( closed prompts )

[carmesi]

Who: Wanda and others
What: Eclipse, magical madness, quest
Where: Solvunn and Horizon
When: A bit after the eclipse, mid-March.
Warnings: Will include in top levels if necessary.

Comments

[carmesi]

[pietro tilts his head, also mirroring the way peter looks at him, trying to find that recognition that would spell out for him who the hell this kid is. there is nothing that he can gather from his own volition, not without wanda whispering the answers to him. unfortunately, wanda's busy elsewhere in the realm of these entangled realities, trying to pull together at the magical seams—which means that pietro is on autopilot.]

A kid in the Avengers? [he snorts, good-naturedly, and offers a grin.] Come on, you must have heard. Pietro. Do not go forgetting it.

[—wanda's eyes open; they're a haze of red—]

Well, I will trust you. If you take too long, I will come back for you.

[pietro fist bumps peter's suit, right on the chest; the action is not strong enough to throw peter off-kilter, but because of the magic at play, it is enough to make the young man lose his balance, fall back, and land himself on a couch. peter sits in the middle of it, in a homely, suburban home, clean and crisp, no sign of destruction nor bombs. there two kids beside him playing video games: one in a green jacket, the other in a red sweatshirt.]

Hey—! Stop, I got you—! Tommy! We're in the same team! No way!

[piqure]

[ their exchange doesn't last too long, just enough for peter's confusion to tighten when its mirrored on the other's face. he almost sputters — halfway to indignant — until he hears the name and —

pietro? eyes widen, mouth opening to ask another question. something in his mind strikes at him, a distant conversation in a displaced time, a front porch in dreamlike peace. a conversation shared between him and - and wanda?

that's right. didn't she say she had a brother named — wait okay, he's going to let him look around more, that's good, he just as to say one more thing — ] Be care—

[ there's a bump on his chest, good-natured and not hard enough to cause the lurch that follows but his stomach dips, tumbling backwards as he is. breath leaves him in a soft oof as he lands on the soft cushions of a couch in a living room he doesn't recognize.

he blinks, bolts upright. it feels like home, but not his and he ends up staring at two children, seated on the couch and playing video games.

okay, no. no no this isn't right? for all the internal monologue, the influx of questions, he tries to keep himself steady. its difficult not to feel just a little bit safe in this space and he isn't sure why, but the desperation ebbs away from his tense shoulders, replaced treacherously back with some bittersweet sort of loneliness. the back of his mind rears up in panic (still struck by seeing his aunt, throat still sore and raw from hands on it moments before, mind still reeling at the speed of trying to catch up. and why was wanda's brother there? before? he needs to find his footing, but all he feels is like he is careening through a script he can't control, memories that were once his and now are someone else's). ] Um — hello?

That looks like a fun game — [ tries for calm. succeeds mostly, just a bit out of breath. he's still in his spider suit. ] Are - are your parents around?

[carmesi]

Hello!

[the twins chime in unison, like his being here, showing up out of thin air and wearing his spider suit is the most normal thing to happen to them. it works fine if they're a memory, because they exist within a space where weird is normal.]

Dad's at work. [chimes in tommy, not removing his eyes from the screen.] Mom told us to stay here and to keep you company. [billy does, on the other hand, turn his eyes away from the screen to look at peter, a bit of a confused look on his face; he's always been the more perceptive one of the two, considering his powers.] It's not safe if you leave this space. Mom's fixing it.

[should peter look outside the windows, though they allow beams of sunlight of a perfect day in suburbia through, he will notice that they are surrounded by a whirlwind of scarlet.

billy blinks up at peter.]

You're thinking too much.

[has billy become something of a voice for wanda? yes, he has. though she is not in this pocket of reality, she can sense his presence entrenched within her magic, putzing about, thoughts mingling about and entangling themselves with hers.]

Can you stop doing that?

[piqure]

Oh, [ he says, a little dumbly, fingers folding over the couch cushion as he sets his feet on the plush carpet and takes the home in more fully.

cozy suburbia greets him. the kids seem entirely unfazed by the suit, and at least there's no residue of dust and grime from before to leave prints on the fabric.

dad's at work, one kid says. okay, that feels kind of normal? the rest — it still serves to send a chill rushing up his spine and raking up along the back of his neck because that's not all that normal. it's not safe, he says. ] Mom's fixing it?

