultron, his finery transforming into robes similar to hers, now silver in color, with red lining decorating the fabric. His sceptre grows into a beautiful staff adorned with rubies at the top. His eyes start to glow red as he steps closer to her, setting the lamp down on the throne’s armrest.

She starts to pray for a miracle.

*****

Pietro practically collides with her when she sneaks back into the palace, Broomstick hanging from his back once again in its spear form, Rio by his side, her face as impassive as ever.

“Wanda,” he grabs her shoulders, urgently, “what’s going on? I heard something go down in the throne room, and I went to get Rio because I couldn’t find you or Agatha anywhere-“

“He has her,” she says, frantically.

“...what do you-?”

“Agatha, Pietro, Ultron has Agatha!”

Rio’s face hardens the slightest bit when she hears that.

“...but... how did he-?”

“The lackeys he kept regularly bribing over the years broke him out of the dungeons, probably,” Rio grunts, bitterly. “I tried to warn the Tsar their loyalty was for sale, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“But how did he get Agatha?” Pietro pleads.

“I was... I was careless,” Wanda breathes, and panic starts to wash over her as she hugs herself, starts to hyperventilate. “This is all our fault. It’s all my fault. Ultron’s gonna take over Sokovia because I wanted to play princess-“

Rio places a gentle, but firm, hand on her shoulder.

“Look,” she sighs, “you can stay here with your brother, if you want. I’ll... try to find some way to fix this. Somehow.” She pauses, in a way that makes Wanda know it wouldn’t at all be easy for her to fix her and Pietro’s mess by herself. “But, the palace is about to fall into chaos real soon, and I need to know if I can count on your help to get the situation back under control, because I could really use it. Even I can’t cancel out Agatha’s magic; someone will need to get her lamp away from Ultron. I can’t use my magic to bring it over to me because of the enchantments put in place, so it’s gonna have to be done by hand, and I can’t touch it.” She narrows her eyes at Wanda, knowingly. “But, even if I could, it would be much easier for practiced thieves to take it in such a manner, than it would be for me.”

(She knows exactly who they are, doesn’t she?

She’s probably always known.

Rio doesn’t seem like a person who’s easy to trick.

Wanda wonders why, exactly, she never told Natasha, or the Tsar.

A question better left for later, though, she figures.)

Wanda takes a deep breath, steels herself.

Everyone’s only in this mess because of her.

She has to help clean it up.

She turns to Pietro with an unspoken question in her eyes, but it turns out she doesn’t have to ask it, because the answer is written on his face clear as day.

She breathes in, again, turns back towards Rio.

“What would you have us do?”

*****

The three of them sneak to the throne room as silently as they can, Rio stalking alongside them like a ghost.

(It unnerves Wanda a little, if she’s being honest, but she is glad Rio’s on their side.)

They stop just outside the door, crouching down to try and get a look at what’s happening.

Ultron has his back turned to them, a shiny silver staff in his hand, robes similar to Agatha’s, in the same shade as his staff, covering his body, and the Tsar’s crown on his head. The palace guards stand in a protective circle around Natasha and her family, as well as the archer Wanda’d seen by the Tsar’s side when she and Pietro first arrived at the palace, their weapons drawn, their stances defensive. Ultron’s minions – including the burly woman whose face Wanda has grown to hate – flank the throne, seemingly at a loss what to do.

Agatha’s lamp rests on the throne’s armrest, unattended. The woman herself, looking positively unhappy, stands just a few feet behind Ultron, once more dressed in the witch robes she’d been sporting when Wanda first rubbed the lamp back in the Cave of Wonders.

Her piercing blue eyes flicker to Wanda, as if she can sense her presence, and she swears she can see a glimmer of something that looks like relief in them when they settle on the three people crouching by the doors.

Agatha pretends not to have seen them, turns her gaze back to Ultron.

“Perhaps,” the odious man drawls in that way that makes Wanda’s blood boil in her veins, “you’d like to join your men in the dungeons, captain Bishop.”

He slams the bottom of this staff down on the floor, and all of the palace guards, as well as the brunette archer, disappear into red smoke with a startled shout.

