( they've been traveling for days together, from one airport to the other, and through a series of issues, wanda's sokovian passport has brought her a tumult of stops at the airport security a few times over. with the fate of her home country on the balance, with the uncertainty that it will remain a country, the policies from airport to airport have varied.
at least, she is in a place where they speak english and all signs are, too, in english.
she's not quite detained, but australian authorities won't let her through to join her travelmates in their connecting flight to indonesia, where they'll eventually make their way through to malaysia via bus and ferry. wanda genuinely does not expect them to stop because of her—she's just a stranger to them, someone who is piggybacking off of their efforts to travel SEA to fulfill her twin brother's dying wish. and so she sits here, alone, in a cold waiting room, with other 'detainees' like herself, scared shitless, while australia decides her fate. someone told her it should be okay, that it'll just take a while, before giving her a granola bar and a water bottle.
but wanda is not reassured.
she sniffles, back so straight her shoulders are stiff, linking her fingers tightly together; tears stream down her face, because she just feels so — so lost, and so alone. )
( wanda is still angry (and embarrassed) at herself. it's been a few days since she last talked to matt, and every time she picks up her phone wanting to give him a call to talk with him about the usual mundane shit she tends to throw his way, those feelings well up again. it's not unusual for them to argue, but this time was a little more personal than other times; she'd accused him of not being open with her because he was 'too busy' with 'smarter girls'. his reaction would have been comical, if she hadn't felt so embarrassed by the strike of realization that seemed to have hit the both of them at her statement.
so, she hasn't called matt, and he hasn't called her. her phone remains idle on the windowsill, as she stares out into the night, a curtain of rain painting hell's kitchen in muddled colors.
her cup of tea runs hot, and she blows on it before taking a sip; the tv plays in the background, on some programme she isn't particularly paying attention to. )
[ Days later, and Matt still hates the way they left things.
It's his fault, really, it usually is, but this darker, other life he lives, the one that he might even say he's addicted to (though never aloud, never even to himself — so that the only one who really knows is God, and who's He gonna tell?) is just something he can't tell her. He can't bring her into it because ... because —
Well.
It's not normal. He knows that. And it's dangerous, which is probably the most important reason why he tends to get a little squirrelly around the topic. It usually starts with a patrol, just a casual walk around a scummy neighbourhood — and not every night winds up with him getting his ass beat either. But some nights it can get pretty bad, and then he'll make up some excuse about why he can't see her, not until the bruises fade enough that he can call it clumsiness; the result of being blind. Law school becomes a pretty good alibi.
But tonight's different.
He's bringing her into it now, whether she's asked for it or not. Because this night, after countless stupid excuses about having to study late, or Foggy needing him to act as wingman, or yeah — that goddamned stupid comment he'd made about dating 'smarter girls', Matt comes tumbling through her kitchen window, bruised and scraped and a little rougher than she's seen him in all the time they've known each other. He rolls over onto his back, a damp dark fabric covering half of his face. His breathing is hard and he leaves a smear of blood — his own? the other guy's? — diluted with the rain on her once pristine white tile floor.
He didn't know where else to go and Wanda's always been ... safe. ]
( wanda lives on her own, in a small apartment, for after she reached the age of eighteen, the orphanage gave her two choices: to stay for as long as she needed, or to forge her own path ahead. the former option came from a feeling of sympathy, as she had lost pietro just four years prior and seemed to be trying to get a hang of herself emotionally, but she couldn't stay there any longer. not when the memories of growing up with pietro lingered there, and not while matt, whom she was inseparable from, was gone to seek higher education with the money his father had left him.
not to mention that she has these powers now that make her feel like a freak, and the orphanage is too loud with sadness and grief and unfettered anguish.
which is why she lives on her own, the apartment subsidized by the government through a social program the orphanage works with, and she's gotten herself a job at a local diner while assisting night classes at the community college to get some degree or another—nothing fancy.
so, when she hears the rain get louder because of the window in her kitchen opening, wanda tenses up. she sets her teacup down and picks up the metal baseball bat she keeps by the front door, quietly shimmying against the wall, hearing the hard breathing, the tumbling of a body, and it feels like the rain gets even louder still when she sees the man lying down on her kitchen's floor, bloodied, wet, and bruised.
it's so immediate to her, the realization— )
Matthew?
( no mask could hide him from her, especially when she spent so long staring at his face, as they studied together in the orphanage, knowing that he couldn't see her doing that. he'd always be recognizable to her.
she sets the bat down and with a sense of urgency crawls over to him, a hand pressed to his chest, the other pushing this dumb fabric from off his eyes, his head. her hands are shaking, a million thoughts rushing through her head.
(she had found pietro in a similar state, cold and unresponsive, before anyone else had come to help them. the streets of hell's kitchen had always been dangerous, and pietro had gotten himself killed—because of her. how dare matthew do this to her, like this.) )
Matt. ( there's a shakiness to her voice, and she doesn't care that the open window is letting rain into her kitchen. ) What happened? Who ( —she swallows hard, one of her hands pressing to his face— ) did this to you?
[ Matt always thought he was pretty clever, using a mask and dressing all in black to disguise himself on his night-time strolls. He'd fooled Foggy enough on plenty occasions anyway, and no one on the streets of Hell's Kitchen even has a name for who or what he is — or maybe it's all just what he assumes because the anonymity allows him to keep doing this night after night, moving in the silence of the shadows without a name attached to it.
This is probably the most exposed he's ever been, one of his very last secrets laid bare now in Wanda's tiny kitchen. But of course it would be with Wanda. It should be. Who else knows him better than he knows himself? Who else has seen him grow up from the quiet, struggling blind kid to the lanky teen, to the guy who decided he wanted to go to law school and worked his ass off to get there? It's not fair that the secret should come to light this way, though; and he's self-aware enough to know how much of an asshole move it probably is to be here.
But what other choice did he have?
He's still breathing hard when she pulls the fabric from his face so that the light in the kitchen hits him square on. He can't exactly see the fixture itself but he knows it's there, he can hear the buzzing from the bulb and the warmth of it burns bright in his vision of red, hazey hellfire. The pupils in his eyes, devoid of any real 'sight', shift, but as usual remain unfocused.
He stifles a quiet grunt. ]
Some guys, they got the jump on me. It's no big deal. [ — said as he winces, trying to move in his prone position, and proving just how 'no big deal' it is. Really. ] I had to get away. [ He pauses to catch a tight breath. ] I'm sorry, I didn't know where else to go.
( it incredibly is a big deal, but matt plays it all off with the bravado of a kid brought up in new york with all the odds against him; it reminds wanda of the many times he would come back from his 'outings' with an old man he called 'stick', all bruised and hesitant to tell her what he had been up to. but she had noticed, being that scrawny kid and bulking up, seeming a little more confident in his movements. even pietro had made a comment about it, teasing matt, despite him being a year older than the twins.
when he tries to sit up, wanda fusses, because he's clearly struggling to move. she sits back herself, placing a hand around his back to help prop him up.
and she has every right to berate him, to question every word he has told her so far, add the inconsistency of the fact that he came in through her kitchen window—all that, despite the fact that she's pretty certain all he has is an address, but no clear certainty of where she lives in, because he's never taken her up on the offer to come over to show him the place, 'busy' as he's been.
but she can't stay angry, not right now, not when he says he's sorry, that he didn't know where else to go. )
Idiot.
( she says, softly, half-fondly, because—being an orphan herself—wanda knows better than anyone what it's like to feel like you have no one to go to, nowhere to feel really safe. he'd promised her, a few days after pietro was gone, that he'd always be there for her; that they had each other. it might just have been something to make her feel better in the moment, but matt—matty—didn't once break that promise, until him leaving for university made it more difficult to keep.
of course she'd be there for him, too, when all else failed.
wanda now manoeuvres herself to put one of his arms around her shoulders, to try and lift him up to stand. he'll hopefully be able to feel that the counter is close enough for him to grab onto. )
I'm taking you to the bathroom. You're dripping wet. ( —she doesn't think he's gotten hurt in any significant way with a weapon, despite the blood she sees on him— ) You can wash off the blood and keep pretending it's not a big deal.
( he can pretend that she'll drop it if he does— )
I won't say thank you for not breaking my window.
( she probably should get a working lock for it. wanda measures matt's movements, to see if he's ready to walk with her out the kitchen and down the hall. )
[ It takes a ... second, and Matt bracing himself, before he can be helped into a standing position.