What's she fixing? [ who and where??

peter doesn't register himself rising from the seat and closing the distance to the window, ducking under the curtains to look outside. if there's danger there, he needs to know and his senses feel so addled, so long a time on high alert, that he isn't sure what to trust right now. he wants to trust this place. something out there, out here, suggests that he should. insists, even. a squint, agains the sunlight until his eyes land on the swirl of red. it almost feels familiar (battlefield against thanos but he tries so ardently to shove that thought away). quickly, he steps away, turns, and presses his back to the window. the sun shining through almost feels warm.

theres a frown, concern stark and his mind starts its ragged race again until billy's voice halts it. ] What?

I — I don't know how to stop that, [ he says this lamely, going to the front door. maybe if he keeps moving, he can run away from the thoughts catching up because while he doesn't know what's going on right this very instant, it's in his nature to try.

though, trying the handle doesn't yield much results. ] Okay — um, okay, so — [ don't think?? how does he not think?? ] — I'm Peter Parker. What're your names? [ simple. let's do simple for now. ]

[carmesi]

[peter may feel like he's stuck in a cage, whirling about in the same existential thoughts of where, when, how, and the ever-significant who. tommy, who was the most focused on the video game, tenses and stops when he tries for the door handle — active relief on the twins when it doesn't open.

well, at least he seems to have gotten both the boys' attention.]

Magic is hard to control sometimes. [billy starts, and tommy just shrugs.] According to Billy. He doesn't know that much. I sure do!

[tommy sticks his tongue out, hanging on to the back of the couch, staring over at the two; billy stands away from the couch, closer to peter.]

Anyway, I'm Billy Maximoff. And that's my brother, Tommy. We're twins.

[he points at each other, then beams. tommy, on the other hand, says a little cryptically:]

You really shouldn't stand so close to the door, Peter Parker.

[if peter feels the pinpricks of his spider sense starting to become more concrete and make more sense, then maybe he should trust it. the door handle starts jiggling, shaking harder and harder, the windows rattling as if the air outside were being compressed. the lights dim, shadows growing darker, longer, more menacing.

billy repeats, a certain nod of his head:]

Mom will fix it.

[piqure]

Yeah, I heard that about magic too, [ there's a nod in agreement, half-way absentminded, half-listening until his head snaps over to them and he almost gawks, looking to the twin boys. back and forth, between the one hanging off the couch, and the one thats edged closer. maximoff — but that would mean - ] Wait — as in Wanda?

[ he blurts out, because that's the first thing that comes to mind - not thoughtless but if he says it out loud it means he isn't thinking on it for any longer than he needs to.

but that does inspire more realization — he didn't know she had kids. what happened — oh no —

his back is to the door and his ears ring in tinnitus as his senses sharpen, suddenly, and he's sidestepping away from it right in tandem to the twin's warnings, right as the handle rattles, the frame bangs and the windows shake and darkness presses in.

he crowds towards them and while they don't seem very concerned about this at all, full faith in their mom (he cannot help but understand that), peter still puts himself between them and the door, the windows. shoulders square, footing more sure.

the air feels thin. ] Okay — [ a glance over to them, spider sense prickling. anticipating...something? he tries to steady his voice. ] — does your mom need help?

[carmesi]

[wanda knows this conversation is happening—can hear it—and the twins are capable of having it at all because of her influence, the way her memories allows for the fuel for these two imagined lives to act as they did before she took down the hex for good. peter asks them if she needs help, and there is an ache in her heart.

she worries, now, perhaps without having the right to, after barging into peter's mind and trying to anchor these irrational feelings that make the darkness grow within oneself.

while she may have separated herself from the chaos she breathed life into, she is very much in the midst of it. turning her hand, grafting through the magic with tiny movements of her fingers. now that peter is a little more disconnected from his thoughts, distracted either by the presence of the twins or just general understanding of the situation at hand, it allows wanda the opportunity to grab purchase of her magic and really have a foothold on it.

does your mom need help? — the question echoes, and she closes her eyes tight, uncertainty heavy.

tommy speaks abruptly.]

She's afraid you'll hate her. [the boy turns to look at his brother, the two of them keeping eye contact for a while longer, before nodding and turning back to peter. billy points at the window.] But she doesn't want you to stay trapped here. You could jump, but... you'll need to stop thinking so much.

[certainty. resolve. that's what peter will need.]

[piqure]

[ standing there in the middle of this home — he feels that disconnect in between. that affirmation of safe intermixed with the rising feeling of intrusion. like he shouldn't be here, or maybe he shouldn't be seeing this. like he's looking through an old recording to something very, very personal.

this knowledge, these two kids...it feels? it feels sad, but warm. love and loss and he still tries to make sense of it all around him. he doesn't understand exactly, but he's connected enough of the dots to recognize that wanda is involved, now. that she's trying to do something.

tommy's voice is that of a small boy, but it feels like there's years of worry and weight packed into the statement and peter shakes his head, incessant. ] No — no, why would I? [ quiet, confused. is this all her magic, doing this? he doesn't know its extents, hadn't seen them in all their might, but why would she do this now? unless something in this world was influencing her? maybe that was it, but it was becoming abundantly clear there were no answers to be found here.

for a boy used to leaps of faith, the two twins tell him to jump and he looks to the window and back to them. words spill over without a second to consider and he isn't sure who he's saying them to. ] Your mom will be okay. I promise.

