[ it's barely a whisper, but it carries itself to him in the density of the summer night, humid and damp, not unlike condensation rolling down a sweating glass. not unlike a teardrop.
she comes closer still, into the shadows, threads her fingers through them like webbing and wool and midnight secrets you're afraid to admit to yourself. wanda gives all of this to him. her reproach for the anger he displays that is a shocking mirror of her younger self, yes, and her fear not of him, but for him. all the fear and worry and protectiveness she felt for him when he returned, screaming and shattered, something she hadn't — hasn't — known since pietro. ]
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[ it's barely a whisper, but it carries itself to him in the density of the summer night, humid and damp, not unlike condensation rolling down a sweating glass. not unlike a teardrop.
she comes closer still, into the shadows, threads her fingers through them like webbing and wool and midnight secrets you're afraid to admit to yourself. wanda gives all of this to him. her reproach for the anger he displays that is a shocking mirror of her younger self, yes, and her fear not of him, but for him. all the fear and worry and protectiveness she felt for him when he returned, screaming and shattered, something she hadn't — hasn't — known since pietro. ]
Because someone, or something else will.
[ they are toe to toe, now. ]
And I would be... less, if you were gone.