Wanda hasn't dreamed for a long time.
(Until she does.)
Pietro stands on the ledge of a green, mossy cliff, facing her, holding onto the string to a fluorescent-silver, crescent balloon. It shines like the moon against his features, exploding and gushing blood.
She screams herself back to consciousness, due to the pain ballooning, the fear consuming her.
There's several voices outside her door. Wanda discovers herself bleeding copiously, rolling with some difficulty out of her bed and passing out.
"I was… pregnant," she explains monotonously, when Steve and Natasha ask her questions.
Because of my twin brother.
They only ever had each other. Wanda trusted no one else in this world — just Pietro. And he protected her, loved her just as equally as Wanda felt it for him, kissing Wanda's hands and throat and breasts, making love to her until he couldn't.
After the day of Pietro's death, she knew. Wanda felt life growing inside her, kindled by her twin.
The question isn't asked — who is the father?
Perhaps everyone can make the correct assumption. Wanda does not care. Two people she loved — that were hers — are now gone.
Marvel isn't mine. As much as I love angst, this one hurt to make. Hmm. Well, thank you to anyone who read and any comments/thoughts deeply appreciated!