[ and against his initial judgement, that surface-level instinct - kids, stay, protect - he turns on the ball of his foot to get a running start, closes his eyes tight and jumps.

is it unfortunate that, in his valiant attempt to follow instructions and not think, his new york apartment flashes in his minds eye. he doesn't know where he's jumping too, just hears a breaking of glass and feels a lurch in his belly, but at least his has that. come what may. ]

[carmesi]

[come what may. visions of aunt may flood wanda's reckoning, as peter's thoughts slingshot between that surface-level instinct of protecting kids, to thoughts of his new york apartment and all the sentimentality that comes with it. it's that thread, that painful thread full of sorrow and guilt and self-hate that consumed her and threw her into a loop of emotions she had thought forsaken enough to control.

she cannot let herself drown in it again, which is why the twins had emphasized that he shouldn't think too much. at least, now, wanda is ready to brace herself against the crashing waves of it all.

—what is grief, if not love persevering?—

and that's exactly what she needs to hang on to, how valuable those words are, and how they keep her strong, resolved to keep walking, no matter what else comes her way. (it probably helps, that peter questions why he should hate her; the way he promises that their mom would be okay.) peter jumps through the whirlwind of scarlet, gets dragged with the torrent, and wanda exerts herself—the shrill scream of the wind hiding her voice as she pushes her magic to submission, taking all the pain that came with it onto herself, even peter's, if just momentarily, to shape and mold it long enough to make sense of it.

it's peter's new york apartment again—but not quite the one he grew up in. it's the one he moved into, one cold december day, all by himself, memories others had of him completely lost to a spell. this much wanda is not aware of, but there is a distinct feeling of solitude there. scarlet carves itself on the walls, but only as it pulls the segments of this place together.

peter may stand looking around, but at one point he will notice the warmth of a hand on his back. a familiar voice speaks to him: a woman, dark-haired with brown eyes.]

It's pretty bare, Peter. [aunt may purses her lips, but smiles nonetheless.] You'll try and make it your own, won't you?

[piqure]

[ the umbral wind knocks into him, a flare of scarlet as it howls and he thinks he catches a scream but before he can careen himself towards it, there is a blink, a sharp-cut moment that stops in silence.

what is grief —

wanda's voice, an echo — quiet words exchanged by two people who felt a little too strongly for a world a little too cruel and a little too difficult to be good in — that reverberates as peter opens his eyes, standing in the bare apartment.

— if not love persevering

jeans and a hoodie, no suit this time. its empty, cold, lacking the things that make it home and new york's overcast skies mirror the mood. there's crimson crawling into the walls and fading, piecing it together and he blinks, bleary-eyed and tired.

then there's a warm hand flattening on his back just as he takes a long sigh and he turns to look.

this time, it isn't confusing to him anymore why he feels so wrecked, the brunt of loss remembered. he knows she's gone. (what is grief?) he's visited her grave and left her flowers (if not love persevering?) there's only solitude for him here in the sum of his actions. price paid by more than him.

he doesn't know where wanda is, or what she's done to get him here. doesn't really understand what phantom stands in front of him now, just knows that he wants to say things he will never have a chance to again.

even if it isn't really real. grief and love and it overflows. all he can promise is to be better than he is. people die around you, peter.

tears well, threaten to spill over as his throat constricts. ] May — [ voice breaks. his hands find her shoulders. she's wearing the same jumpsuit as before, free of rubble-dust and blood. before she — ] — I'm so sorry. You weren't supposed to get hurt. Why didn't you run, May? Why didn't — [ he ducks his chin, tongue passing across his teeth. he grapples with self-control but the truth is he wasn't ever very good at that - (think of where you are, this isn't real, she'll never hear this so just accept it. where's wanda? is she okay?) but the next words are said with heat and conviction and a touch of anger. ] It was my fault. [ it should have been me. ]

[carmesi]

[it probably is telling, the way aunt may's ghost is a similar reflection to pietro's own. similar emotions afflict them, born from those who carry their memories with them. aunt may refused to run — pietro agreed to go, and regardless of whether either of them had done or refused to do what was asked of them, the result may have very well have been the same: their deaths.

but there is one certainty about their choices.

aunt may raises her hands to put them on either side of peter's head, gentle rubs of her thumbs against the line of his cheeks.

why didn't she run? well, the answer is obvious:]

Because I love you. I couldn't have left you alone.