Natasha’s sister, Yelena, charges towards Ultron, sword in hand, with a furious roar, her dog barking viciously in her tow.

“You, too,” Ultron spits, slamming his staff down again, and, just like the guards, Yelena and her fluffy dog vanish into a puff of smoke.

Natasha stretches her arm out in front of the Tsar when he makes to move, too, her emerald green eyes shimmering with anger.

“Smart,” Ultron chuckles. “It’s well past time you all learned your place.”

Wordlessly, Wanda nods to Pietro, and he puts the plan into motion, like they’d done countless times before on the city streets.

As noisily as he can, he runs into the throne room, making his voice obnoxiously loud, as Wanda and Rio hide behind the corner:

“What is going on, here?”

Ultron’s head snaps to face him.

“Ah,” he says, amusement tinting his smooth voice, “the prince.” He turns to Natasha. “Want to see something really funny, princess?”

As quietly and as fast as she can, Wanda starts to sneak towards the throne, her hand outstretched towards the lamp, and, for a second, she thinks this is going to work.

And then, Pietro makes the mistake of letting his eyes flicker towards her for a sliver of a second, and Ultron slams his staff on the floor a third time, freezing her in place with a thin cloud of red smoke.

She sees Rio let out a silent, heavy sigh and shake her head in frustration by the door. Agatha can’t quite hide the crushing disappointment that settles over her face.

“And his sister, too,” Ultron gloats. “How opportune.” With a motion of his staff, he teleports both Wanda and Pietro to kneel in front of him, the two of them facing Natasha. “Keep your eyes wide open, Natty. You’re not gonna want to miss this.”

Once again, he slams down his staff, and Wanda and Pietro’s finery disintegrates back into their old, ratty winter coats, the red and blonde in their hair disappearing into brown, Pietro’s stubble once more overgrown, uneven. Their crowns evaporate from their heads.

Pietro stares Ultron down, angrily, in defiance, but Wanda can do nothing but hang her head in shame.

“Don’t look much like royalty now, do they?” Ultron mocks. “There ain’t no ‘Westview’, princess. Never was. These two are nothing but a couple of dirty, thieving street-rats.”

Wanda raises her eyes to risk a look at Natasha.

The redhead looks like this just confirms something she’s always known.

(The disappointment on her face threatens to break Wanda’s heart into two.)

“I was gonna tell you,” Wanda says, feeling herself start to choke up. “I was coming back here to tell you when he stole the lamp from me.” She falters, her throat bobbing as tears begin to well up in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Natasha eyes her with a mix of betrayal, sympathy and affection, and Wanda doesn’t quite know what to make of it.

(She doesn’t dare hope that what she sees shining in the back of Natasha’s eyes is anything akin to love.)

“Touching,” Ultron drawls. “But you two have been an annoyance for far too long. I think it’s high time both of you hit the road, for good.”

His red smoke starts to surround her and Pietro, and she sees Natasha reach out to them, a pleading look on her face as she chokes out, “no!”, and then it’s like Wanda’s being torn apart.

Whatever he’s doing to her and Pietro, it hurts, and, soon enough, she’s screaming in pain, her brother doing the same by her side as the cloud of smoke starts to disintegrate them, and she sees Agatha clench her jaw at the sight, as if desperately wishing she could do something to stop this.

“Do have the courtesy not to come back, this time, yeah?” Ultron scoffs, “I am trying to ensure your agonizing death by banishing you to the ends of the earth, here.”

The last thing Wanda sees before she’s painfully disappearing is a tear rolling down Natasha’s face.

*****

Agatha balls her hands into fists at her sides, the magical shackles weighing heavy around her wrists as she’s forced to watch this fool wave “his” magic around, the magic she granted him, as if he owns it, as if he didn’t need her completely to be where he is, right now.

This idiot wouldn’t know true power if it hit him across the face, and she’d smite him where he stands, if she could.

