( it's been several centuries of relative peace and quiet in the amazon, until the day druig feels a shudder across north america like a stone dropped into a large pond, a ripple of magical energy. and he perks up, like a hunting hound that just heard a distant and far-off whistle.
in all his millennia of existence, this has never happened before. and if there's anything that can catch the eternal's attention and pique his curiosity, it's something genuinely new.
so he leaves his isolated village, and he goes. talks his way into private-chartered planes with just the slightest mental nudge; hops a car the same way; and then eventually arrives at westview, where SWORD agents are milling on the perimeter. whatever's happening here, westview feels like an infection growing hot beneath the surface, a blister in reality and in need of lancing. druig saunters right past the secret agents without their noticing, just the faintest yellow glow to his eyes to indicate that their distraction isn't natural.
and ten minutes later, a stranger walks into the local five-and-dime. everything is in black-and-white, and for a second he looks just like any other '50s greaser, his hair slicked into a thick rockabilly style. but with a flicker of irritation and his hand gesturing like he's waving away an errant fly, he—
(shifts, somehow, imperceptibly)
and the greased hairstyle is gone, back to just tousled and untidy black hair. he's still wearing a leather jacket and sunglasses, but the design is modern and anachronistic. when you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, there's perhaps an occasional blurry smear of colour where there wasn't before, like a gap in the illusion. he swings himself onto a stool; orders a coffee and a milkshake and a towering stack of pancakes. once the milkshake arrives, he folds his sunglasses back into his coat pocket, savours a long insouciant slurp through a straw, and then spins his stool to peer at the woman seated down the counter.
he looks young — late twenties, early thirties? — but there's something tired and older than his years in his sleepy eyes, that probing blue gaze. when he speaks up, there's an unexpected irish roll to his accent. )
[ there are dozens of things spider-man should be taking care of as night falls over new york city and all the mischief comes out to play. there are crimes to stop, people to help, tips to give to the local police and yet spider-man finds himself lost in thought.
peter parker finds himself lost in thought more often than not these days. it's easier to find a building to perch upon than to dwell in the ramshackle studio apartment he secured and try to make sense of what his life happens to be now. it's one of those nights.
he scans faces, looks down at the bustle of the city - he can see window lights and dining rooms set for families and loved ones. he can hear the laughter of some friends up the block and it sends him reeling -
head down, deep breath. get it together, spider-man. a mantra he's become an expert at.
one leap and he's sailing through the skies, whirling through the city on manufactured webbing and ignoring the way this suit doesn't feel quite right. it's an older stark model, one he's taken apart and put back together to the point that it's unrecognizable. it has to be.
for a brief moment, he thinks he sees something familiar in the window of one of the hotels, a face - red hair, haunting eyes, a set jaw - but he blinks it out of existence as he comes to perch on one of the balcony railings to admire the way the sun sets on the city.
no familiar faces. right. ]
Jeez, the view...
[ it's sad, the way he says it to himself and he breathes in the night air on a sigh. ]
( she's never quite felt like the city knows how to hold her. perhaps she was simply too much for it, too used to the dust-rubbled streets of sokovia or the reflective panes of headquarters. somehow it feels quieter than the whispering hills and forests of scotland, feels quieter than keeping herself hidden away, muting herself from the rest of the world as it spun madly on. truthfully, she doesn't know why it is she's found herself back here, moving from one hotel to the next as if one might feel kinder than the last β a little warmer, a little more familiar β
it never does.
there's no telling how long it's been since the piping water she'd drawn for a bath had run cold, finding herself looking over the balcony instead with arms curled around her ribs, the cold of january biting at her cheeks. she's hardly dressed for it, but there's something to appreciate in the way it finds its way easily through the oversized t-shirt and sweatpants hanging at her hips, how it makes her teeth chatter quietly, how breath fogs before her lips.
her peripherals find him first, like a gliding shadow between the brief yawn of brick buildings, a weightless furl upward that leaves him perched on a balcony not far from her own. something squeezes in her chest β familiar β and the first time she thinks to find her tongue teeth find it instead.
brows furrow, and then she calls to him- tone ridden with question, meeker than she'd like, and an undertone of something else. )
( she swallows, and the bruise painted like a plum horizon across her throat gives a dull, resounding ache.
how could you explain the feeling? going back to the place the made you what you are. the insulated steel walls, the double sided glass pane meant for spectators, doctors, scientists alike to marvel over you. the collar β a pity for them they believed it would be enough, now. that you haven't grown to something bigger, far more violent, unforgiving. death touched.
there's a fire in her ribs every time she breathes. something broken, maybe, but it pales in comparison to the way she feels when she hears his name β something about coordinates, how he was on his way to her, that the rest wouldn't be long to follow. he, he, he. an array of thoughts bombard her the second she hears it. she was here because of him... had the titans been involved with hydra all the while? had she really been so naive to think their nights together, his caring for her could take precedence over them? it wouldn't be the first time she'd blurred reality to something softer, easier to digest. was it the reason he'd fallen quiet? too ridden with guilt, or maybe having gone just far enough? no β it didn't make sense. they wouldn't be tracking him if they had an accord, if she was meant to be here. if they didn't have reason to worry when he arrived.
what does it say of her, that she allows herself to be paralyzed with the thought of him? leave β she needs to leave. panic swells in her chest, another too-big breath that causes features to wince, that colors her vision with white, leaves her whirling. if he knows they have her, he'll know if they lose her. she blinks herself back to her surroundings just in time to hear someone knock tauntingly at the wall of thick glass.
anger furls within her, and then everything is red. )
[ . . . ]
( the hex around the safe house hums. it acts as a ward, to alert her if anything, anyone crosses it. to think she'd reshaped an entire town within one without so much as a thought β now, she had to keep it from slipping, catching herself every so often when it crackled with static, when her body begged to pull her under. her phone blips with the reminder of missed calls, text messages β wilson, natasha, peter β and with a huff she's turning off the device and pressing it across the counter, bracing herself there as black swims at the edges of her gaze.