[pietro had agreed to go at wanda's behest, because he loved her; because he trusted she would be able to handle things on her own. the hot tears on peter's cheeks move aunt may, as she works to fix peter's hair, down to his shoulders to fix the creases of his hoodie and shirt. finally, she lifts his chin, forces him to look at her.]

We all make choices. [her hands hold tightly to his forearms] I chose to stay.

[words, perhaps, that are empty because this isn't the real aunt may, just an echo of what they all wish they could hear, drawn from emotion and memory. aunt may's expression softens though, uncannily like herself, and she draws peter close to her, arms tight around his shoulders, a kiss to the side of his head, into his hair.]

I love you, Peter.

[no blaming, just nuances of affection; crisp and real, drawn from the very real notion of sentiments found should aunt may be alive.

—like that, in a few more seconds, the spell breaks.

wanda has replaced aunt may, embracing the boy, holding tightly as the world succumbs to carmine tones, breaking away from them and dissolving into what peter's horizon used to be—except bare, missing out on the details, a sketch of itself. wanda heaves, breathes heavily, and holds on tightly, her words quiet:]

I'm sorry.

[piqure]

Love you, too. [ he says - he has to, muttered as it is. the ghost of aunt may — how he remembers her, how he will always remember her — says things she's always said. we all make choices, she answers, in a tone that makes sense of the world, in a way that makes things better even when there's no fixing them and he knows the reason she didn't run: because he wouldn't have either and he is nothing if not her son in all the ways that make it so. thumbs passing along his cheeks, haunted comfort.

in the end, it is a contrast. it feels real and his mind supplies that it isn’t. not her hands fixing his hair, the creases in his clothes, or the kisses on his head or how she pulls him into a hug and his arms loop around her and hold on tight.

and then the spell breaks.

he feels it do so — feels the reality snap back like a rubber band and it leaves him feeling exhausted and he still holds on, cheek pressed into auburn hair instead of brunette. a part of him expected her to fade to ash and dust.

he ought to be embarrassed by how readily he clings, but he feels as though his thoughts had been pulled taut and flipped through, worn thin as he is. is there anything left to be ashamed about?

a part of him still rings out from their shared pain - all those emotions interwoven and she feels less a stranger. ] — Wanda,

[ he pulls back first, straightens up to look at her with red-rimmed eyes, briefly downcast; the look of someone who inadvertently feels as though he’s overshared something terrible and personal, even when it had slipped from his control before he could ever stop it. ] What happened?

[ all he can think to ask. it isn’t a demand, exactly. wonder? he’s so tired. but he needs to understand. what happened couldn’t have been on…purpose, could it? he tracks back to the suburban house, to the twins and the screaming howl of a scarlet whirlwind. ] Are you okay?

[carmesi]

[wanda holds her breath, knowing that this moment—in this embrace—won't last too long. peter would have questions, and she would need to have answers for him. he deserves those answers, much as anyone else she's ever hurt, but part of her worries that she will not get a chance to explain herself or that she won't be understood.

but peter, this sweet child wanda had only ever met from a distance in battlefields and a funeral, he looks at her and asks without anger, without any semblance of resentment. are you okay? her hands hold on lightly to his shoulders, forearms, then down to his wrists. her hands are shaking as she makes a point of holding his hands together between them.

she swallows, and repeats:]

I'm sorry. I—

I didn't know it was you. My powers, they're... [volatile. the word stings, because it's shameful of how true it is. she's supposed to have better control over them than this.] I didn't know — about your aunt. It caught me off guard and I, [she stops, looking down at their hands, biting down to keep herself quiet.

but peter deserves an answer other than half-breathed excuses. she nods to herself, then speaks, not yet looking at him.] It's been acting up for a few days now, my chaos magic. It takes over. It... it draws from my feelings, you know? And — I was pulled towards you, but I didn't expect all of this pain. Your pain.

[she looks up at him, her hands squeezing his.]

When I realized, about your aunt, I tried to pull away. I— I couldn't do it quickly enough.

