047. Voodoo



Everyone needs sleep once in awhile.

Hell, even the Black Widow.

She does sleep — on good days it's three to four hours, and on the worst days Natasha considers herself lucky to shut for eyes for a blink. The most sleep she ever gets now is while in a coma.

It's either pacing restlessly in her quarters before deciding on a task, or lying nude in her cot. Sometimes nude and drowsily masturbating.

Wanda creeps around all levels of their Avengers headquarters, unable to sleep as well. "Not without my brother," she mumbles, rubbing her eyelids sullenly. Five weeks has passed since Pietro's death, and Natasha doesn't have the consoling words for her. They don't really exist.

She catches Wanda by herself in the corridor, lazily twirling her fingers in the air, forming rosy-glow patterns that thin and stretch apart, fading.

"Hey," Natasha calls out quietly, placing a hand on her naked, lean hip. Unlike the other woman, Wanda has on a baggy, folly-green nightshirt that reaches to the tops of her kneecaps, her long, brown hair loose and covering most of her face.

Making friends doesn't ring any bells for her, but she's relieved to see Wanda glance around, her eyes traveling fleetingly over Natasha's body.

"Was I disturbing you?" Wanda murmurs dully.

"No, you weren't. You look tired. You should get some rest," Natasha tells her informatively. "We need you at full strength if something happens."

An uncomfortable, heavy period of silence follows.

"I don't sleep alone," Wanda confesses, looking down to the floor, her throat visibly stiffening.

"Then… don't."

Natasha keeps the observation as friendly as humanly possible, looking over her shoulder with a raised, sly eyebrow and leaving the automated, steel-framed door open, for several more minutes.

Wanda doesn't appear until Natasha thinks about switching off her lights and lying back down, her dark, slim silhouette veiling the wall.

The rosy-tinged edges of Wanda's eyes brighten, as the overhead, fluorescent lighting hums off.

Natasha discovers a featureless, white tee and Clint's boxers in a wad by her uniform, snorting softly in humor. They smell clean enough.

She slips into them, pulling a blanket over her legs and waiting expectantly for Wanda to climb in. When there's further hesitation, Natasha rolls her eyes a little. "I don't bite—or so I'm told."

Finally, a touch of a smile crosses Wanda's lips.

It's still a restless night, with Wanda pressed up against her, burrowing her arms to her own chest, those hands clasped snugly under Wanda's chin.

Natasha gives up on overthinking it, draping an arm comfortably to Wanda's side, lightly dozing.



Marvel isn't mine. I hear this is a super rarepair and I'm thrilled to try it out! Something cute and a little naughty! ;) Any thoughts/comments are welcomed!