a hot bath and some sleep, she tells herself that's all she needs, but the moment everything stills around her there's a tugging, a presence β something is here that should not be.
longing felt something like this: to know it was him, sightless, without sound; by feeling alone. )
[ the stakes suddenly become personal. the nightmare heβs clawing through closes in on him, and he struggles to breathe through it. it feels like suffocating, as if he's stuck in a corner he can't escape. the feeling clenches in his mind as he peels down the city streets, in his body as he races towards her. it tightens through his bones as he arrives to the ghost of a building and lodges around his heart when all he finds left of the fortified cage is an empty, crumbled shell, charred to coal, as if it had been made of paper.
then, the search begins. his mind whirrs as he conducts the first comb through of the facilities, relying heavily on practice and training to hold on to a strand of steadiness. hydra practically evacuated. all thatβs left are bits of equipment, strewn about with the casualties. it sends hot anger crawling up his throat, but he doesnβt dare ask whose body count it is (itβs his). he checks pulse points, and helps those he still can, covering the nightwing blue in dust and grime until the rescue team arrives.
but itβs all a distraction. he isnβt where heβs supposed to be, reliable and solid by the titansβ side. instead, heβs here, cleaning up the mess of a botched hydra plan that only continues to be fucked up. but sheβs not here. sheβs nowhere to be found among the dust and debris. itβs both relieving and distressing. questions spin through his mind as he vigilantly searches, trying his best to keep the desperation under control as he looks through security footage and police scanners, racking his brain for an answer as to where she could be. is she hurt? is she safe? is she even alive? would she see him at all, after all that's happened? would she believe that he misses her and wants nothing else but to know sheβs ok?
the nightβs pitch black when desperation takes him to search through the last thing he knows: the various safe houses that have sheltered them from their lives. itβs not until the fourth one he tries that a spark of hope blooms too-bright within him. the door swings open with a retina scan, and he stands in the threshold, dressed in head to toe black, skin grimey, eyes haunted, sleeplessness wreaking havoc on his nerves. but the strand of hope quivers inside him as small traces of inhabitation stand out in the otherwise stark space. he canβt help the way his voice frays. ]
( she could have hidden everything, even edging exhaustion as she is. could've snuffed out the lights without so much as a thought, painted a mirage across the safe house to make it appear untouched, surely vacant of anything alive β but she doesn't. again, she finds herself hesitating, trying to put a name to the fire that swells within her. something like anger βΒ a hurt that distinguishes itself sharply from her ribs, her throat β like distance, miles that have been lodged between them since he'd gone quiet. it'd taken hardly any time at all for guards to slot right back into place, to feel herself begin to turn cold. an unreachable, unrecognizable thing. again.
it's an emptiness she understands, one she's sat intimately with before. one that'd led her back to the open fields and mountains of sokovia. alone. right now she just wants to be alone β
a hand lifts to brace against her side, lids fluttering closed when she hears her name. that voice, his voice, calling for her.
a shaky breath, ragged as it causes her ribs to bloom just where the splintering pain resounds from. it takes her a long moment to find her voice, to make her tongue any bit willing to respond β to him, to anything. it's a ghostly sound when she finally speaks, a low and chilly velvet, crisp with finality. )
Wanda, [ again, her name, as soon as her voice rings out, the relief suddenly flooding him for a split second before the words set in. his strides quicken, hastily crossing the vast living space to turn the corner into the kitchen.
there she is, a smear of colour against the blue and grey, all the glass and steel of their enclosure. his breath shudders out his parted lips, the cold, shaky fear suddenly transforming into something hot and sharp, melding with the constriction until he's shaking his head, taking fast, long steps towards her. ]
No, I've been looking for you. Fuck, you're-- [ alive. ] Are you--let me see you.
( he says her name again and all she can think is that she wants him to stop, that she wants everything to stop, and it's a dangerous thought to have. an itch that burrows its way deep, that leaves something festering as her jaw sets and he crosses the space between them. it's all she can do to hold a hand up, palm towards him, but there aren't any scarlet tendrils that curl up from her digits β instead it's just a warning, a request, a plea β stop. )
Don't. ( she doesn't have the energy to snicker, but god how she'd like to at the idea of it. i've been looking for you. for how long? she wants to say. perhaps she'd been hiding for longer than she'd thought. maybe it was just her all along.
she steels a breath, and she can't bring herself to meet his gaze. there's no part of her that enjoys this, that appreciates the bitter thing he's met with there in the dim lighting of the kitchen. it's the only way she knows how to protect herself, like she should have done from the beginning. )
I'm fine. ( but everything gives her away, fingers trembling, pain lurched into her throat. the only thing even is her voice. ) Someone could have β ... did anyone follow you?
[ despite every cell in his body wanting nothing but to get closer, he stops in his tracks, palms floating cautiously at his sides. he's taken aback by the warning that sounds in the back of his mind: she's powerful. she's dangerous.
he tilts his head, brows furrowed as another breath shakily sifts out of him. he shakes his head. ]
No, I made sure of it and-- [ he takes another step forward, aching with every word she says, careful on his feet. ] Wanda. [ her name, almost a plea in his mouth. ] Let me get you some help, I can't leave you like this.