[piqure]

Oh, [ lamely.

her hands shake, and his fingers curl lightly over them when they pass along to his wrists, a familial contact.

a shallow breath taken. in, out and repeat.

he had no idea how her magic worked. chaos magic, she says. it takes over she says, and his brows pinch. like dr octavius, with those tendrils of tech? it’s parallels and comparisons, but in no moment of his sprint through filling in blanks does he settle on resentment.

there’s sympathy. there’s an ache, somewhere under his ribs. her eyes aren’t those of a person who doesn’t have any good left in them and it isn’t in the nature of peter parker to see the worst in people. ]

I didn’t realize. [ didn’t realize his hurt was so loud. didn’t realize how much it had lingered, taken root. he thought he was doing okay, better and better at shaking it off when all it really was, was that he was learning to live with it and those were not the same thing.

and her powers could sense that?? he had no idea. what it worked with, what it reacted to or how the unending torrent of his thoughts, or the turmoil within, could influence it.

what this place making it worse? ]

It’s — it’s okay. [ he sounds rattled, but he means it. ] I didn’t tell you about her. It was just — really recent. I didn’t realize your powers reacted to these things. [ he watches her, hands still curled around hers, in part worried. in part, tries not to focus on more parallels, despite how one’s mind works after tragedy (he was holding onto his aunt when she fell). ]

I guess — I guess telling me to stop thinking makes a lot of sense, now.

I’m — sorry, too. [ for all she’s lost. he doesn’t know the extents but he felt them. he wants to ask about her kids. doesn’t think it’s the right time. clears his throat and finally let’s go, lifts his head to look around the bare apartment, instead. ] Is it better now? Is there — anything I can do to help?

[ he isn’t sure what else to offer.

should he be hurt? scared? angry? maybe that’s the expectation, in a way. maybe he needs a moment. he’ll take one later. ]

[carmesi]

[peter speaks, says it's okay, explains a little bit about his aunt — tries to go about it in his usual high-speed vocalization of thoughts, probably doesn't even notice the way his expression shifts and goes downward, somewhat avoidant of that reality. she has a vague recollection of, yeah, telling him to stop thinking so much.

things, while stuck in the fugue of scarlet and chaos, were a little difficult to discern entirely, now that she's got a better foothold on reality.

when peter pulls his hands away and looks around, wanda is left to hold her hands, the warmth of peter's hands gone. she takes a deep breath, not willing to concede to the fact that this itself is a death sentence to their acquaintanceship nor him solidly drawing away from her entirely, forever. so she brings her hands closer to herself, rubbing them lightly, nervously. it's what helps her look up and around with him, at the bare apartment.

there's a small shake of her head.]

I tried to recreate it to what you had before, [in the horizon] but I didn't... know the details of it. [what he had placed in his domain and what she had corrupted with her magic. quietly, answering his question:] — I think it's alright now.

[wanda steps forward, pulling at the sleeves of her coat (modern clothes, from their world) downwards, hiding her wrists, but stopping before she moves too far away.]

Our... memories got mixed up. [it's a lot: of grief, of pain. it's worse when it's shared, because there's no untangling what is yours and what isn't.] I — could make you forget this happened, if it's too much. I'm just...

[so ashamed. the following words come out of her before she can stop them:]

It's alright if you hate me.

[piqure]

[ there's a moment, brief as it is, where neither of them speak, where his hands wring around themselves, pass along the sides of his jeans as he takes the room in. he finds his focus returning slowly, slowly, until — ]

No — [ his head whips around to her, response a little too rushed. i can make you forget she says and he can't help how his heart hammers at the thought. it's alright if you hate me follows so soon after and he shakes his head, so very certain. no more memory spells for peter parker, for a while. ] No, I don't want to forget. [ then she'd be the only one who'd remember this and that sort of solitude flew too close to home too. ] It's fine, I promise. And I don't hate you, Wanda.

[ more than anything though, he looks aghast at the idea. tommy had said the same thing she’s worried you will hate her. ] Why would I?

[ it's obvious enough to him that she didn't mean to come here with this intent — with pulling proverbial sutures of new wounds free, with sharing her own emotions in the process.

he steps back towards her, head canted, eyes searching. concedes on one thing with obvious apprehension: ] Our memories — okay, so that was kind of a lot, yeah. It did sort of feel like things got tangled? [ his nose scrunches in trying to put a name to it, a hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. ] I don't understand all of it, but — [magic is hard to control sometimes, a simple fact said by a twin in a safe little living room. ] It's okay, really, we're okay, right?

