Westview – A Few Meters from Oliver's Residence
The afternoon sun bathed the quiet streets of Westview as a golden flash erupted on the sidewalk, dissipating to reveal three figures: Oliver, his eyes still faintly glowing with residual cosmic energy, and the Maximoff siblings, slightly unsteady from the sudden journey.
'I'm not sure if Ultron will even exist now, but I'd better stay alert,' Oliver mused, discreetly observing the twins as his eyes faded from gold back to their usual gray-blue hue.
"You can stay at my place," he offered, turning to Pietro and Wanda with a gesture toward the street. "I've got two spare bedrooms."
The siblings exchanged a quick glance—an entire silent conversation between those bound by blood and shared trauma. The streets or a guaranteed roof? The choice was obvious.
"Thank you," Wanda replied with a cautious nod, while Pietro was already flashing a looser smile.
The walk to Oliver's home was short but long enough for the Maximoffs to take in the peaceful neighborhood—well-kept houses, flower-lined gardens, and the calm air of a town untouched by the chaos of the outside world.
Then, it came into view.
Oliver's house wasn't just spacious—it was imposing. A modern architectural structure with expansive windows reflecting the twilight, surrounded by immaculately trimmed gardens. It wasn't quite a mansion, but it teetered on the edge of what one might call a "very large home."
Pietro let out a low whistle, eyes wide. "Now this is a house."
Without ceremony, he zipped inside the moment Oliver opened the door, flopping onto the living room sofa like he'd owned it for years. "Ahhh, finally somewhere decent to rest!"
"Pietro!" Wanda scolded, equal parts exasperated and embarrassed, but Oliver just laughed, shutting the door behind them.
"It's fine," he reassured, hanging his keys on a nearby hook. "Mi casa es su casa."
Wanda glanced around, her fingers lightly tracing the back of a leather armchair. The interior was as striking as the exterior—sleek furniture, shelves lined with books, and small details that suggested this house was more than just a place to sleep.
"You… live here alone?" she asked, her soft voice echoing slightly in the open living space.
Oliver tilted his head, his smile easy. "Most of the time. I get visitors sometimes, but mostly it's just me."
Pietro, already sprawled on the couch like a king on his throne, raised an eyebrow. "So why invite us?"
The question hung in the air for a beat before Oliver answered, his eyes glinting with something neither Wanda nor Pietro could decipher.
"Because I think you two… deserve to live properly. As people, on your own terms. I'm not here to be a guardian—just a friend. And whatever else you need."
Wanda felt a shiver run down her spine, but before she could question it, Oliver was already heading toward the kitchen.
"Who's hungry? I make a pasta that'll make you forget all those years of HYDRA prison food."
Pietro perked up instantly. "Now you're speaking my language!"
Wanda, still slightly hesitant, allowed a small smile to touch her lips. Perhaps—just perhaps—Westview could be a fresh start.
As Oliver began preparing the meal, the clatter of pans and the aroma of garlic and olive oil filling the house, Pietro whispered to Wanda:
"I like him. Might be a little weird, but at least he's not boring."
Wanda didn't reply, but her expression softened as she watched Oliver in the kitchen. She didn't know what the future held, but for the first time in a long while, she felt something she hadn't in ages:
Hope.
...
The quiet of night enveloped the house, broken only by the soft ticking of the wall clock and the wind whispering through the garden trees. Pietro, after devouring nearly the entire pot of pasta, had fallen into a deep sleep almost instantly, leaving Oliver and Wanda alone in the living room.
Oliver watched Wanda as she sat on the couch, her eyes lost in the moonlit landscape outside. The silver glow of the moon streamed through the windows, painting soft lines across the wooden floor and highlighting the contours of the young witch's face.
"Can't sleep?" Oliver's calm voice broke the silence, making Wanda blink and turn her attention to him.
She took a deep breath before answering, her fingers idly playing with the hem of her jacket.
"Hardly. I'm still... wired from everything that happened." Her gaze drifted back to the garden, as if searching for answers among the tree shadows.
Oliver rose from the armchair and moved closer, settling into a seat near her. For a moment, the two simply watched the moonlight, wrapped in a comfortable silence.
"Have you thought about what you'll do now?" Oliver asked softly. "Live the life you want?"
His eyes remained on the garden, but his attention was entirely on her.
