aurad | ■ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱.

( 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. )

Funny place you've got here.

[ 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 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — wilson, natasha, peter — 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 — something is here that should not be.

longing felt something like this: to know it was him, sightless, without sound; by feeling alone. )

( continued )

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

[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?]

[ a text, three hours before he’s set to deplane and board a helicopter to the remote cabin in Sokovia. the seven hour flight has felt like a lifetime. ]

I’m usually pretty good at passing out on the jet but I’m so excited to see you I can’t sleep.

[ an image of his view of Gotham. ]

Pretty from afar, isn't she?
Where are you right now?

— take all your pages, set them on fire. take off your cage and go back to the wild.

𝕨𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕕𝕠 𝕨𝕖 𝕘𝕠 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞 𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 -

— who could resist the burning in everything?

— for uxo.

(with the lights out, it's less dangerous)

— homesick for the places we have never known

— i'm longing to linger 'til dawn, dear