[ he stands there, a little unsure now, and doesn't say anything for some time. there's a lot of things to be said (or maybe a lot of things that shouldn't) when they stand mutual witnesses to some of their darkest moments.

if she's worried about him turning his back on her, she shouldn't worry. they all make choices. peter chooses to stay. their worst moments don't define them, an idea he needs to believe in, for his own sake too. ]

[carmesi]

[it's different.

peter goes and then returns so her vicinity to quickly, earnest in clearing the air to whatever her words may imply. he doesn't want to forget, he promises it's fine, and he even reassures her that he doesn't hate her. no one dislikes you, wanda—she exhales a quiet laugh, remembering vision's words. why would i?

her throat tightens and she shakes her head a few more times, minute movements as if to dismiss the notion altogether as he approaches her again. other people are harder to read, layered and careful with what they do give away; trust was an unending endeavor. it was simpler with others—vision, steve. peter is proving himself to be so much like them, and it only makes her remember how much she misses them both. lips part to breathe, bringing a hand up to wipe at the tears from her eyes.]

I can understand why you speak so fast and say many things. [she says finally, a warmth in her words. he's incredibly smart, and his heart is incredibly big, too.] You really don't stop thinking.

[relief washes over her as she echoes him.]

We're okay.

[for what it's worth, their physical bodies are alright. it's the emotional scars that got messed with, but it's not nothing they've been without for some time, is it?

she swallows, and speaks again, gaining a little bit of her usual candor, even if she is still somewhat withdrawn.]

It must have been hard creating this place. [the new york apartment.] Was this your childhood home?

[piqure]

[ no, he really doesn’t stop.

he manages to look sheepish at her saying so, however, corners of his eyes pinching as he exhales a huff, almost humor. weary as it may be. ] Ugh — yeah, yeah I guess?

[ the topic change feels a little like an offer, standing there with stinging eyes and brittle hearts. something that opens up the air to move forward instead of dwell, and he’s glad. we’re okay and his mouth tilts, a hint of a smile, relief echoed in the expression more than anything else. he wasn’t asking about their physical bodies, anyway. he knows they are and aren’t but that’s the way its been for a while.

but, the question does get him to focus a little more on what’s around them.

it’s feels disjointed, this space, standing in the living room of the small bedsit apartment that must have bled through his thoughts enough for wanda to shape it, with the distinctive chill of emptiness until he looks past it and to the kitchen and while he’s not yet mastered the full extents of the horizon, it is so intrinsically instinctual, that all it takes is for him to think about it just a little louder.

he’s good at that, after all, fact established and the kitchen takes on a warmth again, feels like two different places. he considers it, wants to pull towards it, frowns and shakes his head. ] No — we lived in a few different places.

They were all in New York, though. [ there’s a couch, the same one may’s had for a while. there’s a table, chairs. ] This one's...the first one I had to get by myself, though.

[ tentatively, ] Oh — um, I met your kids? [ everything feels like a poorly timed segue right now. he winces. ] Sorry, it's fine if you don't want to talk about it, but I just — I didn't know. We saw a lot of stuff from each other? And I just mean, if you wanted to talk about things, I'm here to listen.

[ and, in the fashion of someone who truly talks as much as he thinks, he adds with that quiet sort of honesty that is inevitably too telling: ] It — just feels less lonely, now.

[carmesi]

[wanda feels it inside her, the way their pain is parallel. peter's life may not have been turned upside down by the horrors of war and a destroyed apartment, but there is certainly destruction and loss. wanda was young when she lost her parents—when the war that waged in the streets of novi grad took over her home—but peter is young too, and he's already lost everything. at least wanda had pietro, and she wasn't alone as she traversed through her grief and anger alongside him; at least wanda had vision, who healed her grief and sorrow with love and gentleness.

she exhales slowly, watching as the place changes a little under peter's command, hears him bounce between topics, landing on her sons.

the smile she offers is small, heading for the couch and taking a seat, letting the palm of her hand lay flat on the cloth of the cushion, feeling the texture on her skin.]

Billy and Tommy. [their names are full of warmth when she says them, and when she raises her head, away from staring at her hand, a single tear falls down her cheek; it's almost like she's been holding back on uttering their names, making it missing them all the worse. wanda's throat is tight as she swallows, looking over at peter.

it just feels less lonely, now. there is gratefulness in her eyes. she can trust peter.] No one else knows about them.

[her magic is useful in many occasions, and, in this case, it helps her with manipulating peter's domain. she doesn't touch it, though; instead, scarlet waves paint like gauche paint on paper, bringing forth the image of her sons to sit on the couch, tommy to her left, billy to her right. her arms are around them, holding them close to her. they're sketches of a memory, with no thought of their own, but they press to her, holding onto their mother.]

I brought them to the world with my magic. [in case he starts thinking about numbers and the maths and thinks that having 11-12 year olds doesn't make a lot of sense—] But they couldn't stay.

[it's confusing, she knows, and perhaps it will throw a wrench into peter's attempt to understand the nuances of magic. wanda scrunches her nose and looks at him.]

You saw my brother, too.