( while she can appreciate the sentiment, she isn't so sure she wants the company. all of it feels a little too close to headquarters, allowing her to believe she were there of her own free will, to lap up the comforts and the quiet, until she tried to leave. like she were some unstable thing that might give at any moment.
her coming back to the city had been a decision that'd been made over months while hidden in the mountains of sokovia, and since she'd arrived there's been a restlessness gnawing at her ankles. too many memories, too much loss reminding her that the idea of home had already been shattered here, too. )
i'm afraid the only worthy piece of advice i can offer is another vote for the golden girls. betty white deserves her homages. i used to put on reruns of bewitched when i couldn't fall asleep.
would you believe it's been years since i've actually watched anything? no wonder i can't blend seamlessly into society
[The last time Marc was in New York he'd been trying to escape his problems (big surprise there) and chased after a lead he told himself was more for Khonshu and his "work" than anything else. He'd ended up completing the mission but crossed paths with a few too many other hero-types suited for something bigger than himself and what he'd been accustomed to while serving a god no one else could see. It ended up being a good thing though because he was a little in over his head, a threat beyond the average criminal with highly advanced tech, and while he doesn't doubt his own abilities, he wasn't sure he could have finished that particular job on his own. It's no wonder New York has so many vigilantes running about - they've got bigger issues popping up every other week like persistent pests.
It's been years.
Being back in the states at all feels strange and there's a lingering dread in the pit of his stomach when he first lands, not having been here since... a long time. Not since he last visited Chicago and everything in his personal life spiraled out of control. New York is distant enough from that place but it's also a part of the world Marc prefers to avoid, having firmly set his roots elsewhere. At the same time, he came here with a purpose, tracking down some asshole for some job so he can get food on their table again, even if his methods are one Steven doesn't approve of - even if Steven isn't completely convinced that's the only reason Marc is tailing after this particular job too. Regardless, they're here, and Marc managed to bribe the alter with the concept of tourism to get him to pipe down. This is Steven's first time being in New York after all.
When the job is all said and done and there's nothing left to distract a restless mind, Marc contemplates booking the earliest possible flight back to London, but a little voice in his head reminds him that they never really get to go much of anywhere these days, and when's the last time Marc took a proper vacation? Probably never. Probably not since his honeymoon for his failed marriage.
Marc isn't sure what compels him at first - perhaps loneliness, nostalgia, something he'd rather not name - but when he looks through his old contacts the first person he thinks to reach out to while in the city is the last person he expects to actually respond. He hasn't seen Wanda in many years, since that run-in with the Avengers so very long ago, but given the late hour... he isn't too surprised to hear from her after all. Maybe he already knew she'd be awake. It takes a lot of self-reflection and convincing to actually leave his hotel room and head in the direction of her place, though not before stopping to pick up some late night tacos on the way there. Food is always a balm for a restless mind, especially this late at night. Navigating New York is easier by rooftop anyway and he somehow manages to get to her building with the tacos in one piece, avoiding the game of 20 Questions ringing through his head as Steven wonders who they're seeing, what she's like, is she a friend or a friend?
God, can you please not for one damn night?
The knock on her door doesn't come from the traditional (and normal) method of using the buzzer downstairs, but instead Marc is crouched up on her fire escape, gloved hand rapping on her window, mask drawn back to avoid the eerie glow of his eyes. Why is he nervous?]
( she hadn't expected the message. truthfully, she couldn't be so sure exactly what it was that compelled her to respond in the first place. since she's gotten back from the quiet of sokovia it's been an adjustment, learning to keep company with the constant klaxon chatter of the city and creaks of the aged floorboards in her brick-front. she'd made a suitor of the silence she'd sat with for so long that she often finds herself restless here, unsettled and on edge, always trying to find some way to keep herself busy β hands, mind, always stirring. more often than not she leaves her phone tucked away in the cushions of the couch, downturned on some stray end table and silenced like some daunting thing that only made her bloom with guilt whenever she addressed it, unanswered messages and voicemails left unplayed glowering up at her.
his name sits foreignly in her chest at first, glancing up across her dimmed apartment. she doesn't know how long it's been since she's seen him, years in the least, it's all dazed β but all of that time had come with so much chaos, rubble, hurt. seeing him after so long, seeing anyone after so long, it's only bound to unearth it all, isn't it? there's no way to say what he knows and what he doesn't. but maybe it's that distance that makes her more comfortable with the idea β being a little more stranger, a little more displaced. an unknown when she could see it all in the eyes of anyone that'd once been close to her; everything she's done.
it's only so long she allows herself to fuss over her hair and dig through the monotonous, cotton-piled of clothes that she digresses with a frustrated huff, left in the same pair of sweatpants and little tank top she'd started her night with. as if attempting to make herself look a bit more put together would change anything, change the fact that she was so clearly split into sharpened pieces.
she tries not to overthink it. why her, of all people. why now. one of the others could've reached out and put him up to it, or maybe he'd read about new jersey β she's left a flurry of thoughts in disarray, turning on one of the small lights in the living area to give a bit of warmth to the space just before she hears the hollow echo on the window pane. brows pull to a tuft, and a glance over her shoulder paints him there perched on the fire escape, moonlight catching at the cape that whips behind him in the crisp, late-winter air.
before limbs carry her toward the sight, she spots the bag held in his free hand, grease saturating through its sides invitingly, and her stomach gives a tiny grumble. the way to her heart if there ever was one. the slightest smirk greets her lips once she's managed the window open, frigid air let in with an eager breath. )
Is this some new food delivery service I haven't heard about it?
[Marc is not the type to reach out to anyone and seek connections. If he was on his own, he probably would've tried to get some shut eye tonight and then been on the first flight back to the UK in the morning, leaving no trace of him ever having been in New York, and not bothering to seek out old friends. He doesn't have many of those these days though, having effectively shut out the majority of people from his past (some for the better), but a little convincing encouragement in his ear reminded him of just how alone he is these days. It's good to have reliable friends and there aren't many people Marc trusts anymore. He can use as many allies as he can get.