He can make out the arrangement of the kitchen — the placement of the little two-person table to one side of the wall, the kitchen counter on the other side. The way the window in the centre, where he'd come in from, will bring in enough of the morning light. The stove is still warm from a kettle having gone off not long ago; he can smell the scent of jasmine tea wafting in the next room, freshly steeped. It's all so small and intimate, and there isn't much but it's — it's cozy.
It's the kind of feeling he and Wanda had always talked about while growing up in the orphanage surrounded by things that didn't belong to them, and belonging to no one either. They'd talked about it like it was something they could ask for Christmas, something they'd wanted for themselves one day.
Idiot.
He's distracted from his thoughts by Wanda's gentle admonishment — well deserved, really — before she suggests that they move towards the bathroom. Probably a good idea, even if it does mean tracking rain and the traces of blood across her hallway to get there.
By now he's certain that most of it isn't his; he hurts a hell of a lot, sure, but it isn't as fatal as needing the hospital. Maybe a few bruised ribs, and plenty of cuts and scrapes to boot, but he can feel the kind of exhaustion that only needs a good solid sleep, and not the kind that means he can feel his life slipping away.
They move, slowly but deliberately, Matt trying his best to bear his own weight and avoid leaning too heavily into her. It's only now that he catches glimpses of the space — its warmth, the sound of the television in the next room, the way this place really does feel like Wanda made it her own. He likes that for her, even when he selfishly wishes that he could tuck a sliver of himself here and there between the picture frames and the couch cushions.
And he huffs a pained chuckle at her comment about the window, mouth quirked beneath crusted blood from a bleeding nose. ]
( she replies, sharply, because it infuriates her that despite this whole thing, despite the baggage behind their not talking for so many days, he gets to be charming and smile about it like nothing has changed. all the while he's tracking rain water and blood into her home, and has made her so afraid for him that her heart hasn't stopped beating at a high rate.
(because she is afraid, because what the hell has matthew gotten himself into?)
they make it down the narrow hallway that connects her kitchen to the living space; the door to the right, her bedroom, while the door to the left, which she opens, opens up into the bathroom. it's not necessarily spacious, but the light turns on as they enter (a motion sensor one she's indulged in, because she still sleep walks and it fucking sucks) revealing a bathtub-shower, a toilet right next to it, and the sink by the door. )
Just get in and leave your clothes in the tub.
( this is when wanda lets go of him, when matt finally puts a hand onto the railing on the shower door. it smells clean, like lavender, and he'll be bombarded with the scent of the sandalwood soap bar and her floral-scented shampoo and conditioner set. in the meantime, she steps out to find a few things: a folded, clean towel from her small linen closet in the hallway, and the baggiest sweatpants and hoodie she can find inside her closet. she puts the clothes on the closed lid of the toilet, and presses the towel onto his hands before telling him that she's placing it on the wall rack, leading his hand to follow where it is in relation to himself. she then leads his hand towards the knobs for the shower: this is for hot water, this is for cold water.
it's a new place—she's being more than helpful. )
I won't close the door all the way—
( she peers at his face, worried about all the blood that's still there. hesitantly, she reaches up, touches just under his nose, where he's got blood crusted on. her brows cinch in worry when she pulls her hand back. )
—just in case you slip and break your head. Just — scrub up as best as you can. Clothes are on the toilet.
( she feels like she wants to say more, but she stops herself, then steps back, to head out into the hallway. )
[ To his credit, Matt immediately puts a halt on the ... 'charm', expression sobering as he takes all of Wanda's direction without complaint or additional comment. She's in charge here, this is her home, and he'd just crash-landed into it, invading her personal space without a warning.
He doesn't consciously mean to, but he memorizes the layout of her apartment as they move through it. He makes mental notes for the locations of the living room from the kitchen, and the bedroom from there. As they enter the bathroom and she shows him around, he commits that to memory too.
He isn't even sure why he hasn't been here before, can't remember if there was a reason, and if there was whether it was even a decent one; and he feels a pang of regret for why none of this space is familiar to him. It's like their paths really did split for a moment there.
But Wanda's arm around him feels like he's stepped back in time, she's so familiar; the warmth and scent of her, the way strands of her long hair tickle against his skin each time he takes a step forward, leaning into her space. How many times had they been tangled up in each other like this before? A casual arm around the other, a light touch, a playful hair-tug. He'd always liked her hair, long and a little wavy, and smelling like something floral.
There'd been a lot of laughter back then. But there had also been a lot of tears too.
She touches his face and he lets her, pausing while she inspects him. He can hear her heart beating fast, an echoed reflection of his own. And when she pulls back, he exhales the breath he'd been holding onto, nodding his understanding of her last direction. He can hear her step back a pace, caught up in a pause that he waits on.
But when nothing else follows, he manages to slip in a: ]
Thanks Wanda.
[ For whatever it's worth, it's genuine at least.
With the towels and clean clothes in place, he just stands where he is for a moment, motionless in the middle of this brightly lit space smelling of Wanda everywhere. And then, reminded of his current state, he begins to strip sweat-and-blood-and-rain-soaked clothing from his body, reaching for the hot water knob first and relishing in the sound of rushing water that promises cleanliness and rejuvenation. ]
( wanda waits just outside the bathroom for a moment until she hears him turning on the water. she held on to his thanks, feeling a pang of pain at how much he's hurt her in the past several months but feeling, too, the flourishing of an affection she's always had for him, ever since they were kids. she could never be truly angry at him for long, not really; especially when her feelings for him are complicated but certain, despite keeping them secret from him.
(she had hoped that, once leaving the orphanage herself, she could pull herself up on her feet, build the life she has managed to build, and confess to him. he didn't make it to her farewell dinner at st agnes, despite saying he would, and that's when it felt like it all started falling apart; he became more and more distanced, and wanda was left to feel like he didn't have time for her anymore.
her thought-out plans? on hold, even to this day.)
sniffling to herself, hating to be so overwhelmed by how awful she feels about this whole thing, wanda heads with certainty to the kitchen and closes the window. then, it's grabbing a tea towel to dry the water from the surfaces, and using the mop (which she had just cleaned this afternoon, ugh) to mop up the rain and blood from the floor.
the mask he used on his face? she drops into the sink. he can figure it out later.
it makes her queasy—blood always does, like this. it reminds her of pietro. it reminds her of the clothes the morgue returned to her. matt had been there to comfort her, to hold her tightly to his chest when she screamed and sobbed and threw the package away from her, in the middle of the dining hall. the nuns and father lantom complained to the morgue, but no apology she received ever made it better. with a deep breath, she dunks her mop into a bucket with bleach and water, once she's done with the kitchen floor, so that it can soak. the hallway, she cleans up with many sheets of paper towel, on her hands and knees, making sure she doesn't miss anything.
isn't it just like matt, to burst back into her life, without warning, and giving her a lot of messes to clean up?
once she's gotten everything sorted to the best of her ability, she turns to the living room and... leaves the tv on, except she lowers the volume. noise from it makes her feel like she isn't alone, and it helps distract her from all the other supplementary noise she 'hears' from her neighbors. it's only in this moment, as she sets down the tv remote, that she glances at a framed picture of herself and matt, on his farewell party.
(—she had been so upset that day, was absent for the majority of it. through the speeches and the merry-making, and the congratulations and the gifts they had all put some money in to get for him: his brand new backpack for university. she had only stepped out of her room when father lantom came looking for her, saying that matt was leaving soon.
surely, dear, you will regret not getting to say goodbye.
that's what made her rush out of her room, past the old priest, finding matt outside by the front of the orphanage, under the callery pear tree in blossom, a taxi waiting for him to drive him to his dorm in columbia. he was really leaving, and nothing would ever be the same. wanda! one of the nuns had cried out at the teen bumping into her, and that was enough for matt to turn her way, and wanda— crashed into his arms, eyes red from crying, not being able to utter a single word. it'd embarrass her thinking about it, as the days turned into weeks, months, years— but matt had only smiled and hugged her back, excited for his future, and promising her nothing would change.
the nun in charge of the camera urged them for a photograph, just as the taxi honked its horn, asking them to hurry. the callery pear tree sits beautiful behind them with its white blossoms, and wanda's tucked to matt's side, a hand rubbing at her cheek, an expression of someone who is clearly mid-crying, but matt's holding her tight to his side—a bright smile on his face.
wanda can't remember what if anything she said to him, but she had held his hand until he got into the yellow cab, until he really had to go, and with it, his warmth—)
as the memory floods her, wanda scrambles through a basket on her shelf, pushing her hand past her tchotchkes and a smattering of loose change for some sunglasses. it's as important, for matt, as clothes will be, which is why she makes it back to the bathroom and — pushes the door open a touch more, taking one step in and reaching to put the glasses just on top of the sweater on the toilet.
she glances up—despite herself—but the hot water has steamed up the doors of the shower. he's in there, and she cannot tell if he's completely okay, but he's actively moving.
that much has got to be enough for her, as she slinks back outside and waits out in the kitchen, warming up some more water for him. )
[ It takes some time for the water to run clear again, for the red to disappear into the drain along with soap suds and debris. And Matt stands beneath the shower of scalding hot water, head tilted down, letting it beat down against his skin, as though the heat of it like hellfire could rinse the violence from tonight away.