[she remembers manipulating his memory to hold peter off.]

[piqure]

[ he wouldn’t want to say he lost everything. but he did, in many ways. it felt like she had too (felt, more apt than seen).

not all was lost, he'd still argue. after all, the multiverse was reportedly stable. mj and ned got into their top choice universities, friendship strong as ever and maybe one day — one day they'd know him again. dr strange...returned to the sanctum, and likely returned to facing down issues larger than the worries of an eighteen year old who didn’t even call to convince a school for admission first. life went on.

and yet even those who are alive and who matter no longer remember him. even here, it’s all just borrowed time before something happens again — before he gets whisked back home, or before they do, and how does that even work and if they come back will they know him or will he have to do it all over again?

it isn’t a spiral of thought he should go down on and the world shudders around him, and peter pushes against his horizon instead. almost forcefully pushes, chases the loneliness away, pulling the apartment back to whatever it was before: one of may’s places. melancholy maybe, but comfortable to fall back into. maybe because he can’t quite picture any other place with as much stability for the horizon to take its shape.

but wanda approaches the couch and sits, and peter lingers at the threshold, carefully watching the scarlet tendrils paint the scene around them.

there’s an ache under his ribs, cavernous. brows pinch, and he watches the two boys. there’s the start of a wave, until his hand drops by his side again. ] Oh.

[ anything beyond that seems inadequate. her magic? created them?? they couldn't stay? he does supply ] I won't tell anyone else... [ that's not his secret to tell, regardless.

he doesn't understand the magic, no. the nuances are lost on him, the disbelief rising before its tamped down. but it would not be superfluous now to say he knows near exactly how she feels despite. at the mention of her brother, he nods. small and quiet. ]

Oh — yeah, yeah I did.

Pietro, right? [ don’t go forgetting it the man of memory had asked. it seemed impolite to now. it seems impossible to. ] I didn’t know he was part of the Avengers too.

I'm — sorry. [ he remembers wanting to warn him, apprehension bubbling up. he means the next genuinely: ] He seemed really great.

[carmesi]

Just for a day.

[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 so—the 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 it—she was angry, in pain, and didn't know where to put these feelings.]

He was — 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?

[piqure]

[ peter keeps stock-still while she talks, arms crossed and shoulder leaning against the threshold to the room, little more than an arms length from the couch and treacherously unsure of what to say.

there’s a small wave of guilt, somehow, for not knowing who pietro was until he’s come to him in that blur. he wishes he knew him for longer than a frazzled recollection. there’s a small huff, brittle humor in the small curve of his mouth. he was twelve minutes older, and he would never let me forget.

it felt like i was dead, and she talks of anger and he nods. it wasn’t the same, their stories, but they had uncanny parallels, found in losing the people that meant the most. ] Like you’re drowning.

[ slips out, all sentiment, before he watches the twins fade through the scarlet, doesn’t realize the step he’s taken forward as it happens until he’s looking at her offered hand and tear filled eyes. how could she ever think he’d hate her for any of this, he still doesn’t know, a hand carefully slipped into hers.

throat suddenly dry, confronted face-on with something he’s been trying to tamp down ever since he’d scrambled himself out of the tumultuous interweave of their collective grief. don’t think, don’t think, don’t think.

but she asks so directly and so simply, settling in on the couch and he deflates. he considers it a moment, considers the honest hurt wanda had just shared with him.

parallels.

he shrugs. his voice is small, a waver at the edges of his words.] She stayed when she should have ran?

[ memories still frayed and raw. even if they weren’t just scrubbed through, even then, sometimes when he closes his eyes all he can see is her in the rubble but it’s especially bright now.

her last words, and the burning anger that still stings the back of his throat like bile. ] We wanted to help, and things just got messed up. I really messed up.

[ he takes a breath and the words all tumble out faster than he can stop them. he hasn’t had the chance to tell anyone else, not in the same context. strange knew the facts, sam knew the loss. wanda seemed to know his heart. ] There were all these people coming in from different universes — people who knew me. Or — versions of me, I guess? [ he doesn’t infill the how’s or why’s, apprehensive. guilty, embarrassed, and maybe not wanting to bring in stephen (he thinks of the wrecked man in the horizon just days before, all sharp words and dismissal and hurt). ]

We — wanted to help them. Sending them back would have meant they’d just be sent back to die, but —

But I thought we could help them instead and May agreed. She convinced me it was the right thing and —

There was a fight, [ he doesn’t look at wanda as he talks. doesn’t look at anything in particular as much as through. his throat tightens, hands tense under hers.