Maybe that's why meeting with Wanda after all these years doesn't feel as concerning even with rumors of what happened recently in New Jersey. Marc hasn't been great at keeping up with that kind of news - for good reason - but maybe reading her name in some headlines reminded him of days when he wasn't such an isolated mess. She'd saved his ass before, and that was enough to build his trust at the time. Besides, he isn't one to judge others for suspicious behavior. Marc is far from perfect and his past is full of shame.
Despite all of this internal convincing though he begins to doubt himself just as he catches a glimpse of Wanda in the window, approaching behind the foggy glass, and once it's opened with a wash of warmth from inside, he can't help but feel a little guilty bothering her out of the blue. That's the annoying doubt nagging at his heart though and he brushes it aside in favor of holding up his greasy bag on offer.]
And I don't even charge a service fee. [His tone is dry but there's a hint of a smile on his lips too, taking this as an invitation to hop on in. Marc waits to land inside and briefly scans the room before he lets his armor melt away into the air of the open window, leaving him in nothing but typical civilians clothes - a gray hoodie to combat the chill, a pair of dark fitted jeans. He's always dressed for ease and convenience and that really hasn't changed over the years.
He turns toward Wanda again, once more holding up the little bag.] I was surprised that taco place on 43rd is still running. Guess I was feeling nostalgic.
[Honestly, he only planned so far ahead, and now that he's here, he hopes to not devolve into something terribly awkward.]
( it isn't missed to her how familiar the two of them were with the unconventional, things others wouldn't hesitate to question or be left mouths agape over β a man appearing at their fire escape in a suit with glowering eyes, for one. another being the way the fabric seamlessly evaporates once he's settled himself inside, the moon like a crest on his sternum the last to go with a lingering glint of gold. still, it offered them some sort of reprieve, turned a man most might consider just a sliver past a stranger someone she inherently trusted, even if it were only surface level. what they did β her with the avengers and his on his own β was an occupation shared by only a few, and understood by far less.
it's a knowing that nips at the tension she might otherwise carry, if he were only a man she'd met no more than once, if the night came with any implications not introduced by the fact that they'd both come within moments of their lives a few years prior, and left unscathed. )
Well now I'm just being spoiled.
( a glimmer of something genuine hints at her lips while teeth momentarily bare, gently plucking the bag from him and making toward the kitchen, a small furl of fingers sliding the window back into place. she sets the bag atop the counter, pressing to her toes to dig out a plate for each of them, humming conversationally as she does. )
The city has a way of doing that. ( a little mumbled, spoken over her shoulder before she's turned toward him once more, gaze from across the room invitation enough for him to join her. and, because she's had a bit of a difficult time making a home out of a city so many others couldn't bare to leave β ) So I've heard.
[It's strange, and he knows it. It's strange for him to show up here with food out of the blue, to think to reach out to Wanda of all people first, when they haven't spoken in years, when they both moved on with their lives and have experienced so much in the time between then and now. Marc only knows what he's read in headlines, through perspectives of others judging the Avengers, judging her. The truth of all that's happened lives only in their minds but the fact that Wanda has opened herself up to this as well is... something. She didn't have to. She could have ignored him or told him no, yet she didn't.
Marc feels like an intruder upon someone else's home, eyes following as she goes into her little kitchen to grab some things. He takes the opportunity to look around the space, noting the lack of anything personal on the walls or windowsills, no photos of friends or family he can see upon first glance, though Marc understands why without having to ask. Steven has grown quieter in his mind but he can tell the alter is curious too now that he realizes who Marc has come to visit, seeing someone normally so out of reach and feeling larger-than-life living so... normally - it's novel to him.
Her voice calls his attention back to her and Marc wanders toward the kitchen to help, grabbing some napkins off a counter and reaching for a plate. Funny how the first thing they both do is move around one another like this is normal, like they meet up all the time, rather than ask the dreaded question: how have you been?]
Never really got the appeal. I thought London was loud but New York is its own beast. [Shaking his head a hint, he waits for Wanda's lead about where to go or sit, not wanting to assume and get comfortable when it might not be welcome. He's tempted to ask something, to push toward an area even he would be uncomfortable with, but thinks better of it and continues with:] I'm surprised you didn't tell me to get lost.
[ a text, three hours before heβs set to deplane and board a helicopter to the remote cabin in Sokovia. the seven hour flight has felt like a lifetime. ]
Iβm usually pretty good at passing out on the jet but Iβm so excited to see you I canβt sleep.
( anticipation sits like a low hum that doesn't subside, leaves her fiddling with any nook of the cabin that catches her eye, inside and out. it's a restlessness that so nearly resembles unease that it takes her aback; calls on her to question the gravity of this, of him, of them.
the cabin was the one thing she had well and truly to herself, quiet and alone. it spoke for itself, really, that she wanted him to become a part of that at all. )
i think it's only fair some of those sleepless nights are repaid. ( a small smile bleeds across her lips. )
you're sure it's not because you can't sprawl out and hog all of the space?
[ he hadnβt been sure he would ever be invited to cross that threshold and into her cabin, into the parts of her he knew she kept protected and hidden away. he had long since accepted that he may not ever get to explore the bounds of her, to trace out her whole being the way she can with him.
and he was okay with that.
that sheβs opening up her most private space to him was truly unexpected, though it had thrilled him to no end. too bad the timing of his lengthy investigative mission made it so difficult for him to give her a timeline. he hoped she didnβt mistaken it for apathy.
as soon as it all wrapped, he called the jet and was on his way. weeks early. ]
I thought you liked when I kept you up. I clearly remember many times where you told me not to stop.
[ he smiles wide, teasing, knowing thatβs not what she means but glad heβs the only one in the plane cabin because heβs terrible at keeping a straight face when her messages are on his phone. especially when anticipation winds fluttery in his gut. ]
But yeah, itβs not that. Itβs pretty spacious in here without anyone else.