Forgive me, Father ...
In this apartment full of gentleness and warmth and love, of all the good that Wanda is, he feels like a dark smudge trying to force its way into the light.
Now that he's regaining his senses, he realizes that he shouldn't have come here at all. He'd made certain beyond any reasonable doubt that he hadn't been followed — that his path here was one walked by him alone, stumbling and exhausted through the pouring rain to crash through her kitchen window — and yet, he still can't help feeling that his very presence in her life puts her at risk. This other side of him, dark and reckless and violent, born of his anger and grief and guilt and now a monster fully made — he doesn't want her to see any of it.
He wants her to only remember the Matthew he once was before he'd started to train with Stick. (He'd been under the impression that he could learn to defend himself and others the way his father failed to, but it only seemed to awaken in him something different.) He wants her to only know the Matt who looked out for her; the one who held her hand at Pietro's funeral, fingers laced tightly between them with a promise that he would never let go so long as she wanted; who could make her laugh by telling her something so stupid, she would throw her pillow at his head and he'd deserve it.
'Thick as thieves', the sisters would mutter, shaking their heads — but they never made any attempt to separate them anyway, especially in the years after Pietro was gone and it suddenly felt like the world would never know any other colour besides grey. Oh, they'd clung so tightly together. He couldn't even imagine a world without Wanda in it, and truth be told he still can't — even now.
The pulse of a heartbeat approaching catches him a little off-guard, disrupting his reverie. He runs his hands through his hair to get the last of the shampoo out, but he can sense Wanda in the bathroom — not long enough to be awkward before she's ducked out again, but enough for him to wish that things were different. That he was different.
Still, the shower does exactly what he'd hoped it would. Matt turns off the tap, muscles sore and aching, but he feels better. Exhausted, sure, but rejuvenated too.
He steps out of the shower to grab the towel where Wanda had left it and dry himself off, wincing when he grazes past a sensitive spot at his side that he knows will become an impressive bruise by tomorrow if he's lucky. But so long as none of the cuts are deep enough to stain her towels, there's still a possibility he can minimize the dramatics of what had happened to him. Maybe.
When he joins Wanda in the kitchen, he's decked out in the borrowed clothes that smell like her — her baggy sweatshirt doesn't actually look too bad on him, even if the sweat pants are a little tight; and the sunglasses are a nice touch, too. They're very 'I'm on staycation right now, and I don't care who knows it' but they help to dim the brightness of everything around him, and makes him feel just a little more like Matt Murdock and not the Vigilante of Hell's Kitchen, which is exactly what he needs.
He gestures to the chair across from where Wanda is sitting at the small little two-person table. ]
( wanda raises a brow that matt can't see when he asks if he can sit, biting her tongue in want to say 'can you?'—fully aware that the question is born from an awkward feeling, that maybe he shouldn't be here and that wanda's upset at him.
so, instead, she says, )
Sure.
( and leans in a little closer, a light wave of her fingers moving the chair a touch, so that the scraping of its legs on the floor gives matt a general idea of its location. she does move the cup of tea she's prepared for him with her hand, placing it close as he sits.
there definitely is an awkwardness here, and wanda isn't sure how to make it not awkward. things with them have been testy as of late (or is it just on her end?), and the last thing she wants to do is force matt to feel like he's cornered, thus not being as responsive or honest with her. because, holy shit, there's a lot of unpack here. he's smart enough to know that, of the questions itching under her skin, of comments she could make, which would all pretty much result in him apologizing.
she studies him instead, how he's foregone the clean-shaven look he sported before at the orphanage, the bruises that mar his face and, upon closer inspection, the bruised knuckles on both his hands. so maybe the 'getting jumped' story tracks. )
—you look stupid.
( is what she settles on, then, mid-breath. with her clothes on him, the sunglasses. she could have said 'ridiculous', but 'stupid' draws forth this feeling she has about his dishonesty, about his squirreling about.
but this is matt, and wanda is inherently too soft, too sweet on him, which is why she stands up with a sigh, pushing her chair back, and looking for a clean tea towel to dampen under the tap on the sink. )
Are you going to need anything? An Advil?
( and returns, bringing her chair closer to him, and with a quiet you got some blood here she uses that as permission to start dabbing just at the side of his brow. being blind means you can't always tell if you got every bit of dirt and soot out of your face, especially when it's crusted in, like blood.
wanda tacks on to her question, )
...an explicit question asking for an explanation, or was that coming eventually?
[ He decides to skip the joke or any light-hearted quip with her admonishment, nodding in agreement instead, and shifting in his seat as though that might make his sweatshirt a little looser, or the sweatpants a little more comfortable around his hips.
A few things happen next: there's tea being offered, there's Wanda getting up to look for something, and then she's coming back to pull her seat closer to where he's rooted, a cloth in her hand. ]
I wouldn't say 'no' to an Advil.
[ He reaches for the mug to wrap his hands around, as though its warmth might lend him strength, but he remains still while Wanda gently wipes at his face. Inevitably some spot he'd missed while in the shower (there had been a fair amount of blood and dirt crusted into his hair and skin), which will only beget that many more questions and concerns.
How could it not?
He has ... a lot of explaining to do, actually, and he's afraid for how this might inevitably change the way she thinks about him. The way she perceives him.
But what other choice does he have? You don't crash into someone's home only to leave without a word and expect them to be okay with it. Even he knows that.
He nods. ] And I know I owe you an explanation for ... all of this. I know that.
( it seems like they have fallen into this pit where his life went one way and hers the other way; when once they could so easily talk to one another about anything and everything (except for a few secrets), right now it almost feels like that warmth has faded a touch.
wanda's jaw tenses, at his answer, of not knowing where to start.
pulling back, and with it her hand and the damp cloth, wanda studies his face. lingering in this silence, she decides to comb her fingers through his wet hair, fixing it a little in the same way she always would, back in the orphanage, always teasing him about how his hair was a mess ('but i'm blind, how should i know what it looks like? i'm counting on you to make it look right, wanda').
their paths may have diverted, but at least warmth still remains, between them, despite what she had thought just seconds before. her hand moves from his hair down to his arm, settling only when she reaches for his hand, forcing her fingers to squeeze between his palm and the cup.
matt doesn't know where to start, so — she will, for him, voice tinny and quiet. )
[ Matt opens his mouth as though to protest, the words 'I haven't gone anywhere' very nearly leaving his lips before something (guilt? yeah, it's very likely guilt) holds them back.
He swallows instead, countless apologies and rainchecks, unanswered texts and voice messages swirling in his memory, each one an additional fracture compounding against what he'd taken for granted as an unbreakable bond between them. But that's not how friendship works. It's not how loving someone works.
Wanda slides her fingers through his hair and he closes his eyes, lets out a breath, and leans forward just a fraction towards her; it's barely noticeable, but it's there. He can hear her heart beating like a butterfly's wings against her rib cage, waiting for him to say the right thing. He doesn't want to fuck this up.
And then she moves her hand ever still, sliding down his arm to catch at his hand and nestle herself in the space between his palm and the warm porcelain.
He breathes out again.
Putting the mug down, Matt's fingers still over-warm from the tea, he turns his hand to grasp at hers and hold it in place; his thumb gently grazes against her skin, and he finds his voice — and a better truth comes out. ]
( matt doesn't want to fuck this up, and he doesn't. he says exactly the right thing; it's only unfortunate that the right thing to say makes the knot in wanda's throat worse, wells her eyes with tears, and overwhelms her with emotion.
it feels like such a long time since something like this—him holding her hand, after wanda had gotten so used to this flavor of comfort.
her mouth twists and turns, not wanting to make any noise that would alert him to how wretched seven little words make her feel. she swallows hard, shakes her head a little. she's missed him so much, and this fixes things just a little, to admit that he has, too (because wanda needs to believe this is him at his most honest, despite everything else still obscured by avoidance).
when she thinks she has control over her voice, she manages to say, albeit shakily, )
I don't—care what's going on with you, why you're acting like this. Why you can't explain what's going on. Just...
