[a long time ago, steve had her promise him one thing: to never get into the mind of the avengers again—her coworkers, her colleagues, her friends, (her family, too, as time went by). ever since, she's never done it, not after ultron.

but right now it is impossible for her to not hear the noise which spills forth into clint's head. even at the most base level of her telepathy, she can still hear it.

loud and clear.

and yet, it's so quiet out here in the farm. the leaves sway about in the breeze, a rush of faint applause, the lazy bleating of goats in the distance. in the emptiness of noise, wanda puts a warm hand to clint's worn own. should he have reached out to her, after they had parted ways? that which remained of the avengers can toss and turn in their sleep over their choices, but wanda's always known her path was a lonely one. what she does know is that she wishes to be an anchor that tethers clint to the now.

grief's like a wave. it just knocks you down, again and again. the waves crash harsh and cold against her legs.]

Time works differently here. [it begs repeating.] She's from that very moment.

[she squeezes his hand tighter.]

A world with Natasha is a world I'd happily stay in for a while longer.

[don't you think so, too?]