[ hint number one that heβs on his way: heβs the only one on the jet and he rarely flies alone unless heβs going somewhere remote. he takes a selfie and sends it: him, sprawled out on the plush leather seat, the oval outline of the jet window framing the night sky outside. his warm eyes are bright, his smile intimate and excited. ]
( there are things that make her hesitate β fingertips ghosting along a bedroom door left closed, two twin beds perched at each side of the room. a home for children who could not return, who were never truly there in the first place. various picture frames perched on dressers and shelves. small projects she was still in the midst of: a petite, tidy shed tucked behind a garden, flower pots left still and undecided. it wasn't typical of something one would call their own, no recurring declarations that said wanda β instead, too many fragmented pieces of herself dispersed here and there, and time away stretched in between.
anxiety stirs, but even his light taunting stills her. the slow bloom of a smile persists, want and longing tugging within her all at once. )
you can be incredibly convincing. ( namely: nestled between her thighs.
when the photo comes through she takes a long moment to savor it, as if there were something so private about it, a keepsake β him, alone and smiling and in something other than his dress clothes. not that she particularly minds them. she'll blame the hour for the sight of him rousing her so easily. )
mm. you're right, you have far too much room. it's a shame i'm not there to help you pass the time
[ heβs not afraid of what heβll find in sokovia, but he does know there are whole sections of her world, real and imaginary, that she must keep there. he braces himself for it, promises himself to be honest with his reactions. itβs the least she deserves from him. ]
Good. Is that why you let me get away with so much?
[ he misses her so incredibly much when theyβre apart, especially when she says things like that, that send his mind soaring through both memory and imagination. ]
It really is. I have all this time and space and all I want to do is sit here and talk to you.
( it's a few minutes before she responds, taking her time to trace her gaze across the city glimmering in the photo he's sent. as if she might be able to pinpoint him exactly by the image alone, what surrounds him, and paint herself there beside him by closing her eyes.
the barest hint of a smile toys at her lips as she thumbs her reply. )
[ her reply pulls a small chuckle out of him, a sound that bleeds quickly away with the wind whipping around the skyscraper. he curls a leg onto the ledge of the rooftop, looks around at all that empty space around him. ]
I wish. I always miss you, you know. Whenever I see something beautiful. Or when I'm having a good night. Wish I could share it with you for real.
( it's something they both warred with: permanency. the idea of it something that skirts between her fingers, something that teases whenever she's with him. the question of whether or not she should stay. if the 'they' they've created is contingent upon their bowing in and out. )
do you?
( it's not disbelief. missing him had long since turned into an ache that never settled, something burring in the heart of her sternum. hearing it in return is never quite something she finds herself getting used to. it's as if they're asking without asking, telling without tellingβalways one foot off the ledge. )
i like when you share it with me. even in small ways, like this. it makes me feel a little bit closer.
i'd like to be there for them the bad nights, too.
[ there's something about being perched over the city, with the beast of it heaving beneath him that makes this easier. it's like being in the sky makes him untouchable, gives him the space he needs to contain the big, vast feeling of missing her. that feeling he usually tucks away beneath the noise of his schedule. ]
I do. Why? You don't believe me?
[ has it been that long? why does she question it? his smile dims. he has learned that he can't keep her out, but she's right, it's not always easy to her her in either. especially when things are hard, and things have been hard recently. as soon as he sends the text, he regrets it. ]
Sorry. I didn't mean to be distant. Shit's been hitting the fan lately. I should've checked in more.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
β take all your pages, set them on fire. take off your cage and go back to the wild.
in all his millennia of existence, this has never happened before. and if there's anything that can catch the eternal's attention and pique his curiosity, it's something genuinely new.
so he leaves his isolated village, and he goes. talks his way into private-chartered planes with just the slightest mental nudge; hops a car the same way; and then eventually arrives at westview, where SWORD agents are milling on the perimeter. whatever's happening here, westview feels like an infection growing hot beneath the surface, a blister in reality and in need of lancing. druig saunters right past the secret agents without their noticing, just the faintest yellow glow to his eyes to indicate that their distraction isn't natural.
and ten minutes later, a stranger walks into the local five-and-dime. everything is in black-and-white, and for a second he looks just like any other '50s greaser, his hair slicked into a thick rockabilly style. but with a flicker of irritation and his hand gesturing like he's waving away an errant fly, he—
(shifts, somehow, imperceptibly)
and the greased hairstyle is gone, back to just tousled and untidy black hair. he's still wearing a leather jacket and sunglasses, but the design is modern and anachronistic. when you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, there's perhaps an occasional blurry smear of colour where there wasn't before, like a gap in the illusion. he swings himself onto a stool; orders a coffee and a milkshake and a towering stack of pancakes. once the milkshake arrives, he folds his sunglasses back into his coat pocket, savours a long insouciant slurp through a straw, and then spins his stool to peer at the woman seated down the counter.
he looks young — late twenties, early thirties? — but there's something tired and older than his years in his sleepy eyes, that probing blue gaze. when he speaks up, there's an unexpected irish roll to his accent. )
Funny place you've got here.
π¨πππ£π ππ π¨π ππ ππ£π π πππ£π -
peter parker finds himself lost in thought more often than not these days. it's easier to find a building to perch upon than to dwell in the ramshackle studio apartment he secured and try to make sense of what his life happens to be now. it's one of those nights.
he scans faces, looks down at the bustle of the city - he can see window lights and dining rooms set for families and loved ones. he can hear the laughter of some friends up the block and it sends him reeling -
head down, deep breath. get it together, spider-man. a mantra he's become an expert at.
one leap and he's sailing through the skies, whirling through the city on manufactured webbing and ignoring the way this suit doesn't feel quite right. it's an older stark model, one he's taken apart and put back together to the point that it's unrecognizable. it has to be.
for a brief moment, he thinks he sees something familiar in the window of one of the hotels, a face - red hair, haunting eyes, a set jaw - but he blinks it out of existence as he comes to perch on one of the balcony railings to admire the way the sun sets on the city.
no familiar faces. right. ]
Jeez, the view...
