[ it's not exactly something that could be typed into a gps, but maybe in a place like this, it's meant to be enough. maybe it's less about relying on what he knows and more about moving with instinct.
for someone like him, it's a bit of a frustration, not anything that's wanda's fault, but for the sole fact that he's the kind of person who likes to confide in guarantees, in skill, in facts, in information, in reality. everything about this place defies the part of him that pursues logic. for a man who's very much charged by the power of his emotions, he still needs something steady he could touch and see to move about through it.
with a sigh, he tries to close to his eyes, to think about both what murdock had told him about these places and what wanda's explained โ but mostly he tries to focus on her, to think about how she'd reached him that first time, where something about his sadness had somehow pulled her in. maybe it might just work in the reverse now.
red, she says. his first thoughts on the color are blood and anger, even love, but there's a common factor through all of that โ pain. that's what he latches onto trying to find. her pain.
when he eventually opens his eyes again, he mutters a quiet fuck to himself, to the wasteland that surrounds him, everything claiming some representation of death that seems more fueled for a nightmare than any sort of reality he'd expect to find himself in.
he has wars in his head, blood and bullets and rot and death, but even that does look like this.
i've never really known peace. and he can see the truth in that as he moves slowly, boots stepping over a dry branch, twig cracking loudly beneath his weight as he traces carefully. he doesn't know where he goes, but he can still feel the pull like something invisible guides him.
and then he sees her, his walk taking him slowly to her, with no words coming from him. he simply goes to her, quiet but there. ]
[it's good that frank continues walking towards her, because she finds her own steps faltering when she sees him. firstโthinking it's someone unknown, wanting to look into the festering wound of her shame; and secondโsometimes it's hard to tell reality from a dream (nightmares that they've all turned to as of late).
but as he approaches, wanda recognizes him.
a carrousel alight with blurring memories, a shared pain, and a connection drawn from a moment of quiet desperation not too many minutes ago. she bites down on her bottom lip, to keep herself from trembling and breaking so quickly, reassured by his approach.
no hellos, no thanks for coming at allโwanda all but lets herself crumble against him, shoulders shaking. the weight of things in her waking world a thorn too sharp to withstand.
he's quiet, but he's here, unlike the sobs that surface from all her pain.]
[ maybe he shouldn't be here, for a multitude of reasons (including the mystical crimson of the place which very visibly suggests there's plenty here that should be questionable), but mostly because he knows there's certain things he should keep himself out of.
he shouldn't get involved, especially in someone else's grief, but she'd quieted down some of the ache of his inner demons, even if only for a little while, and the beat of her pain resonates back towards him like a responding echo of his own that it's impossible to completely ignore. it might just be instinct too, the want to protect, even when he knows he can't, even he knows he's failed so much at it in the past โ but maybe that's why.
when he sees her, sees the undeniable pain of a mother, he doesn't stop to think of the rest, feet moving him to her until she's suddenly against him and he stills himself entirely.
little else about him moves then, simply being something sturdy and firm for her to lean on, but eventually, he brings a hand up to the height of her back, resting it there with gentle ease and the silence of his support, surprising as it is to himself to offer it. ]
[when she was younger, wanda learned to still her tears. the sadness of losing her parents quickly turned into resentment and anger. still, she was a kid, even as time kept moving on by and she kept getting older. she cried very little, forโunlike the other orphans she shared a room withโshe had pietro. and, the beauty of it, was that whenever her anger was so incredibly strong because it could barely contain the years and years of her blistering sadness, pietro would always pull her closeโwithout a wordโarms around her so she could hide away into him.
every day he grew taller. every day he grew bigger. wanda had felt so small next to him, and there was nowhere safer than in his arms.
it has been ten years since she last saw her brother; heard his annoying voiceโmade mountains out of the smallest arguments with himโheld his hand in hers.
pietro never had to say anything when he put his arms around her.
her hands at her sides, wanda just waits for the wave of this incapacitating nothingness to ebb away before taking a deep breath. she doesn't want to have to think about it, but she also cannot run away from it forever.]
It never stops. [evidence of her surfacing from the depths, mumbled bitterly.] Just when I think โ [she swallows,] nothing worse could happen, the universe couldn't possibly think of something more to drop on my lapโ
[this happens. her son, from another universe, summoned into the small commune she had started to call home.]
Edited (i will edit 405044 times) 2022-08-13 04:50 (UTC)
[ it never stops. frank knows that curse, the ever drowning wave that carries on and on without a chance to breathe, suffocating in the grief, in the pain, in the ever pulsing ache that doesn't go away. eventually, he stopped trying to fight it, to simply let it fuel him, because getting rid of it was never an option.
but this isn't his pain now, it's wanda's, and he could feel it in the shake of her voice, in how it vibrates through her, commands her. he sees it in the surrounding world around him.
his own is a carnival, like a photograph sliced out of a memory, but hers โ it's a visualization of what's likely to be her daily nightmare. devoid of life, crimson with that pulsating pain. ]
It won't stop. [ he responds quietly, nearly against her hair. it's not an answer that's wanted, he knows. but frank has never been one to try to pretty up the truth with sugar. he can only ever say what's real. ] Shit like that, it's always gonna slice through us. It's gonna find that hole where it hurts most and it's gonna rip at the edges to make it bigger.
