[aunt may? the boy asks, and it is indeed her — turning to her nephew with a look of what's wrong with you, doofus? as if her being there is the most obvious thing. something pulses within the magic, and wanda's concentration becomes more focused, following that thread. aunt may— aunt may— but it's like it's barred behind walls upon walls upon walls. she can't put her finger on it, not quite.]

I know, I know. [comes the frivolous words, hands up in the air in a tight wave as 'aunt may' dives back into the kitchen, packing up a red, square lunch box and trying to make all components fit, enough for the lock to click into place.] I usually send you off with some money, but your first day of fifth grade only comes around once.

[it's a memory she's latched on to, of peter when he was much, much younger; aunt may was younger, too, perhaps entrusted on this role of looking after her nephew by herself. it's all hazy bits and pieces, of more recent memories fusing with older ones, a testament that peter's horizon is not necessarily... his, currently.

wanda's hand spins slowly as her magic coils, trying to hang on to that feeling.

aunt may stops her frantic rushing to look at peter, a soft small and a sigh on her features as she pushes her glasses to the top of her head, messing her bangs a bit, as she approaches peter to fix his hair.]

Come on. We said there wouldn't be any tears.

[whatever this memory, it is treating peter like he isn't the young adult that he is in the present.]