[ it's sad, the way he says it to himself and he breathes in the night air on a sigh. ]
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it never does.
there's no telling how long it's been since the piping water she'd drawn for a bath had run cold, finding herself looking over the balcony instead with arms curled around her ribs, the cold of january biting at her cheeks. she's hardly dressed for it, but there's something to appreciate in the way it finds its way easily through the oversized t-shirt and sweatpants hanging at her hips, how it makes her teeth chatter quietly, how breath fogs before her lips.
her peripherals find him first, like a gliding shadow between the brief yawn of brick buildings, a weightless furl upward that leaves him perched on a balcony not far from her own. something squeezes in her chest β familiar β and the first time she thinks to find her tongue teeth find it instead.
brows furrow, and then she calls to him- tone ridden with question, meeker than she'd like, and an undertone of something else. )
Peter?
β who could resist the burning in everything?
how could you explain the feeling? going back to the place the made you what you are. the insulated steel walls, the double sided glass pane meant for spectators, doctors, scientists alike to marvel over you. the collar β a pity for them they believed it would be enough, now. that you haven't grown to something bigger, far more violent, unforgiving. death touched.
there's a fire in her ribs every time she breathes. something broken, maybe, but it pales in comparison to the way she feels when she hears his name β something about coordinates, how he was on his way to her, that the rest wouldn't be long to follow. he, he, he. an array of thoughts bombard her the second she hears it. she was here because of him... had the titans been involved with hydra all the while? had she really been so naive to think their nights together, his caring for her could take precedence over them? it wouldn't be the first time she'd blurred reality to something softer, easier to digest. was it the reason he'd fallen quiet? too ridden with guilt, or maybe having gone just far enough? no β it didn't make sense. they wouldn't be tracking him if they had an accord, if she was meant to be here. if they didn't have reason to worry when he arrived.
what does it say of her, that she allows herself to be paralyzed with the thought of him? leave β she needs to leave. panic swells in her chest, another too-big breath that causes features to wince, that colors her vision with white, leaves her whirling. if he knows they have her, he'll know if they lose her. she blinks herself back to her surroundings just in time to hear someone knock tauntingly at the wall of thick glass.
anger furls within her, and then everything is red. )
[ . . . ]
( the hex around the safe house hums. it acts as a ward, to alert her if anything, anyone crosses it. to think she'd reshaped an entire town within one without so much as a thought β now, she had to keep it from slipping, catching herself every so often when it crackled with static, when her body begged to pull her under. her phone blips with the reminder of missed calls, text messages β wilson, natasha, peter β and with a huff she's turning off the device and pressing it across the counter, bracing herself there as black swims at the edges of her gaze.
a hot bath and some sleep, she tells herself that's all she needs, but the moment everything stills around her there's a tugging, a presence β something is here that should not be.
longing felt something like this: to know it was him, sightless, without sound; by feeling alone. )
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then, the search begins. his mind whirrs as he conducts the first comb through of the facilities, relying heavily on practice and training to hold on to a strand of steadiness. hydra practically evacuated. all thatβs left are bits of equipment, strewn about with the casualties. it sends hot anger crawling up his throat, but he doesnβt dare ask whose body count it is (itβs his). he checks pulse points, and helps those he still can, covering the nightwing blue in dust and grime until the rescue team arrives.
but itβs all a distraction. he isnβt where heβs supposed to be, reliable and solid by the titansβ side. instead, heβs here, cleaning up the mess of a botched hydra plan that only continues to be fucked up. but sheβs not here. sheβs nowhere to be found among the dust and debris. itβs both relieving and distressing. questions spin through his mind as he vigilantly searches, trying his best to keep the desperation under control as he looks through security footage and police scanners, racking his brain for an answer as to where she could be. is she hurt? is she safe? is she even alive? would she see him at all, after all that's happened? would she believe that he misses her and wants nothing else but to know sheβs ok?
the nightβs pitch black when desperation takes him to search through the last thing he knows: the various safe houses that have sheltered them from their lives. itβs not until the fourth one he tries that a spark of hope blooms too-bright within him. the door swings open with a retina scan, and he stands in the threshold, dressed in head to toe black, skin grimey, eyes haunted, sleeplessness wreaking havoc on his nerves. but the strand of hope quivers inside him as small traces of inhabitation stand out in the otherwise stark space. he canβt help the way his voice frays. ]
Wanda?
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it's an emptiness she understands, one she's sat intimately with before. one that'd led her back to the open fields and mountains of sokovia. alone. right now she just wants to be alone β
a hand lifts to brace against her side, lids fluttering closed when she hears her name. that voice, his voice, calling for her.
a shaky breath, ragged as it causes her ribs to bloom just where the splintering pain resounds from. it takes her a long moment to find her voice, to make her tongue any bit willing to respond β to him, to anything. it's a ghostly sound when she finally speaks, a low and chilly velvet, crisp with finality. )
You shouldn't be here.
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there she is, a smear of colour against the blue and grey, all the glass and steel of their enclosure. his breath shudders out his parted lips, the cold, shaky fear suddenly transforming into something hot and sharp, melding with the constriction until he's shaking his head, taking fast, long steps towards her. ]
No, I've been looking for you. Fuck, you're-- [ alive. ] Are you--let me see you.