[ the truth. but even in truth, there's something of hope in there, even if it's not often something he offers to himself. ]
But it doesn't have to be all there is. You can face it, grab it with your bare hands, and you can take command of it. The hurt won't stop but you can use it to push back and steer it on your own terms.
he doesn't know that there is absolutely nothing else there for her, and when she had tried to face her pain, do something with it, she delved too deep into the darkness. it promised her everything, promised her that she could push back, steer, be the one in commandโshe could have had it all.
and where did that leave her? with this desolate wasteland of turmoil and the remnants of corruption that still corrals at her heart, relentless, unwanting in letting her forgetโ
that she is a monster.
it's too late for her; neither push or pull was the answer for her. wanda maximoff doesn't get to have options.
slowly, wanda pulls her hands up to reach and hold onto the fabric of his shirt, to keep herself steady. it's a feeble, weak grip, her shoulders shakingโher voice quiet and trembling.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
for someone like him, it's a bit of a frustration, not anything that's wanda's fault, but for the sole fact that he's the kind of person who likes to confide in guarantees, in skill, in facts, in information, in reality. everything about this place defies the part of him that pursues logic. for a man who's very much charged by the power of his emotions, he still needs something steady he could touch and see to move about through it.
with a sigh, he tries to close to his eyes, to think about both what murdock had told him about these places and what wanda's explained โ but mostly he tries to focus on her, to think about how she'd reached him that first time, where something about his sadness had somehow pulled her in. maybe it might just work in the reverse now.
red, she says. his first thoughts on the color are blood and anger, even love, but there's a common factor through all of that โ pain. that's what he latches onto trying to find. her pain.
when he eventually opens his eyes again, he mutters a quiet fuck to himself, to the wasteland that surrounds him, everything claiming some representation of death that seems more fueled for a nightmare than any sort of reality he'd expect to find himself in.
he has wars in his head, blood and bullets and rot and death, but even that does look like this.
i've never really known peace. and he can see the truth in that as he moves slowly, boots stepping over a dry branch, twig cracking loudly beneath his weight as he traces carefully. he doesn't know where he goes, but he can still feel the pull like something invisible guides him.
and then he sees her, his walk taking him slowly to her, with no words coming from him. he simply goes to her, quiet but there. ]
no subject
but as he approaches, wanda recognizes him.
a carrousel alight with blurring memories, a shared pain, and a connection drawn from a moment of quiet desperation not too many minutes ago. she bites down on her bottom lip, to keep herself from trembling and breaking so quickly, reassured by his approach.
no hellos, no thanks for coming at allโwanda all but lets herself crumble against him, shoulders shaking. the weight of things in her waking world a thorn too sharp to withstand.
he's quiet, but he's here, unlike the sobs that surface from all her pain.]
no subject
he shouldn't get involved, especially in someone else's grief, but she'd quieted down some of the ache of his inner demons, even if only for a little while, and the beat of her pain resonates back towards him like a responding echo of his own that it's impossible to completely ignore. it might just be instinct too, the want to protect, even when he knows he can't, even he knows he's failed so much at it in the past โ but maybe that's why.
when he sees her, sees the undeniable pain of a mother, he doesn't stop to think of the rest, feet moving him to her until she's suddenly against him and he stills himself entirely.
little else about him moves then, simply being something sturdy and firm for her to lean on, but eventually, he brings a hand up to the height of her back, resting it there with gentle ease and the silence of his support, surprising as it is to himself to offer it. ]
no subject
every day he grew taller. every day he grew bigger. wanda had felt so small next to him, and there was nowhere safer than in his arms.
it has been ten years since she last saw her brother; heard his annoying voiceโmade mountains out of the smallest arguments with himโheld his hand in hers.
pietro never had to say anything when he put his arms around her.
her hands at her sides, wanda just waits for the wave of this incapacitating nothingness to ebb away before taking a deep breath. she doesn't want to have to think about it, but she also cannot run away from it forever.]
It never stops. [evidence of her surfacing from the depths, mumbled bitterly.] Just when I think โ [she swallows,] nothing worse could happen, the universe couldn't possibly think of something more to drop on my lapโ
[this happens. her son, from another universe, summoned into the small commune she had started to call home.]
no subject
but this isn't his pain now, it's wanda's, and he could feel it in the shake of her voice, in how it vibrates through her, commands her. he sees it in the surrounding world around him.
his own is a carnival, like a photograph sliced out of a memory, but hers โ it's a visualization of what's likely to be her daily nightmare. devoid of life, crimson with that pulsating pain. ]
It won't stop. [ he responds quietly, nearly against her hair. it's not an answer that's wanted, he knows. but frank has never been one to try to pretty up the truth with sugar. he can only ever say what's real. ] Shit like that, it's always gonna slice through us. It's gonna find that hole where it hurts most and it's gonna rip at the edges to make it bigger.
[ the truth. but even in truth, there's something of hope in there, even if it's not often something he offers to himself. ]
But it doesn't have to be all there is. You can face it, grab it with your bare hands, and you can take command of it. The hurt won't stop but you can use it to push back and steer it on your own terms.
no subject
he doesn't know that there is absolutely nothing else there for her, and when she had tried to face her pain, do something with it, she delved too deep into the darkness. it promised her everything, promised her that she could push back, steer, be the one in commandโshe could have had it all.
and where did that leave her? with this desolate wasteland of turmoil and the remnants of corruption that still corrals at her heart, relentless, unwanting in letting her forgetโ
that she is a monster.
it's too late for her; neither push or pull was the answer for her. wanda maximoff doesn't get to have options.
slowly, wanda pulls her hands up to reach and hold onto the fabric of his shirt, to keep herself steady. it's a feeble, weak grip, her shoulders shakingโher voice quiet and trembling.]
I'm just... so tired...