[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, forβunlike the other orphans she shared a room withβshe 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 closeβwithout a wordβarms 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 voiceβmade mountains out of the smallest arguments with himβheld 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 β [she swallows,] nothing worse could happen, the universe couldn't possibly think of something more to drop on my lapβ
[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 β 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 commandβshe 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 forgetβ
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 shakingβher voice quiet and trembling.]
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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 voiceβmade mountains out of the smallest arguments with himβheld 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 β [she swallows,] nothing worse could happen, the universe couldn't possibly think of something more to drop on my lapβ
[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 β 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 commandβshe 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 forgetβ
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 shakingβher voice quiet and trembling.]
I'm just... so tired...