(Wanda, she thinks, bitterly, Wanda has power. Dormant, hidden, waiting to come out, yes, but, if she’d only awakened to its presence-

But, no, she remembers. It wouldn’t matter. Not with Evanora’s enchantments and loophole abuses stopping any other magic from interfering with Agatha’s own. As long as this gloating moron has the lamp, no magic apart from hers can affect him directly.

Not even Rio’s.)

She spares a subtle, discreet glance at the woman still hiding behind the corner by the door, watching the situation unfold in front of her with something unravelling in those dark brown eyes Agatha loves so infuriatingly much.

("I looked for you,” Rio assures her, a tender hand on her face and something so, so vulnerable in her dark eyes as the party rages around them, no one having paid the two of them any mind when they slinked away towards a mostly deserted corner of the ballroom. “I did. For so long.”

Agatha doesn’t really know how to respond to this.

[Something about Rio has always made her confident, unbothered attitude come crashing down, all of the vulnerability she’s always worked so hard to hide plain to see.]

“So I’ve heard,” Agatha breathes, hating how small her voice sounds, how unlike herself.

“I tracked you all the way here,” Rio sighs, caressing her cheek with her thumb, “but I couldn’t get to you, no matter what I tried. I would have gotten you out of there if I could.”

“I know.” Agatha places a hand on top of Rio’s before she can stop herself, and fuck, she’s missed this, missed her touch, her warmth, her voice that she’s only ever heard go this soft for Agatha alone, more than she’d ever admit out loud. “The magic in the Cave of Wonders is... hard to make sense of.”

“I was trying to look for a way to pull you out.” And then something bitter crosses Rio’s face. “I didn’t imagine Ultron would have found one before me, not when he’d been trying for four years with no success. But,” her face softens again, “I guess it’s good that he did. I got to see you again much sooner than I was expecting.”

She doesn’t resist when Rio pulls her into an embrace, presses a kiss against her forehead, raw, charged, and Agatha can’t help but melt into it.

“I won’t let you be thrown back in that cave,” Rio promises, cheek still against her head, “I swear. I’ll find a way to undo what your mother’s done to you. Even if I have to rub the lamp myself to ensure no one else gets to use you like this ever again.”

“I thought you said mother dearest had enchanted the lamp not to let you touch it, specifically,” Agatha can’t stop the sour note from creeping into her voice.

[Of course Evanora would have done that. She’d have known Rio would have used her wishes to free her, or, if she couldn’t do that, carried the lamp with her at all times not to let anyone else use Agatha.

And she couldn’t have had that.

No, her daughter needed to be punished.]

“I’ll think of a way to break that,” Rio’s arms tighten around her, and she kisses her head again. “If it’s the last thing I do, Agatha, I will free you. I promise.”

[It’s always floored Agatha, she muses, how devoted to her Rio’s always sounded. She’s always known this was a woman who would burn down the whole world for her.

Rio’s always been the only one to ever really see any worth in Agatha.

She supposes that’s why she fell so hard for her.

And why it hurt so badly when the centuries dragged on and she bitterly convinced herself that Rio’d left her to gather dust inside the lamp without trying to so much as look for her.]

She remembers her conversation with Wanda when the woman’d tricked her into magicking them out of the Cave of Wonders, and her eyes run around the ballroom on their own, looking for the redhead.

She spots her a ways away, talking to her twin brother in a way that makes Agatha feel like she’s got something brewing in her mind, and she sees it, then, in her thoughts, her plan to use the enchanted broom to sneak into the princess’ chambers.

She can’t help but admire the ingenuity of the idea, as well as the girl’s persistence.

Agatha would have probably given up in her place if she’d made herself look like as much of an idiot as Wanda had in the throne room earlier today.

“Can you believe she said she’d think about using her third wish to free me?” Agatha scoffs, and Rio’s eyes follow her own towards the Maximoff twins. “I can’t decide if she’s the smartest person in the room at any given time, or the dumbest.”

Rio’s silent for a moment.

“You don’t think she would follow through with that?” She asks, then, neutrally, impassivity settling over her face.

“She’d have to be colossally stupid to do that, no?” Agatha mocks. “That’s a lot of power she’d be giving up.”