( ultimately, it seems complicated, dangerous, and he's getting so hurt from what she can see, and next time he might be dead in a ditch, a nameless victim of a crime.
her throat tightens again, despite her best efforts. a single tear falls down her cheek. )
[ Something in Matt's chest clenches, being referred to by his childhood pet name, a privilege only afforded to a very select few.
He hasn't heard it in years.
By the time he'd left St. Agnes, no one was calling him 'Matty' anymore. It became 'Matthew', or 'Matt' to most, like being out of the orphanage meant it was time to grow up and shed the skin of the poor little orphan boy who grew up blind and lonely — save for the twins who were his only real family after his father had died, of course. He picked them the way they chose him.
And Matt had grown up; he'd accomplished a lot since that time, thanks and no thanks to a certain blind sensei who pulled no punches and didn't let Matt slack off, not for a second. True — his path led him elsewhere, making it more complicated to stay true to the memory of the boy at the orphanage. But he never forgot his family or what they meant to him. If anything, he was convinced it was his duty to keep that world separate from this new one for their sake.
But in doing so, is the risk of losing Wanda too great?
He squeezes her hand in his, hearing the tightness in her throat and the shift in her voice, and he hates that the reason she sounds like this, feels like this, is because of him. His free hand comes up to touch her cheek, a finger catching the stray tear and wiping away.
His voice is soft and impossibly fond: ]
Wanda, I'm not going anywhere, okay? I'm here.
[ And growing a little more bold, he allows himself to cup her cheek with his hand. ]
( wanda doesn't actually think he's entirely sorry for staying away, even if the sentiment in his words is true. he does regret it, that much she can feel in waves coming from him, in this way that she can 'read' others, but there's also another aspect to it that he considers true—that in staying away, that he was doing good, protecting her.
and that's what she is scared of the most: that he will make choices for her, even without intending to. the same way pietro had.
she is not as subtle about the way she leans entirely into his hand once he places it on her cheek, letting her eyes close for a moment and bask in the warmth of this moment. it hits her how much she has missed him, missed them. halcyon days are called that for a reason, and it's best to have had before than never having at all, but wanda finds herself constantly in the absence of it all, that it breaks her heart.
wanda brings up a hand to grab onto the one that cups her cheek, keeping him there, and chides, gently, )
You can't really promise me that.
( that he's not going anywhere.
especially when he has so many secrets he keeps.
sniffling, wanda just pulls his hand a touch away from her cheek and draws back, pressing a kiss to his palm, a gentle gesture that is not beyond her when they were in sync, in good terms. it's a tactile promise to him that she loves him, cares for him, even when her words are a little sharper than she ever intends them to be. she then stands up again to find him his advil. she's got them all in rectangular tea tin; it jostles as she brings it down from its place atop her fridge, going through its contents to find him two of the medicine.
she stays where she is, though, leaning back against the counter, tin pressed to her belly, for balance. )
Father Lantom isn't here to mediate between us and our problems, and whatever life gets to throw at us. ( because life gets to. two orphaned children who were never adopted: matt, because of his being blind and what being special needs in a home would entail; wanda and pietro, because they wouldn't be separated, and there's still a lot of stigma for those who escaped war-torn sokovia amidst the political climate then and now. neither of them gets to have good things unless they fight for them, but it can all so easily be taken away from them. it's just fact. ) I know you still go to mass.
( on sundays. that he talks to lantom, because wanda goes in, once a month or so, every other weekend, to help out at the orphanage, a little reprieve from adult life (she gets to be fawned on by the sisters that took care of her before, and wanda thinks they weren't as short before, or had that many wrinkles before she left), and she hears about it from the old priest. even if he's mostly fishing.
wanda doesn't go to mass, because she's not catholic. she doesn't think she's anything, even if she remembers jewish celebrations, but all that was lost when her parents died.
she gnaws on her bottom lip. )
...if you're not planning to be honest about your explanation, then don't bother with it. I don't want you to lie to me. Just tell me that you can't tell me.
[ She's right in that he can't really promise that. He can't really promise anything.
But he's going to damn well try it anyway. He lets his hand linger at her face until she moves to get up, and then Matt takes the opportunity to sip slowly at his tea in lieu of a response. No lies, see?
He 'watches' her grab a tin from the top of the fridge, hearing the minute series of sounds that follow after one another: the uncapping of a tin lid from can, her fingers delicately sifting through the contents of the box, some of it in complete disarray, some of it packaged in paper and plastic and foil.
Then all sound pauses as Wanda takes a breath to speak, bracing herself to let him know something that should hold meaning to him.
And it does.
I know you still go to mass, she says.
He hadn't even realized Wanda's been keeping tabs on him that closely, or that Father Lantom gives her a report on his whereabouts. Didn't consider it a possibility, despite the fact that the two of them had grown up there during their formative years and they would always have a tether to it. And, Father Lantom's always had an invested interest in him and the Maximoffs, probably because they'd spent the most time at the orphanage of any of the others. Or maybe because their stories were where he figured he could help out the most.
Matt still goes to him, after all. ]
Force of habit, I guess.
[ Matt shakes his head.
Not that his visits, or going to Mass changes anything about why he does what he does and why he finds himself at war with his wants even now — how he wants to tell Wanda everything, to absolve himself from the lies and years of distance; how he wants more than anything to keep Wanda safe and protected from this darkness. ]
You're right. I won't lie to you. You deserve better and more than that.
[ And so he doesn't tell her he'll see her more because he just doesn't think that's true if he continues to do what he's doing. He swallows, makes a gesture to himself: the damp hair, the cuts and scratches on his skin, the borrowed clothes, the exhaustion in his face. ]
( he won't lie to her, so it means that he won't tell her, which is the kinder alternative but it just isolates her that much more from the person she wants to feel close to, again. wanda frowns, even as he explains that this was a one-off. will matt now feel that he can't come to her, should he be in this situation again, because he'll want to hold true to this being a 'one-off'?
setting the tin down by the sink, wanda fills up a glass with water from the brita filter (can't trust the tap water in this building) and sets it down on the table, alongside with the two oval pills, for him to take.
part of her considers sitting back down, but, instead, she walks around him. )
I'll toss your clothes in the wash.
( small as this apartment is, they don't have a laundry room in the basement due to some flooding problems, but the grand generosity of management installed a washing machine in a closet at the end of the hall, next to the bathroom, after some zoning law or another was passed. she doesn't let matt stop her (and her doing this at all should telegraph her disappointment), reaching the bathroom and picking out his clothes from the tub, wrapping them in the towel he used, and getting a cycle started on the washing machine.
it starts with a beep, the flood of water into the tumbler, and wanda watches it for a while, sitting on her haunches, making herself small.
outside, it starts raining even louder, thunder rolling, threatening hell's kitchen with rain throughout the night. sirens of ambulances and the police echo between buildings, drowned by the rainfall. in her reflection on the glass door of the washing machine, wanda sees tears rolling down her face, and she breathes in—brushing at her cheeks with her hands.
[ He feels like he's said something wrong. More likely than that, he probably didn't say enough. Omitting a lie doesn't exactly mean being truthful either, and he realizes he's given her next to nothing on top of all that.
He tilts his head towards the glass of water and the two Advil left before him — a reprieve for the pounding in his head and the soreness in every muscle — but he doesn't move to touch it.
Instead he strains his ears and pauses, listening for Wanda's whereabouts within her apartment, paying close attention to her movements, her breathing, her heartbeat. It's cheating, sure, but Matt could use all the help he can get right now.
How the hell is he fucking this up so badly?
It's the sound of fabric rustling that he notices first — Wanda pulling his clothes from the bathroom and moving towards the closet where her machine sits. He didn't even know she had a machine. Following that is the rushing sound of water, and the machine drum beginning to spin; it's almost loud enough to deafen the soft sound of rain outside, and more importantly: the hitched breath and slow heartbeat — the release of tension, and ... hurt.
