[the way she says it, in sing-song, like it's a bit of an aggravation and not something quite so special. she sighs, pulling tommy's longer hair lightly behind an ear, her own magic and this place's workings allowing for the semblance of realness to their shapes.
it's not at all surprising that he isn't all that well known at all, even with the newer avengers; no one ever spoke of him, no one wanted to speak about him with her. clint did, but wanda hated to do soβthe guilt he felt over the situation weighed on him. besides, whenever wanda was pulled out of her shell enough to talk about pietro, she would always look for a reason to fight about itβshe was angry, in pain, and didn't know where to put these feelings.]
He was β half of my soul, ripped apart. We were always together, and after our parents were killed, he always looked after me. [a small shrug] He was twelve minutes older, and he would never let me forget.
I was so angry when he was killed. How dare he leave me? How was I supposed to continue living? I felt like I was... dead.
[she hugs her children tighter against herself, a lasting comfort, before she squeezes a little too tight, enough for flutters of red to disappear, their image breaking apart as she ends with her elbows at her lap, her hands to her face. every day that she isn't with her sons feels like a nightmare; it aches, it's painful.
wanda composes herself enough to sit back, her face muted, eyes rimming with tears, looking at peter. she recalls their first conversation back in sam's horizon.]
It never goes away. We just have to learn to live with it, because the world moves on.
[she reaches her hand out to him, so that should he take it, she will tug him to sit on the couch with her; however, she doesn't let go of his hand, holding on to it, now putting her other hand over his. her voice a quiet whisper after she waits for peter to sit himself down and stop wriggling in place. she knows this is a conversation that needs to be had, because she's had it a number of times before. vision always led it, and she leads now from his example (and she's glad he did, because had she bottled it all inside, she would have broken at the seams).]
no subject
[the way she says it, in sing-song, like it's a bit of an aggravation and not something quite so special. she sighs, pulling tommy's longer hair lightly behind an ear, her own magic and this place's workings allowing for the semblance of realness to their shapes.
it's not at all surprising that he isn't all that well known at all, even with the newer avengers; no one ever spoke of him, no one wanted to speak about him with her. clint did, but wanda hated to do soβthe guilt he felt over the situation weighed on him. besides, whenever wanda was pulled out of her shell enough to talk about pietro, she would always look for a reason to fight about itβshe was angry, in pain, and didn't know where to put these feelings.]
He was β half of my soul, ripped apart. We were always together, and after our parents were killed, he always looked after me. [a small shrug] He was twelve minutes older, and he would never let me forget.
I was so angry when he was killed. How dare he leave me? How was I supposed to continue living? I felt like I was... dead.
[she hugs her children tighter against herself, a lasting comfort, before she squeezes a little too tight, enough for flutters of red to disappear, their image breaking apart as she ends with her elbows at her lap, her hands to her face. every day that she isn't with her sons feels like a nightmare; it aches, it's painful.
wanda composes herself enough to sit back, her face muted, eyes rimming with tears, looking at peter. she recalls their first conversation back in sam's horizon.]
It never goes away. We just have to learn to live with it, because the world moves on.
[she reaches her hand out to him, so that should he take it, she will tug him to sit on the couch with her; however, she doesn't let go of his hand, holding on to it, now putting her other hand over his. her voice a quiet whisper after she waits for peter to sit himself down and stop wriggling in place. she knows this is a conversation that needs to be had, because she's had it a number of times before. vision always led it, and she leads now from his example (and she's glad he did, because had she bottled it all inside, she would have broken at the seams).]
What happened to Aunt May, Peter?