“You know as well as I do that she doesn’t need it,” Rio observes, sharp as a knife, and of course she would have been able to sense the magic lying dormant inside Wanda, too. Honestly, Agatha would be surprised if Jen, Lilia and Alice haven’t detected it, as well; it thrums under her skin, powerful, burning hot, notably more so after Agatha’s little do-over to transform her into a princess, and any witch worth a damn would have been able to clock it after a few minutes with her.

“But she doesn’t know that.” Agatha sighs, forlorn. “Miss Maximoff there is painfully oblivious to what she is. I reckon she wouldn’t be stealing and lying to survive, if she weren’t.”

Rio hums, thoughtfully.

“Give her time,” she says, then. “I can tell her magic is raging inside of her, growing more impossible to ignore every day. You can feel it, as well.” It’s not a question, nor is it a lie; Agatha can tell how close Wanda’s powers are to awakening. “It’s bound to come rushing out of her any time soon.”

Agatha spares Wanda another glance as she rushes out of the ballroom after Natasha, broom-spear hanging on her back.

She hates to admit to herself that she hopes that happens before she decides to use her third wish for something else, instead.)

Rio’s eyes meet hers, and she blinks once.

Yes, Agatha can definitely tell, she’s thinking up something.

Trying not to draw anyone’s attention to her, she turns her gaze back to Ultron.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” he gloats, to the Tsar, who shakes in fury next to Natasha, “about what would be the best way to hurt you, Alexei. Taking your throne,” he hums, “using your own army to invade your toothless neighbor. But,” a cruel, malicious grin spreads on his face, “I think I’ll instead take what you love most,” he turns his cold red gaze to Natasha, “and marry your daughter.”

Natasha stiffens, hands clenching in anger by her side, and she opens her mouth to speak, but Alexei is faster:

“My daughter,” he spits, disgusted, “will never marry you.”

Ultron scowls at him before slamming down his staff on the floor.

Alexei falls to his knees instantly, face contorted in pain, his hands flying to his throat as if something was choking it closed, a cloud of red smoke surrounding him, suffocating, stifling.

“Father!” Natasha’s on her knees by his side not a second later, her hands braced on the Tsar’s back.

“It’s up to you, princess,” Ultron chuckles. “I think dear old dad is looking a little choked up at my proposal, there.”

Natasha stares him down with such vitriol that it makes Agatha feel like Ultron’s a fool not to be intimidated by it.

(Agatha can tell the woman would break his neck with her own bare hands if she could actually get close to him.)

“Make it stop,” Natasha says, steely. “I will do as you wish.” She pauses, then repeats, her voice impossibly harder, more authoritative, punctuating every word for emphasis: “make it stop.”

(Yes, Agatha decides, this man is a fool, indeed.

And Agatha’s seen many a fool like him laugh victoriously before crashing and burning spectacularly.

She knows it only too well, the pride that comes before the fall.)

Ultron chuckles in satisfaction as he releases his magical grip on Alexei.

“We should probably get the ballroom ready, then, no?” He says. “We do have a wedding to prepare.”

Natasha and Alexei look at him with hatred that rivals the way Evanora would look at Agatha.

She spares another subtle glance at Rio.

The woman nods at her, once, before disappearing into a swirl of vivid green.

Agatha hopes that, whatever she has up her sleeve, it's good enough to turn this situation around.

*****

She comes to half-buried in snow.

She blinks against the blinding whiteness that fills her eyes when she opens them, the wind merciless against her body.

Wherever she is, it’s too freezing even for her layers of winter clothing to do anything to keep her warm.

It takes all she has to dig herself out, force herself to her knees.

“Pietro?” She tries to call out, but her voice is small, shaking, and it’s barely a whimper.

There’s nothing but snow as far as the eye can see, the storm raging on around her.

Pulling from every ounce of strength she still has inside herself, she gets to her feet, digs her boots through the snow, shielding her eyes from the wind whipping her face.

She walks for what feels like forever until she comes across a motionless body thrown across the snow.