He gets to his feet, slow and deliberate, and makes his way down the narrow hallway to where he hears the washer at its loudest, and can feel the warmth of Wanda crouched right in front of it. He can smell her too, subtle florals and clean shampoo (the same shampoo he'd just used) and he can taste the salt on her cheeks from tears. ]
Wanda.
[ His voice is soft, and he stands there for a moment before he crouches, getting to his knees to be at her level, soreness be damned. ]
I'm doing this all wrong, aren't I?
[ He reaches out instead, a hand gently placed at her arm until he feels like she won't push him away (because she's well within her rights to do so), and then he leans in to press his forehead to hers, to catch her head with his other hand and draw her into him before he moves to embrace her entirely. The laundry continues to spin behind them, washing blood and dirt and violence out of his clothes, like it could be erased.
If only it were that easy. ]
I just — [ He hesitates for the barest second. ] — don't want you to think differently of me.
( she hears him draw closer. sees him, too, on the reflection of the machine's glass. wanda wants to become so small, because it hurts her so much how much matt means to her and how he just keeps pushing her away. stupid, she had said, but it wasn't calling him stupid; it was calling herself stupid, for loving someone so distanced from her. she's stupid for thinking that their times in the orphanage wouldn't come to an end, for thinking things and people were eternal instead of ephemeral.
stupid for thinking that matt would go to university, meet new people, have intelligent discussions, grow beyond what the orphanage could offer him, what she could offer him, and still think that wanda was worth all that.
she's angry at him, but does not pull nor push away when his hand is on her arm, gently moving her around towards him. she's stupid for being so weak; to be unable to resist when his warm hands take hold of her, bringing her closer, and isn't she just so stupid for feeling loved and wanted and safe with his arms around her? wanda presses her face to his chest so easily, wraps her arms around him, and clutches so tightly at the hoodie.
it has been so long since she's been held like this, since she's been close to him like this. it hurts so much more than she imagined, and it feels inevitable that this will be the last time this will happen.
crying quietly against the spot between his chest and shoulder, wanda keeps her face hidden, not wanting to let go. listens, without understanding—how could she ever think so differently of him when she loves him so much? when she's always loved him, flaws and all? when even now, when she's this hurt, she feels like an idiot for not finding any reason to hate him. )
You're wrong.
( she manages, throat tight, a quiet sound. courage flourishes amidst the pain, and wanda knows that she ought to be as transparent and honest as possible, even if he hedges on circumstance of deceit around her, of distance and opaque reasonings. )
You'll always be the Matt that I love. I want... to be so mad at you, but I can't. I'll — always choose to love you.
( and isn't that just the biggest truth she's ever tried to keep buried. pietro knew, how wistfully wanda would look at matt; make comments about it, never teasing her, because he knew without having to be told, that his sister's feelings towards the older boy in the orphanage were the truest thing she's felt since they themselves became orphans. you're happy, he'd remark, after a small interaction with matt, and wanda would smile, looking up with a shrug, her heart filled with warmth.
and, because pietro knew, it meant that wanda understood what she felt, couldn't keep it a secret from herself, either. )
[ 'I'll always choose to love you—' reverberates in his skull, tingling in every atom that makes up this aching, fragile body until he's barely sure he'd even heard her correctly.
Because he certainly can't have, right? Even if his hearing is damned near superhuman, so much so that he can hear a person's heartbeat to tell if they're lying (she's not), or hear the hitch in someone's breath as though they might be trying to draw the words back in hesitation (again, she isn't)?
No, he's heard the words all right, and he hears her sentiment, and it's all from the heart. But he tells himself it's the love of childhood friends who have grown up over the years, seeing each other in their best and worst moments — and it's nothing more than that. It's true and all-encompassing, yes, but it's not —
No.
No one's ever really chosen him; that's the thing about being an orphan with one of the longest tenures at St Agnes. You hope and you hope to be chosen, until that hope eventually fades away and you work to leave on your own terms.
Nevertheless, something in his chest feels heavy and sore at the rest of his unfinished thought, but he ignores it. It's not important right now, and it's selfish, and it isn't what Wanda needs. She's clinging to him, wetting his hoodie, and he doesn't move back or shift or turn away from her but keeps his arms around her, holding her close and relishing in the warmth of her weight against him because he isn't sure how many more moments they'll have like this.
It isn't that Wanda is lying when she claims steadfastness in this moment, that much he's concluded. But whatever he decides to tell her next could change everything. Words have power; the truth has power. He knows as much defending his clients in the courthouse, whether they're innocent or not. (Of course, thankfully they generally are.)
Will she still stay in his life when she finds out how he spends his nights? When she learns that the reason he'd tumbled through her window tonight has everything to do with his frustrations with the justice system and the quiet corruption he sees in Hell's Kitchen — and how much he enjoys seeking out this physical enactment of justice? Helping people through his fists when he can't help them with his words? When the system fails them? When he feels like he fails them?
He pulls back only far enough to reach up and take his borrowed sunglasses off. He can't see her, not exactly, but he wants her to see him. He touches her cheek, thumb gently tracing the line of her jaw with exceeding gentleness, feeling wetness against her skin.
His voice is soft when he speaks. ]
At least let me explain myself before you tell me something so profound.
( either matt is being obtuse, or he's letting her words sink in, dredge through the ink-black darkness that he allowed to visit him on a daily basis. the silence pains her, especially when he starts a sentence but doesn't go beyond a word, leaving her instead to fester in the silence, heart racing in anticipation, but not wanting to draw away from him.
wanting, more than anything else, that the warmth in being surrounded by his arms were more than just something he's done because he wants to mend the hurt he's caused her. how lovely it would be, that they could be together like this, happy, unconcerned with everyone else, caring only about the two of them—even if she knows full well that the world doesn't work like this. why does it feels bad, why does it hurt so much, to want to be his girlfriend?
his thoughts are wracked with turmoil, and though wanda wishes to be nosy and know what he's thinking, she doesn't. she draws back when he starts moving, touching her cheek, when he speaks again—
a sentence completely different from the one he cut himself off from. )
Just say that you want me to hate you.
( she responds to that, imitating how quietly he speaks, keeping her chin down. it's embarrassing, after all, confessing in such a roundabout way, knowing that matt is intelligent enough to know what it is she meant, and not getting a direct response about it. whenever she told pietro she loved him, he would reply right away. she's offered matt her heart, and it's still sitting raw between them, shame slowly picking at her.
drawing his hand away, wanda worries at drying her own tears herself, like she's done for the past few months. )
I don't need you to explain to me who you are, Matt.
Why would I want you to hate me? That's the last thing I want.
[ Not that it isn't something he doesn't deserve.
All of the evasions, the distance, the excuses and lies ... he's surprised she'd even let him stay in this apartment for as long as he has.
But the way she pulls away from him ... well, he tries not to let it bother him, because that's his fault too, but it does. He sits back, his head tilted to face her head on whether or not she offers him her attention. Whatever he says next, he leaves their relationship in her hands, whether it be a secret that binds them, or the thing that breaks all of this apart. He'll accept whatever happens; he doesn't really have a choice but to.
With an exhale, Matt gestures to the clothing tumbling in a cycle right now, the hum of the laundry machine filling in the silence between their pained words and bruised hearts. ]
Every time I told you I couldn't see you because I was studying late, or Foggy needed me to wingman for him ... or any of those reasons — I was lying to you. These clothes, and the scarf in the kitchen sink — I wear them to hide who I am from the guys who terrorize Hell's Kitchen.
[ He shakes his head. ]
I think some people have started calling him — me — the 'Devil of Hell's Kitchen', or at least that's what I've heard.
[ He tilts his chin downward, as though he can't bear whatever disappointment or anger he expects from his confession.
He adds anyway: ]
There's only so much that the justice system is capable of; I had to learn that the hard way. And tonight I was a little in over my head.
( sitting on the floor is a choice that they've made to have this conversation. it reminds wanda vaguely of when they and a few other kids at the orphanage would lie under the beds, tell each other scary stories, or share secrets that they didn't want the sisters to know about. there is a sense of intimacy here—of something so explicitly childlike that it softens wanda's hardened expectations to whatever matt is gearing up to tell her.
the lying isn't a surprise, but the admittance of it is. some relief does relax her tense shoulders upon the realization that he wasn't ignoring her because he was over her; that it was... something else.
something quite unexpected.