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Don't. ( she doesn't have the energy to snicker, but god how she'd like to at the idea of it. i've been looking for you. for how long? she wants to say. perhaps she'd been hiding for longer than she'd thought. maybe it was just her all along.
she steels a breath, and she can't bring herself to meet his gaze. there's no part of her that enjoys this, that appreciates the bitter thing he's met with there in the dim lighting of the kitchen. it's the only way she knows how to protect herself, like she should have done from the beginning. )
I'm fine. ( but everything gives her away, fingers trembling, pain lurched into her throat. the only thing even is her voice. ) Someone could have β ... did anyone follow you?
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he tilts his head, brows furrowed as another breath shakily sifts out of him. he shakes his head. ]
No, I made sure of it and-- [ he takes another step forward, aching with every word she says, careful on his feet. ] Wanda. [ her name, almost a plea in his mouth. ] Let me get you some help, I can't leave you like this.
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β for uxo.
are you saying i'm not already on your good side?
( while she can appreciate the sentiment, she isn't so sure she wants the company. all of it feels a little too close to headquarters, allowing her to believe she were there of her own free will, to lap up the comforts and the quiet, until she tried to leave. like she were some unstable thing that might give at any moment.
her coming back to the city had been a decision that'd been made over months while hidden in the mountains of sokovia, and since she'd arrived there's been a restlessness gnawing at her ankles. too many memories, too much loss reminding her that the idea of home had already been shattered here, too. )
i'm afraid the only worthy piece of advice i can offer is another vote for the golden girls. betty white deserves her homages. i used to put on reruns of bewitched when i couldn't fall asleep.
would you believe it's been years since i've actually watched anything?
no wonder i can't blend seamlessly into society
(with the lights out, it's less dangerous)
It's been years.
Being back in the states at all feels strange and there's a lingering dread in the pit of his stomach when he first lands, not having been here since... a long time. Not since he last visited Chicago and everything in his personal life spiraled out of control. New York is distant enough from that place but it's also a part of the world Marc prefers to avoid, having firmly set his roots elsewhere. At the same time, he came here with a purpose, tracking down some asshole for some job so he can get food on their table again, even if his methods are one Steven doesn't approve of - even if Steven isn't completely convinced that's the only reason Marc is tailing after this particular job too. Regardless, they're here, and Marc managed to bribe the alter with the concept of tourism to get him to pipe down. This is Steven's first time being in New York after all.
When the job is all said and done and there's nothing left to distract a restless mind, Marc contemplates booking the earliest possible flight back to London, but a little voice in his head reminds him that they never really get to go much of anywhere these days, and when's the last time Marc took a proper vacation? Probably never. Probably not since his honeymoon for his failed marriage.
Marc isn't sure what compels him at first - perhaps loneliness, nostalgia, something he'd rather not name - but when he looks through his old contacts the first person he thinks to reach out to while in the city is the last person he expects to actually respond. He hasn't seen Wanda in many years, since that run-in with the Avengers so very long ago, but given the late hour... he isn't too surprised to hear from her after all. Maybe he already knew she'd be awake. It takes a lot of self-reflection and convincing to actually leave his hotel room and head in the direction of her place, though not before stopping to pick up some late night tacos on the way there. Food is always a balm for a restless mind, especially this late at night. Navigating New York is easier by rooftop anyway and he somehow manages to get to her building with the tacos in one piece, avoiding the game of 20 Questions ringing through his head as Steven wonders who they're seeing, what she's like, is she a friend or a friend?
God, can you please not for one damn night?
The knock on her door doesn't come from the traditional (and normal) method of using the buzzer downstairs, but instead Marc is crouched up on her fire escape, gloved hand rapping on her window, mask drawn back to avoid the eerie glow of his eyes. Why is he nervous?]
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his name sits foreignly in her chest at first, glancing up across her dimmed apartment. she doesn't know how long it's been since she's seen him, years in the least, it's all dazed β but all of that time had come with so much chaos, rubble, hurt. seeing him after so long, seeing anyone after so long, it's only bound to unearth it all, isn't it? there's no way to say what he knows and what he doesn't. but maybe it's that distance that makes her more comfortable with the idea β being a little more stranger, a little more displaced. an unknown when she could see it all in the eyes of anyone that'd once been close to her; everything she's done.
it's only so long she allows herself to fuss over her hair and dig through the monotonous, cotton-piled of clothes that she digresses with a frustrated huff, left in the same pair of sweatpants and little tank top she'd started her night with. as if attempting to make herself look a bit more put together would change anything, change the fact that she was so clearly split into sharpened pieces.
she tries not to overthink it. why her, of all people. why now. one of the others could've reached out and put him up to it, or maybe he'd read about new jersey β she's left a flurry of thoughts in disarray, turning on one of the small lights in the living area to give a bit of warmth to the space just before she hears the hollow echo on the window pane. brows pull to a tuft, and a glance over her shoulder paints him there perched on the fire escape, moonlight catching at the cape that whips behind him in the crisp, late-winter air.
before limbs carry her toward the sight, she spots the bag held in his free hand, grease saturating through its sides invitingly, and her stomach gives a tiny grumble. the way to her heart if there ever was one. the slightest smirk greets her lips once she's managed the window open, frigid air let in with an eager breath. )
Is this some new food delivery service I haven't heard about it?
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Maybe that's why meeting with Wanda after all these years doesn't feel as concerning even with rumors of what happened recently in New Jersey. Marc hasn't been great at keeping up with that kind of news - for good reason - but maybe reading her name in some headlines reminded him of days when he wasn't such an isolated mess. She'd saved his ass before, and that was enough to build his trust at the time. Besides, he isn't one to judge others for suspicious behavior. Marc is far from perfect and his past is full of shame.
Despite all of this internal convincing though he begins to doubt himself just as he catches a glimpse of Wanda in the window, approaching behind the foggy glass, and once it's opened with a wash of warmth from inside, he can't help but feel a little guilty bothering her out of the blue. That's the annoying doubt nagging at his heart though and he brushes it aside in favor of holding up his greasy bag on offer.]
