[ do you hate me she asks. and he wasn’t exactly expecting the question, despite it not being surprising when it comes.
he twists his hands under hers until he can slip his fingers around them, hold back, and he shakes his head.
there’s no hesitation there. there isn’t, same as the last time. ] No, [ brows furrow, and a frown scrunches his nose and his eyes are locked on hers. ] Never, Wanda.
[ what happened — what she did, the weight of that — yes, it’s wrong. peter isn’t so naive as to not recognize the significance of her actions.
but he meant what he said. the lowest moments can’t define them. and he kind of made a promise to her kids, did he?
besides, aunt may said: everyone deserves second chances. she’s told him that, when those people came pouring in from different universes. when he could have seen them as murderers, people who’ve done terrible things, and instead he saw people who needed help. who could, perhaps naively, perhaps hopefully, be redeemed.
how could he hate wanda for — for what? for being hurt? afraid? influenced by some magic book that, peter only assumes, had taken and pulled and twisted those desires to its own means, too? why would he hate her for wanting to be happy?
great power. great responsibility. their mistakes make greater impact. but — they aren’t their mistakes because that assumed there’s no coming back from something.
and peter doesn’t believe in that.
so the answer is simple. he could never, ever hate her. could he worry? could he disagree? yes. but she did the right thing at the end, didn’t she? her intention, at the very end, was the right one and he, more than anything, understands the sacrifice of willingly choosing something that damages you to save the rest.
he holds on tight, sniffs, and looks around the apartment. at the kitchen. despite the gravity of all they’ve just seen, the place around them isn’t the dreary, lonely apartment caught in a december in New York. it’s decidedly one of his aunt’s. warm light, steadfast and cozy and he hadn’t realized he’d shaped it as such until he pays attention again. ] How about — do you wanna sit? We could figure out what to do next together, if you want? I can make tea? And pancakes.
[ well, make is a loose term given that they’re in his horizon. he could just dream them up, if he wanted to. he knows he just keeps talking, but — but there’s something he could do to try and help, right? to try and pull her out of her thoughts. he moves to stand, hands still clasped around hers. maybe he doesn’t even realize exactly, that he keeps talking. ] Aunt May would make pancakes and sometimes we’d talk, and it felt like we could solve all the world’s problems.
no subject
he twists his hands under hers until he can slip his fingers around them, hold back, and he shakes his head.
there’s no hesitation there. there isn’t, same as the last time. ] No, [ brows furrow, and a frown scrunches his nose and his eyes are locked on hers. ] Never, Wanda.
[ what happened — what she did, the weight of that — yes, it’s wrong. peter isn’t so naive as to not recognize the significance of her actions.
but he meant what he said. the lowest moments can’t define them. and he kind of made a promise to her kids, did he?
besides, aunt may said: everyone deserves second chances. she’s told him that, when those people came pouring in from different universes. when he could have seen them as murderers, people who’ve done terrible things, and instead he saw people who needed help. who could, perhaps naively, perhaps hopefully, be redeemed.
how could he hate wanda for — for what? for being hurt? afraid? influenced by some magic book that, peter only assumes, had taken and pulled and twisted those desires to its own means, too? why would he hate her for wanting to be happy?
great power. great responsibility. their mistakes make greater impact. but — they aren’t their mistakes because that assumed there’s no coming back from something.
and peter doesn’t believe in that.
so the answer is simple. he could never, ever hate her. could he worry? could he disagree? yes. but she did the right thing at the end, didn’t she? her intention, at the very end, was the right one and he, more than anything, understands the sacrifice of willingly choosing something that damages you to save the rest.
he holds on tight, sniffs, and looks around the apartment. at the kitchen. despite the gravity of all they’ve just seen, the place around them isn’t the dreary, lonely apartment caught in a december in New York. it’s decidedly one of his aunt’s. warm light, steadfast and cozy and he hadn’t realized he’d shaped it as such until he pays attention again. ] How about — do you wanna sit? We could figure out what to do next together, if you want? I can make tea? And pancakes.
[ well, make is a loose term given that they’re in his horizon. he could just dream them up, if he wanted to. he knows he just keeps talking, but — but there’s something he could do to try and help, right? to try and pull her out of her thoughts. he moves to stand, hands still clasped around hers. maybe he doesn’t even realize exactly, that he keeps talking. ] Aunt May would make pancakes and sometimes we’d talk, and it felt like we could solve all the world’s problems.