(how did he know she had left the scarf in the kitchen sink?)
wanda falls back to sit down properly on the floor, legs crossed, listening now with some amount of skepticism at his words. the devil of hell's kitchen? she'd heard something about that vigilante, in one of the radio shows at the diner, heard some people talk about it. never really paying it much mind. superheroes like new york, and it wouldn't be the first time someone tried their hand at vigilantism, but the fact that it's in hell's kitchen has left the people in their neighborhood excited, hopeful for something beyond the endless violence that does terrorize them.
columbia university is also some ways away from here, so to think that matt is going out of his way to 'patrol' his home (—his loved ones, her?—) sounds exactly like something he'd do. something so selfless yet equally selfish.
not to mention that he's blind—
wanda shoves him, hands on his chest, grabbing momentarily at the hoodie as if halfway regretting pushing him the way she had at all. still, it'll be enough to knock him off balance, exacerbate that soreness he feels. )
You're an idiot, Matt.
( he's right to think that she's get angry, but her anger might not be entirely because of what he thinks. she's angry that he has lied to her, that he's kept this a secret, something that only he has to bear. all this time, trying to 'protect' this thing, this part of him, hurting her in the process, when wanda could so easily stand by him.
her anger festers in her words, in the quickening of her beating heart, but despite that, she grabs at one of his arms with surprising gentleness. pulling the sleeves back, she notices bruises, far too many for a clumsy blind guy, far worse than bumping into furniture could cause. once matt regains some of his balance, she's pulling up the hoodie, too, suspecting, and getting the confirmation, for the bruising on his chest, still-healing scars from what likely has been knife wounds, glass, stitched up poorly.
she picks herself up, letting go, and stepping forward on her knees. her hands reach for him, over his shoulders, and wanda wraps him tightly into an embrace, not caring if it sends them tumbling back on the floor or if he manages to balance them despite himself.
she mutters idiot, again, pointed and angry. )
Why would you ever feel that I'd want you to carry this load all on your own?
( parables from service that they had been forced to attend come to her mind, of the philosophical explanations of scripture that father lantom would go into, of their classes with the sisters about good and evil, of what's right and what's wrong. they'd been through so much together, why would he ever think that she'd abandon him?
over this?
wanda doesn't let him go, her embrace tightening, instead, her voice wrapped still with emotion. )
I love you — of course I wouldn't. You're still the Matt I grew up with. You're still you.
[ Matt is quiet and patient throughout Wanda's study of him. When she checks for his wounds — fresh ones and old — he remains still, letting her hands tug at his borrowed hoodie, and then waiting while she takes stock of his sustained injuries. He can hear the steady beating of her heart at the start, and then the way that it changes, beating faster when she realizes that everything is true; that he's telling the truth.
When she finally lets go, Matt opens his mouth as though to say something, maybe to defend himself or to apologize again, but then she's pushed herself into him, arms winding around to hold him close. The suddenness surprises him — sure, he can trace the exact moment when someone is tries to land a strike on him, can dodge a flying projectile that threatens to pierce through his skin, but this catches him unawares.
They don't quite topple over, but Matt finds he has to quickly catch his balance and hers, righting their weight by leaning into her. And when he does, when they've settled, he stays there with his face buried in her hair, his arms moving to wrap around her waist in kind while they still remain low to the floor, caught up in each other.
He breathes in.
Breathes out. ]
It's not something I would ever want you to have to lie about. If anyone asked.
[ Or if they tried to pry it out of her.
And he knows that bearing this secret alone, for as long as he has, ensures that no one else ever has to be put in harm's way. It all changed tonight, of course, and that's his own damned fault too ... but something inside him releases too — like the pressure and the weight of this other life has finally found somewhere else to go. ]
But I am me. [ He agrees, voice muffled and maybe just a little thicker than mere seconds before. ] I am me. And I'm sorry, Wanda.
[ His nose grazes against the side of her neck, as he too tightens his hold on her, hugging her like she's his lifeline. Like she's always been his lifeline until the moment he let go, swallowed by the darkness of the sea. ]
...but you're making yourself lie about it, instead?
( she mutters the question, rubbing her face against his shoulder. weirdly enough, she likes that matt smells like her shampoo and soap, something familiar, something of hers on him. while it's heroic that he'd want to protect her from 'sinning', should she ever have to lie for his sake, wanda doesn't think it's that much of a big deal.
in the quiet of this moment, she notices him relaxing, his arms tighter around her, almost like she's done something for him that he's needed—though he's denied himself from it all this time. a shared burden, so to speak.
the words mirrored back at her—i love you too. i do.—casual yet meaningful, makes her breathing hitch in her throat. does this mean that matt understands that she'll accept him, flaws and all? darkness and all? she does hope he knows. there's honesty in his words, that much she can feel, tell.
drawing back a touch, though doing her best not to pull him away entirely, wanda worries on searching his face. light touches on his skin, on his features, now that he's taken the glasses off; she traces over his bruises, under his tired eyes, and—
lingers, eyes on his lips, noticing a cut on his bottom lip, healing from some fight he must have had before tonight. )
When you — say that you love me, do you mean...
( it's scary, asking this. even if she feels certain about how he feels.
wanda swallows, arms herself with courage, lets her hand fall onto his shoulder. )
I want to be with you. To help you, to— to be the one you feel like what 'home' feels like.
They'd talked about home so much in their younger days, when it felt like something they could allow themselves to fantasize about, something that was so far off into the future, it seemed plausible. They could build their way towards it, and they could burrow themselves within those walls.
Sometimes their visions would be grandiose, filled with large rooms and better furniture than the stuff at St Agnes'. There'd always be talk of food, with a large kitchen to cook it all in. (Matt remembers making a joke about Pietro's insatiable appetite and whether they'd have enough fridge space.)
Matt wanted a library filled with books he could read. He'd even take the ones he couldn't because it still felt like the kind of thing a good, warm house would have. (When Wanda volunteered to read those books to him, Matt smiled so widely, knowing that next to them Pietro was rolling his eyes and dramatically gagging in mock-disgust.)
But as they grew up, home began to seem less likely. More than that, it began to feel wistful, sad even. And when Pietro died ... well, they stopped talking about home all together, although Matt never stopped thinking about it. Not even when he finally found the opportunity to leave the orphanage, moving into the dormitories at Columbia University and recreating a simulacra of what he expected home should have looked like — all while he wondered what Wanda must be thinking, where she was staying, what their lives looked like now that they were so far apart.
Even now, as selfish want wars with the responsibility to protect the few people he has left in this world, even when this dark part of him exists and will continue to exist despite himself, Matt still dreams of home. Can the Devil of Hell's Kitchen have something like that?
He closes his eyes for a moment, thoughtful, and then he opens them again, head tilting towards her — seeing her without seeing her. He licks at his bottom lip, finding her hand — the one at his shoulder — to wind her fingers with his and squeeze them gently between them. ]
It means I shouldn't have shut you out or kept you away from me because I thought I was doing the right thing. It means ... what I've known for years but thought I couldn't have. Or maybe shouldn't have.
[ He lets go of her hand to skim the edge of her jawline now, thumb grazing her cheek with impossible fondness, like she is something precious. ]
Home was never the big house with the books and furniture. It was the people. It was you.
( matt's words circle in her mind, echoes of ghosts of a past, this awareness she has, now, with these strange powers of hers, making what floats in his mind all that much vivid—images of their imagined homes, as envisioned by him, of memories fraught with emotion but considered with such tenderness. this much is something else that tells her that the matt she's always known is still there, underneath this bravado and these walls.
(she is going to have to tell him about these powers one day, isn't she? they have to be honest, the both of them, and perhaps the idea isn't so unappealing to wanda, as long as they're together through it.)
they are ultimately still orphans trying to find their way in the world, however that may look like, wanting more than anything else for 'home'. wanda had thought it had been so invariably clear, that home would always be them, yet they took such a long, spiraling route to get to exactly this moment.
her heartbeat increases, the touch on her jawline tilting her head up a touch, draws her closer to him. he's tentative, she can tell, hesitant, trying to make sure that they're in the same wavelength. but matt cannot read her mind, the way she can, so he lingers on cues, on what he feels of her movements, on her words.
wanda breathes in, then leans in, hands at his shoulders, closing her eyes as she presses her lips to his—a moment lengthened by how long she can hold her breath. pulling back, slowly, she realizes that tears have once more pooled in her eyes, now rolling down her cheeks.
despite the strained feeling in her throat, wanda adds, lest the silence prolongs itself into something awkward, )
You're home.
