Chapter 56

                                    

                                          
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TWO YEARS LATER/ YOUR POV:
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"Just because I'm nineteen doesn't mean I don't know what proper construction looks like," I joke to Peter, softly tuning my brand-new guitar. "Okay, okay! I believe you," he laughs, his voice staticky over speaker phone. "I swear, that house was going to collapse, I'm not joking!"
                          
"Like I said, I believe you."
                          
"You'd better."
                          
"Meanie."
                          
"Dork."
                          
"Weirdo."
                          
"That's taking it too far."
                          
"You're right, I'm sorry."
                          
"You'd better be."
                          
"Really, (y/n)?"
                          
"Okay, okay," I laugh, "I'll stop."
                          
"You'd better," he mocks, "Anyway, how's Mary Anne doing?"
                          
I sigh, putting my hand over the strings to stop the vibration. "Still feverish. The doctors think she's got an extremely severe case of the flu or stomach bug. Something bad. At least she's not contagious anymore and is in the recovery stage."
                          
"Damn. How's it going for you?"
                          
I chuckle, Peter's concern comforting. Ever since I told him about how I feel anything my pack is going through, he always seems to forget that it's a much more dull version. "I'm fine, Pete. Just a little bit numb everywhere, but nothing too extreme."
                          
"That's good. Anyway, I've gotta meet MJ, so I'll see you later?"
                          
"Yeah. Have fun."
                          
"Will do. Bye, weirdo."
                          
"Bye, dork."
                          
The line clicks, and I put my guitar into its case, grabbing my phone, wallet, and keys. I sling the case onto my shoulders, carrying it to the garage in the newly-built facility. I open the doors of my Jeep, carefully putting my guitar into the passenger seat and fastening the seatbelt over it. I jump into the driver's seat, turning on the ignition and making sure all windows are rolled up and doors are securely locked. 
                          
I start my drive to the hospital that Mary Anne's in, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of the soft music playing. The sun is shining, extremely brightly, and I hear a few exclamations from the sidewalk next to me. I look over to see a group of guys, around fifteen or sixteen, pointing and staring at my car, obviously able to see me through the tinted glass. I roll down my window, resting my elbow on the door. "Hi!" I smile, and they all start to freak out. 
                          
"Oh, my god, hi!"
                          
"Wow, you're the (y/n) Romanoff-Stark."
                          
"I can't believe this is happening."
                          
"I love you!"
                          
"Eclipse is my favorite hero! She's just so awesome."
                          
"Can I get an autograph? Or a photo?"
                          
I laugh, looking at the traffic light, "One photo. Quickly."
                          
They all run to my door, grouping around to get a picture, profusely thanking me after. "Of course! It was nice meeting you guys!" I wave at them as the light turns green, immediately rolling up my window for privacy. I chuckle, smiling the rest of the way to the hospital.
                          
I park my car, grabbing my guitar and locking the doors to my car as I walk inside. I go to the front desk, tapping my fingers on the surface as I wait for a nurse to come. "(Y/n) Romanoff-Stark here to visit-" "Mary Anne. Sign the forms and then come right this way." I smile as the very same nurse leads me to my young friend's room for the third time on my third weekly visit. "Thanks, Amanda," I say, smiling as she holds the door open. She nods, closing the door with a soft click.
                          
"Hey, you," I say, smiling at the fourteen-year-old. "(Y/n)!" I chuckle, walking over to sit by her side as I squeeze her hand. "How's it been?"
                          
"The same."
                          
"Is the chocolate pudding still good?"
                          
"Oh, definitely."
                          
"Well, then there are no more worries to be had."
                          
She laughs, her pallid face brightening a bit. "So," I start, opening my guitar case, "I thought I could teach you how to play. Keep you entertained." I hold out the instrument, and her sickly appearance is close to gone by the excitement on her face. She nods, and I help her move her bed into a more comfortable sitting position.
                          
THAT NIGHT
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My eyes snap open as sweat soaks through my shirt, my heart pounding. My breaths are shaky, and I throw the blankets off of me, my bare feet being shocked by the cold floor. I go to my bathroom and splash some water on my face, taking deep breaths. I pull on a fresh shirt and shake my head, trying to rid my mind of the nightmare.
                          
Natasha, her cold, dead face in the wreckage of battle, her eyes glassy and dim. 
                          
That was it.
                          
That was all it was.
                          
And it terrified me more than anything.
                          
I exit my room, walking to the one next door, expecting absolutely nothing and still being surprised when all there is...
                          
Is absolutely nothing.
                          
It's just a regular bedroom. Unused, plainly decorated, and with a window that overlooks the trees behind the facility. But this would've been Nat's room.
                          
It's the exact same spot as the destroyed one, and it's the exact same one that she told me she would have after the war.
                          
'Is the room next door to this one free? Because I'll take it if so. Just like the good ol' days.'
                          
I walk over to the window, resting my forehead against the cool glass as the memories all come back to me. Her words when she found me curled up on the ground, kind and understanding, soothing and calm. How she spoke to me that morning and asked me if I wanted to stay, how she desperately wanted to help me in any way she could. The feel of her hugs, always gentle because of my trust issues, yet still the warmest I'd ever known. How she'd always let me sneak into her bed when I couldn't sleep, even in the middle of the night. How she would stay up until the early hours of the morning and through the rest of the day, just so that I wouldn't be alone when I shifted. So I wouldn't be alone any time she could help it.
                          
"God, (y/n), stop being dramatic," I mutter, opening my eyes and shaking my head. I turn around, walking back to my room and looking at my clock. Six more hours until sunrise. I sigh, going to my closet and pulling out a sweater without even looking at it. I slip it over my head, the slightly oversized fabric swallowing me up and falling loosely at my legs. The sleeves end mid-palm, giving me slight sweater paws as the size warms me up.
                          
A faint and extremely old scent drifts off from the fabric, and I smile, remembering whose sweatshirt this is.
                          
Peter's.