I want to rip him apart.

he nearly had, too. a near thing until his own counter, a displaced peter parker with nothing but understanding in his words and his eyes, reminded him of a different choice. reminded him of everything she stood for too. ] One of the last things she told me is that I still made the right choice. And that I had a responsibility.

[ he shakes his head, and finally chances to look at her, near stranger no longer, who somehow knows the most now. ] Is it bad I still wish I killed him? [ he doesn't specify who, isn't sure he can, or he needs to, the corners of his eyes tight. ] I didn't. It wouldn't have changed anything but —

It doesn't go away.

[carmesi]

[it cannot be comforting, to feel the guilt of someone's death on your actions—because of mistakes. wanda listens, keeps her hands wrapped as a steady anchor for peter's tense hand.

universes. the multiverse. people getting pulled in.

it's pretty dangerous, vision had told her once, as their conversations of more trivial matters eventually led to his unbound exploration of the universe and the cosmos and whatever the stone on his forehead wouldn't keep quiet about. wanda can only imagine what must have happened, the inklings of those thoughts locked too far back in the recesses of peter's mind, regardless of their thought becoming intertwined.

it's always the better people that they know who end up dying. vision, wanting to save the world; peter's aunt may, wanting to believe in the good in others.

a fight brings back memories of that moment when she started losing hold of her magic; she felt like she was being strangled, a crazed man's eyes staring down at her, pupils blown out. she felt the spit after his words on her cheeks, the desperation in her thoughts, how weak she had felt. all that: peter's memories.

gently, wanda tries to sway the tension from peter's hand, rubbing lightly over his knuckles, reminding him that he isn't alone.]

I never got to kill those who took my loved ones from me. [not stark, not ultron, not thanos.] I still think about it, but... that's not something you can come back from. [similarly to how she had done to the illusion of tommy, wanda picks a hand up to fix peter's hair behind his ear, an easy enough distraction.] But I've killed others, innocents, because of my own mistakes. It feels horrible, and I think of it every day. [she drops her hand back down onto his, holding his hand tighter.] It will go away.

[it's—the opposite of what she told him, before, but peter had asked if that self-hatred would ever go away. this time, he asks it in the context of the guilt that comes from not taking action. it will go away. she thinks she forgave tony stark, despite everything, so there's that, right?]

Just focus on her words.

[he had made the right choice; he had a responsibility. i love you, before a flash, the mind stone breaking. shakily, she exhales, and lets go to pull him close, her words a murmur against his hair.]

You hang on to that, Peter.

[piqure]

[ for a moment, peter closes his eyes and tries to ground himself, between how tired he feels and how — hollow, maybe. wrung out of everything he had.

but her hands on his serve as anchor, and the cadence of her voice and not for the first time, she offers understanding. parallels. it goes away, she promises. he isn’t so sure, but he wants to trust her in that, so much.

but there’s a news anchor’s voice in his head, loud amidst the rush of a downpour and stretched across a billboard; everything spiderman touches turns to ruin and we, the innocents, are left to pick up the pieces —

eyes flick open, with an inhale in. hair tucked behind his ear. ] Yeah. Yeah, I guess you can’t.

[ he doesn’t know what else to say, just leans forward when she draws him in. you hang on to that. it’s all he can do, as he pulls away, and runs a hand across his face. ] Sorry — [ croaked again, a sniff. ] Sorry you got drawn into this. I didn’t mean it to be so — loud? [ she said her powers reacted to these things, hadn’t she? that they’ve been acting out for the last few days?

sentiment called to sentiment, but he hand’t wanted to make it worse, isn’t sure if he could have ever helped it anyway.

ruin and ruination. ] — and, thank you. For listening. No one else knows all of that, either. Not fully, anyway.

[carmesi]

It was my fault.

[there's no point in cutting corners. it was her magic that spiraled out of control, latched onto something incredibly private, all because her intent was that she wanted to uncover something dark, something deliciously upsetting, just so she could feed her own pain.

but she offers a small smile nonetheless, because it means so much to her, that peter would not blame her for what she's done. wanda knows he is smart enough to know where fault lies.

this really speaks to how beautiful and generous his heart is.]

It's not easy. [parsing through these feelings—keeping them in, allowing others to know about them. neither option is easier.] Vision would constantly walk into my room to see how I was doing, after Pietro's funeral. I found it so irritating, but... it helps.

[she rubs her hand gently along his back, and then allows for distance between each other. their knees knock together, but nothing more.]

You can talk to me any time you want, Peter.

[looking around at the work-in-progress that is peter's horizon, she settles back on the couch.]

I only saw these kinds of apartments on American sitcoms. Do you know Friends? [PLZ] Their apartments were much bigger.