( and that much is a certainty she can offer him, the fact that she will be for him that which he's always wanted ever since he arrived at the orphanage after jack's murder; that much is a certainty that she is willing to give up so much for—being with him. )
[ Matt doesn't let her finish speaking, because he's already leaning in to her again, his mouth seeking hers because that first kiss — their first kiss — isn't enough. Not nearly even close enough.
If that hadn't been the confirmation he needed, there's no clearer answer.
How many opportunities to do this had they lost because Matt convinced himself they were just friends? Close friends, of course — the closest friend he's got — but still just that. He dared not cross that threshold for fear of ruining the most steady thing he had in his entire life as an orphan, out of respect for her, and out of selfishness to preserve the status quo from upset. And maybe there was a part of him that didn't think he deserved this either. Still isn't sure he does. Wanda could have anyone she wants, and she wants him. It's nearly unfathomable.
But he doesn't take it for granted, not now, and not for the rest of their lives.
He kisses her with intent, his thumbs swiping away at the tears left on her cheeks before he pulls back to cradle her face. ]
Yeah. [ He agrees, his voice soft and a little thick. ] I'm home.
( it's definitely for the best that matt doesn't let wanda finish speaking, as she would only just be repeating the same words, earnestly trying to convince him about something that they both know is true—her brain trying to catch up with the fact that she's kissed him and wishes she could be kissing him again.
matt is clumsy, leaning in to kiss her, but she meets him halfway, breathing him in, her hands tight on his shoulders and smoothing over as she pushes back into his space. his intentional kissing met with her own earnestness, the reciprocity of it flooding her ears with her heartbeat, the taste of him, until they are most certainly so close to one another that when he does pull back, their noses are mere millimeters from each other.
she smiles despite herself, then flusters up as she laughs quietly, pushing herself further into his space to hug him tightly once more. all the pain, all her regrets, her second-guessing herself and her place in matt's life—all that, no longer a mystery, no longer a burden.
he's home and, as long as he knows that, nothing else matters right now.
except maybe for the quiet wheeze that escapes him and wanda can't ignore. still hugging him, she glances up, gets a general sense of his thoughts, and clocks the issue. )
...you didn't take the painkiller, did you?
( it's likely still sitting on the table, next to their cups of (cold) tea and the glass of water she had gotten him. another spin cycle tumbles his clothes behind her, the rain grows a little louder, and she finally draws back, hands at the bend of his elbows. )
I want you to stay tonight.
( so that she can look after him, and so they can be together, to maybe — rightfully — kiss some more. )
( wanda smiles at matt from her seat, watching him, sat on the couch across from her, accept her mother iryna's insistence on taking his cup of tea back into the kitchen. their eyes meet, and her smile widens, shuffling over to sit beside him, tucked to his side. dinner at her parents is not unusual and it happens every friday evening after the work week is over. wanda gets here early after she's done with her shift in the local daycare to help with cooking, and matt arrives a little later after he's done his shift at landman and zack's. oleg always intercepts him to talk about a sport's team or another, of the stock market, or even court cases. her father was a lawyer, back in sokovia, and while he can't practice here, he was definitely quite excited when wanda brought home her boyfriend from university, a law student, to introduce him to her parents. )
She's going to fight you next time you argue with her about it.
( she grabs tightly at his hand and brings it up to her lips, to press a kiss to his knuckles.
life is good, both for matthew murdock and wanda maximoff. him, an orphan, who made it to columbia and herself the daughter of immigrant parents, who won a scholarship to study there. he was in law school and she in art school, and a chance encounter of him walking in with his best friend to the students' art exposition got them talking. wanda thought he had really liked her art and she spoke nonstop about it with him, only to belatedly realize, when he lingered after the art show had ended, that it was her he had really liked. they made a great match almost immediately, and the rest, as they say, is history.
now, six years later into their dating, they are engaged. matt has definitely become a part of the family; with pietro in california training as a runner with a lot of promise, his presence in the maximoff home has been very welcome. pietro has of course met him already, and though giving matt a hard time at first, matt had gotten his blessing.
she reclines on the couch, hand on his thigh now. )
Tired? I know you had that serious litigation case today.
( the one he had been preparing for for several sleepless nights. wanda knows she's lucky, to be with him, because his income has allowed her to dedicate herself to art as a hobby while she works at the daycare, since she's always loved kids. the way she is with pietro's baby daughter, luna, when she had first met her niece brought up the conversation about having children of their own.
it really is a no brainer for them, how much promise their lives together have. )
( wanda shushes her brother, loudly, as she sits on the windowsill, one leg out the window, the other still inside. her dress pulled up haphazardly, but thankfully it isn't one of her more delicate ones. the twins were meant to sit in the tea room to play as decorations to the king's guest. well, papa is expecting too much of his rebellious teenage daughter. she doesn't doubt that sunday was dutifully sent to look for her, as it has been a good twenty minutes since their guest arrived into the castle.
looking down, it's not entirely a huge drop, from the third floor to the gardens below, but wanda has also become an expert at climbing down the outer wall of the castle. her bag with the clothes she's 'running away with' were already dropped down before her.
her voice is hushed, even as she sharply says, )
I'm not going to sit and listen to Count Brucker talking nonsense about the villagers and ways to make their lives more difficult. Father ( not papa, because she's angry) thinks he's a funny old man, but he doesn't know the awful things happening.
You heard Cirio, Sunday.
( cirio, who lives in a townhouse by the docks, gets to see day in and day out the troubles of the villagers in their kingdom firsthand. they get to live in opulence, while count brucker sees their father giving him the room to meet as sponsorship for his sordid acts, taking away from those they were meant to protect.
[ He's about to interject, but being shushed has Sunday crinkling his nose in obvious - though quiet, as requested - distaste. Wanda might be straddling the window but his hands are on her shoulders since once that expression passes it's right back to worry which hadn't left since he'd walked into the room to find her escape in progress. This might not be the highest window in the castle but it's certainly still up there. The couple of seconds it'd taken for her bag to hit the ground with a muffled noise were more than enough for Sunday to become concerned.
So - ]
I'm not saying you have to sit there, I'm just saying that maybe you don't have to climb out a window!
[ It's possible this might have more impact than being whisper shouted at a level to get the supposed shouting part of it across even while being careful to not let it echo through the room, out into the hallway, or out the window itself when anyone might be in the gardens below. Not their parents since they're busy with the Count, a man Sunday doesn't care for either from not only today but all the past times they've had to sit there listening to him spout terrible varieties of the same thing Wanda's correctly pointed out.
He has his doubts, too, about whether Father doesn't actually know what's happening, but he's not about to say so aloud when his goal is to keep Wanda from climbing out. ]
And I'm not saying you have to stay, either. [ Just adding that quickly in hopes it's before she interjects, considering he knows better than to suggest that as he glances over his shoulder. No one's approaching, so there's time yet. ] Just at least take a different way down.
[ There's a multitude of passageways throughout the castle, and most of which he's willing to bet either their parents don't know about some of the ones their children have investigated or have forgotten about them once duty and everything else became their focus. He's counting on that, in fact, when one such hidden entrance isn't far from this very room. ]
( wanda is vaguely aware that despite her general introverted personality, she can be quite overbearing on her brother. where he is calm, she is quick to anger; where he stops to think about situations, she bulldozes without measuring the consequences of her actions. much like fire and water, she burns too quickly through her options while he tries to calmly smooth out opportunities.
(and, much like fire and water, she can be warm and nurturing when caught in her gentler moments, while he can grow forceful and stormy when truly upset.)
they complement each other very well, masking each other's flaws and bolstering their strengths. together, their mother has said time and time again, they can do just about anything, even if their teenage years has caught them tipping over the scales a lot more extremely in some cases. young royals fawn over sunday and how handsome he is; young ladies of the court are constantly making eyes at him and trying to act cutesy around him. wanda has mentioned her annoyance at being befriended by many of them, only to be bombarded with questions about him, the scheme clear—getting close to the sister would let them get closer to sunday. it's rude, wanda would think, because it's not like her brother was solely interested in girls! in a similar fashion, wanda has found herself wanting more than what the constrictions of her title gave her, to explore and go beyond, oftentimes letting her heart be swayed by swashbuckling smiles and rowdy behavior, which gives endless amount of headaches to sunday, constantly trying to get her feet to land back on the ground.
but, as wanda pouts, her brother's hands at her shoulders keeping her from absconding from the conversation and jumping off, she knows that he's here and trying to change her mind because he loves her. there is no one in the world she loves more than her older brother, the one person who knows her best. frustrated tears form in her eyes, feeling a hundred types of way about the count and his awful ways, how helpless she feels.
all that emotion is removed from her when sunday admits that he isn't here to force her to stay, but rather gives her another solution to escaping this situation. )
One of your secret passageways!