“Pietro,” she breathes, and hobbles over to him as fast as she can in her current situation.

He’s curled into himself, shivering violently, his skin alarmingly blue. His eyes are shut, and his hands are fisted around his own sleeves. She feels a mix of terror at seeing the state he’s in, and relief at seeing that, at least, he’s alive.

Wordlessly, she tugs at him. His eyes crack open at the touch, and he doesn’t protest as she pulls him into her arms, the two huddling for warmth as best they can in what she’s sure is the actual middle of nowhere.

She doesn’t know how they’re gonna make it out of this one.

Not without Agatha.

Fuck, Wanda’s really screwed everything up.

They shake from the cold, pressed up against each other, silently, for a long stretch of time.

“W-what a right m-mess we made of t-things, h-huh?” He says, then, bitterly.

“I’m sorry,” Wanda breathes out, teeth clacking from the freezing wind buffeting her body. “All of this is m-my fault.”

“W-what? Hey, n-no, c-come on.”

“It is. If I hadn’t lost the l-lamp-“

“Hey, Ultron’s t-to blame for t-this, okay? N-not you.”

“I lied to Natasha.” She laughs, then, humorlessly, and she feels like she’d be crying if she weren’t pretty sure all her tears have frozen over. “She t-trusted me, and I lied to her.” She pauses, feeling her chest clench, hurtfully. “I don’t deserve to love her.”

Pietro’s silent for a moment.

“I d-don’t agree with you,” he says, tightening his arms around her, “b-but I’m pretty sure we’re about to d-die, here, so I guess it’s n-not like it m-matters.”

Wanda sighs, and leans into his embrace.

He presses a cold kiss to the top of her head.

She lets out a heavy sigh as she allows her eyes to fall closed.

As far as ways to die go, she guesses there are worse ones. It certainly beats her time at the bottom of the lake, at least.

(She just wishes Pietro hadn’t been dragged down with her, as much as his presence here calms her down in the face of certain death.

It’s fitting, she supposes. They were born together, and they will die together.

She wishes she could have apologized to Agatha before being whisked away to... wherever this is.)

And then, oddly, Pietro tenses against her.

“W-what in the...?” He breathes, and Wanda opens her eyes back up to see a blurry figure begin to make its way to the two of them, gradually more visible the closer it gets, and then Wanda’s breath threatens to leave her lungs all at once when she manages to make out-

“Rio,” she gasps, feeling relief begin to flood her.

Pietro doesn’t even try to hide the awe in his voice.

“...h-how...?” He mutters.

“I might not be able to do anything to Ultron directly because of how Agatha’s magic works, since it shields him from any other magic,” Rio says, looking completely unbothered by the cold despite not being dressed more heavily than Wanda or Pietro, “but it was easy enough to track you two down. His magic stinks,” she adds, disgusted.

“B-but... he banished us.” Wanda says. “How can you interfere with that?”

“He’s sloppy,” Rio explains, casually, the tiniest hint of annoyance lacing her words. “Not nearly as aware of the loopholes in magic as most of us who have been dealing with it for centuries are. He’s not a true sorcerer, and it shows. He might have banished you, but there’s nothing in his flimsy, pitiful spell stopping me from bringing you back.”

She extends both of her hands towards them, one outstretched towards Wanda, and the other towards Pietro.

“Grab on,” she says, lazily. “It should be simple enough to take us all back to the palace.”

Wordlessly, Wanda reaches out, grabs Rio’s hand in hers.

(It floors her, how warm the woman is, as if she wasn’t standing in the middle of a snowstorm, relatively underdressed for the weather.)

“Hold on tight. I’d hate to lose you along the way.”

Wanda thinks Rio’s joking from her tone of voice, as well as the mischievous, light-hearted chuckle she lets out, but she decides not to ask for confirmation.

And then, in complete contrast to Ultron’s horrible teleportation spell, they’re being magicked out of the freezing cold entirely painlessly, their hands tightly clutching Rio’s as the three of them disappear into thin air.

(In the back of her mind, Wanda hopes they aren't too late.)