And I don't even charge a service fee. [His tone is dry but there's a hint of a smile on his lips too, taking this as an invitation to hop on in. Marc waits to land inside and briefly scans the room before he lets his armor melt away into the air of the open window, leaving him in nothing but typical civilians clothes - a gray hoodie to combat the chill, a pair of dark fitted jeans. He's always dressed for ease and convenience and that really hasn't changed over the years.
He turns toward Wanda again, once more holding up the little bag.] I was surprised that taco place on 43rd is still running. Guess I was feeling nostalgic.
[Honestly, he only planned so far ahead, and now that he's here, he hopes to not devolve into something terribly awkward.]
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it's a knowing that nips at the tension she might otherwise carry, if he were only a man she'd met no more than once, if the night came with any implications not introduced by the fact that they'd both come within moments of their lives a few years prior, and left unscathed. )
Well now I'm just being spoiled.
( a glimmer of something genuine hints at her lips while teeth momentarily bare, gently plucking the bag from him and making toward the kitchen, a small furl of fingers sliding the window back into place. she sets the bag atop the counter, pressing to her toes to dig out a plate for each of them, humming conversationally as she does. )
The city has a way of doing that. ( a little mumbled, spoken over her shoulder before she's turned toward him once more, gaze from across the room invitation enough for him to join her. and, because she's had a bit of a difficult time making a home out of a city so many others couldn't bare to leave β ) So I've heard.
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Marc feels like an intruder upon someone else's home, eyes following as she goes into her little kitchen to grab some things. He takes the opportunity to look around the space, noting the lack of anything personal on the walls or windowsills, no photos of friends or family he can see upon first glance, though Marc understands why without having to ask. Steven has grown quieter in his mind but he can tell the alter is curious too now that he realizes who Marc has come to visit, seeing someone normally so out of reach and feeling larger-than-life living so... normally - it's novel to him.
Her voice calls his attention back to her and Marc wanders toward the kitchen to help, grabbing some napkins off a counter and reaching for a plate. Funny how the first thing they both do is move around one another like this is normal, like they meet up all the time, rather than ask the dreaded question: how have you been?]
Never really got the appeal. I thought London was loud but New York is its own beast. [Shaking his head a hint, he waits for Wanda's lead about where to go or sit, not wanting to assume and get comfortable when it might not be welcome. He's tempted to ask something, to push toward an area even he would be uncomfortable with, but thinks better of it and continues with:] I'm surprised you didn't tell me to get lost.
β homesick for the places we have never known
Iβm usually pretty good at passing out on the jet but Iβm so excited to see you I canβt sleep.
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the cabin was the one thing she had well and truly to herself, quiet and alone. it spoke for itself, really, that she wanted him to become a part of that at all. )
i think it's only fair some of those sleepless nights are repaid. ( a small smile bleeds across her lips. )
you're sure it's not because you can't sprawl out and hog all of the space?
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and he was okay with that.
that sheβs opening up her most private space to him was truly unexpected, though it had thrilled him to no end. too bad the timing of his lengthy investigative mission made it so difficult for him to give her a timeline. he hoped she didnβt mistaken it for apathy.
as soon as it all wrapped, he called the jet and was on his way. weeks early. ]
I thought you liked when I kept you up. I clearly remember many times where you told me not to stop.
[ he smiles wide, teasing, knowing thatβs not what she means but glad heβs the only one in the plane cabin because heβs terrible at keeping a straight face when her messages are on his phone. especially when anticipation winds fluttery in his gut. ]
But yeah, itβs not that. Itβs pretty spacious in here without anyone else.
[ hint number one that heβs on his way: heβs the only one on the jet and he rarely flies alone unless heβs going somewhere remote. he takes a selfie and sends it: him, sprawled out on the plush leather seat, the oval outline of the jet window framing the night sky outside. his warm eyes are bright, his smile intimate and excited. ]
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anxiety stirs, but even his light taunting stills her. the slow bloom of a smile persists, want and longing tugging within her all at once. )
you can be incredibly convincing. ( namely: nestled between her thighs.
when the photo comes through she takes a long moment to savor it, as if there were something so private about it, a keepsake β him, alone and smiling and in something other than his dress clothes. not that she particularly minds them. she'll blame the hour for the sight of him rousing her so easily. )
mm. you're right, you have far too much room.
it's a shame i'm not there to help you pass the time
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Good. Is that why you let me get away with so much?
[ he misses her so incredibly much when theyβre apart, especially when she says things like that, that send his mind soaring through both memory and imagination. ]
It really is. I have all this time and space and all I want to do is sit here and talk to you.
What would you do with me if you were here?
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β i'm longing to linger 'til dawn, dear
Pretty from afar, isn't she?
Where are you right now?
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the barest hint of a smile toys at her lips as she thumbs her reply. )
for all intents and purposes? right there.
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I wish. I always miss you, you know. Whenever I see something beautiful. Or when I'm having a good night. Wish I could share it with you for real.
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do you?
( it's not disbelief. missing him had long since turned into an ache that never settled, something burring in the heart of her sternum. hearing it in return is never quite something she finds herself getting used to. it's as if they're asking without asking, telling without tellingβalways one foot off the ledge. )
i like when you share it with me. even in small ways, like this. it makes me feel a little bit closer.
i'd like to be there for them
the bad nights, too.
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I do. Why? You don't believe me?
[ has it been that long? why does she question it? his smile dims. he has learned that he can't keep her out, but she's right, it's not always easy to her her in either. especially when things are hard, and things have been hard recently. as soon as he sends the text, he regrets it. ]
Sorry. I didn't mean to be distant. Shit's been hitting the fan lately. I should've checked in more.
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