Wanda stayed quiet for a few seconds, her fingers lightly gripping the couch fabric. She looked down, as if wrestling with something inside, before lifting her gaze to meet Oliver's directly.
"I have an idea of what I want to do."
This time, it was Oliver who turned to face her, his gray-blue eyes locking onto hers.
"Yeah?"
There was genuine curiosity in his voice, but also something more—as if he already knew the answer yet wanted to hear it from her own lips.
Wanda held his gaze, and for a brief moment, something passed between them—a silent understanding, a mutual recognition that they both knew what it meant to wield power few could comprehend.
"Yes," she replied, her voice steady but soft. "I think... I finally want to discover who I really am. Without HYDRA, without Strucker... just me."
Oliver smiled—small, but sincere.
"Then that's what we'll do."
Wanda arched a brow. "We?"
Oliver tilted his head, his smile turning just a bit mischievous.
"Unless you'd rather I stay out of it. But honestly? I think I can help."
Wanda studied his face for a long moment, as if trying to decipher his intentions. Then, to her own surprise, she felt the corners of her lips twitch upward.
"Maybe you can," she admitted, her tone lighter now.
Oliver relaxed into his chair, gazing back at the garden.
Moonlight continued to wash gently over the room, casting dancing shadows on the walls as Oliver and Wanda talked. The air between them was easy, almost intimate, as if the outside world had faded away, leaving only this warm space and each other's company.
"So let's awaken the Witch in you," Oliver said, his voice low and sure. "It might take time..."
With a fluid motion, he raised his hand, and a golden glow danced at his fingertips for a brief moment. Out of nowhere, two porcelain cups materialized in the air, floating gently before settling on the table before them. Inside, steaming brown liquid spilled warmth, with white marshmallows bobbing on the surface like little clouds. The sweet, comforting aroma of hot chocolate filled the air.
"It might even be fun," he added, with a half-smile playing on his lips.
Wanda looked at the cup he offered her, her eyes reflecting a mix of curiosity and caution. For a moment, it seemed she might hesitate—but then her fingers curled around the warm porcelain, and she lifted the drink to her lips.
The first sip was like an embrace. The hot chocolate, creamy and lightly sweet, slid down smoothly, and a wave of warmth and calm spread through her, easing tension she hadn't even realized she'd been carrying in her shoulders. A small, almost involuntary smile touched her lips, and she let out a soft sigh.
Oliver watched her, his own smile deepening slightly before he brought his cup to his mouth and took a sip.
And so, the night passed. They talked about everything and nothing—about the past, about powers, about the little things that made them smile. Wanda, usually so reserved, found herself speaking more than she'd expected, her words flowing as easily as the hot chocolate now warming her hands. Oliver listened, sometimes commenting, sometimes just letting her unravel, his presence steady and calm like a safe harbor.
Time seemed to lose meaning. The hours flew, and before they knew it, Wanda's cup was empty, her fingers still curled around it as if reluctant to let go of the last traces of warmth. Her eyes, once so alert, now grew heavy, her eyelids blinking slowly with drowsiness.
"Mmmh…" She murmured something unintelligible, her body sinking deeper into the couch, her head tilting to the side.
Oliver didn't say a word. He simply waited, watching as her breathing slowed into a steady rhythm, her features finally relaxing into peaceful sleep.
With careful hands, he stood, gently prying the empty cup from her limp fingers and setting it silently in the sink. When he returned to the sofa, he paused—taking in the sight of Wanda asleep, her hair fanned out like a crimson cloak against the cushions, her expression serene, almost innocent, so unlike the warrior she was when awake.
He hesitated for a heartbeat, weighing the best approach, before finally bending to slide one arm beneath her shoulders and the other under her knees. She was lighter than he'd expected—or perhaps his power made her so. Either way, he lifted her effortlessly, cradling her against his chest as he ascended the stairs in soundless steps.
Her room was just as he'd prepared it—simple but cozy, with soft sheets and a weighted blanket folded at the foot of the bed. He laid her down with care, adjusting the pillow beneath her head before drawing the blanket up to her shoulders.
For a moment, he lingered, watching her sleep. Something about her tranquil face made his chest tighten—perhaps the promise of what she'd yet to become, or simply the rare peace she'd found, if only for one night.
"Goodnight, Wanda," he murmured, so softly the words barely carried.