( bursts forth, excitedly, as she pulls herself up and off the window, into the room proper. she draws her arms around her brother in a tight embrace, because she knows what he's talking about. when she draws back just enough, wanda lifts her chin a touch to look into his eyes, hands on his shoulders.
(once upon a time they used to be the same height; wanda had even been taller than sunday once, too, when they were little.) )
[ With a huff preceding what he says which sounds remarkably like their mother - ]
Yeah, the thing you should've thought of first.
[ No, he's not letting it go that she was just in the window over this as an option. He gets why that was her first option since she's made it through there successfully even as it'd caused him immense anxiety then, too, being the one left standing in the window with his hands gripping the sill until she was safely on the ground waving to him cheerfully.
Slow to anger, quick to worry. Always one to contemplate the outcomes before doing something, and always watching with pride and a tinge of envy when Wanda is quick to stand up for what she believes or to tell someone off for it when they have it coming. He's learned to channel that for himself, too, particularly to any of those young royals or nobles who think they might turn a situation to their advantage by finding some way to separate the siblings standing together when they clearly didn't want to be. More than once he's quite happily put them in their place with a sharpness they didn't expect.
At her question, the one he really should have known was coming as he hugs her back, a wrinkle appears in Sunday's brow. Not quite a frown though it could become one at any second - an expression he's started to wear more often these days when it wasn't often seen before, now that he's spent some more time at court in the actual court matters and it's often been the extent of his reaction to something desperately requiring more.
But. If there was ever a weakness and one they both know he has since Sunday won't pretend for a second it's not the case: it's his sister. She looks at him with that not quite pleading look as if she expects him to say anything else but the answer he doesn't have to consider for even a millisecond. ]
Of course. Someone has to keep you from getting lost if you make a wrong turn somewhere.
[ Unlikely to happen, and it's not like Sunday needs a reason, an excuse, or anything at all when it's Wanda who's asking. Which is why he steps back and grabs one of her hands to tug her towards the doorway, whatever hesitation there now vanished. ]
C'mon, but only if you're up for more sneaking around.
[ Unnecessary, and the mischievous smirk he shoots back over his shoulder to further prod at his sister like all siblings do, no matter how proper they might be learning to be outside of here. ]
( of course she is up for sneaking out. wanda's plan really went as far as getting out of the castle, into the village, and maybe finding a way of getting cirio to join her in her spontaneous outing. there really is very little thought put into it beyond that, but having sunday leading the way and taking charge makes wanda feel more comfortable about the thought that this now has a structure to it. )
I wouldn't get lost.
( she replies, halfway through a pout, as she holds her brother's hand tightly as he leads the way. out the door and into the hallway, which is, for now, deserted; wanda looks one way, sunday the other, then back at each other with a nod. wanda knows that he will guide the way to this secret passageway of his—one that she remembers existing, but cannot honestly remember the last time she's used it.
as they traverse the many turns in their home's vast hallways, wanda spares a moment to, win a whisper, think about him, )
I have some pants that might fit you in my bag. ( he didn't pack his escape bag! ) We have to make sure to grab it on our way out!
[ To her (correct) rebuttal she wouldn't get lost Sunday simply sends another brotherly look back over his shoulder. It's true, he knows, that she would've remembered her way through tunnels they'd once had any numbers of adventures in with premises dreamed up as children. Sometimes even with Cirio in tow - though with no shortage of eye rolls from Sunday hidden and quite visible - so maybe it's extra fitting Cirio's here in the background of today, too.
If not actually there, eventually. Sunday's choosing to ignore that for time being while they walk quietly through the hallway. It's empty, and almost suspiciously so, of anyone coming to find the siblings to guide them to this meeting they're avoiding where one or both of their parents will have to explain.
A problem for future them since for now there's leaving, and when he looks back at Wanda again he raises an eyebrow. Right - clothing. He definitely hadn't thought about that at all but with his room so far away as they've kept going? Too late for that now when he presses on a piece of molding which pops up the hidden panel he was looking for. ]
We should bring something to eat with us, too.
[ For however long they'll be gone, on the topic of preparations. This passageway has a branch to lead to the kitchens and if one of their favorite cooks is there, well. It'd be easy to get up with more than enough snacks before they go. ]
( what the siblings don't know is that although this is a very important excursion for them, the majority of the castle staff is fully aware of their 'adventures', and usually give them the room for their explorations, turning a blind eye to them. the castle for a long time had been without the loud, joyful sound of children in it, after many decades of turmoil during those wretched days of war and the royal family having to hide away. now, in these years of relative peace, the royal family reinstated, the loyal staff that once served the family for generations now returned, and finding the queen to be expecting twins was reason for grand celebrations.
not to mention that the twins were fated, by prophecy, to bring further peace and understanding between nations. whatever details this entails, no one knows, but the twins do bring joy wherever they go, their kindness and love for the staff born naturally from within. it really isn't just one favorite cook, so much as the kitchen staff adoring them, as they are the least picky eaters and have even tried to spend time in the kitchens learning.
unsurprisingly, sunday is thinking about food. )
I hadn't thought of that.
( she admits easily, as the wall's mechanisms pull and move at the passageways hidden door to reveal its entrance. once upon a time, during darker times, this very same passage led many royals to safety and helped them avoid a gruesome, torturous death. to think it had been part of the twins' playground really speaks of how times have changed.
inside they go, treading ever onward, wanda's hand still holding tightly onto sunday's as he leads the way. )
We'll have to swear any of the kitchen staff that do see us to secrecy. We need a proper head start before Father realizes we've gone.
( this is such a serious matter, and yet it's such a lousy plan in concept... )
[ It's why they balance each other out so well, this ability to consider the things the other hasn't. Wanda thought of clothes, and he's thought of food - together a success to make sure that their plan to leave will be a success. Easier once they make it out to keep going without having to rely on much else, at least until they're more settled.
(It does, however, escape Sunday's notice each and every time that someone else has intervened prior to whatever they've planned.)
That makes it an easy decision to make the kitchen their next destination as he was already planning so when the turn down those passageways approaches they travel it together. ]
It should be busy what with the count arriving soon. [ 'Count' said with considerable disdain - the same he'd felt earlier but hadn't voiced aloud so best to make it clear right now. ] That'll make it easier to sneak in and whoever we come across will have what they need to get done, so maybe we can just say we're there for a snack.
[ It wouldn't be that out of place when those dinners are often late to allow for the required socializing to happen first from all the nobility working their way through court. Attention their parents must pay to them as the leaders, certainly, but even that only goes so far for the schemes put into place by those who would try them. Ones that are getting ever closer to the twins themselves as they've grown older, and ones Sunday looks at with disdain.
So at last when they come to the door that leads to the kitchen, he's ready for this departure. One nudge opens it enough to peer through; sure enough, the staff is working on any number of things though he spots Hilde at a stove, one of the older cooks who's quite fond of them indeed, and nudges his sister with his elbow. ]
( with sunday taking charge, in a way, wanda is left to do one of the things she enjoys doing the most with her brother: following his lead. there's certainty in the way he confidently poses the plan, the way he explains how they will go and do and manage. nudged by her brother forward, wanda slips her hand out of his and moves over to hilde, who all but kisses the top of her head and brings her in for a hug. hilde has known them from the day they were born, so it stands to reason her affection is rather motherly.
it takes little coaxing to ask hilde for some snacks, for some food proper, once wanda's eyes catch onto things inside the ice box and on the counters. hilde never asks, she just plays along with the twins.
and, sure enough, between sunday and wanda, they manage a bag packed with enough snacks and food to last them... perhaps an afternoon, if they're careful and ration properly. a task that, undoubtedly, they've not had to do in their lives, so this might be too much of an ask. back to their secret passageway, and soon they're out toward the garden. wanda rushes toward the bushes to find the bag she had dropped, hitching it up on her shoulder as she rejoins her brother.
so far, so (suspiciously) good. )
Where to now?
( sunday is, after all, the expert in directions, considering his route through the secret passageway. )
[ By all accounts, the bag might as well be packed with days' worth of food by Sunday's estimation. It absolutely doesn't; it's the privilege of not having to know how beyond a theory and with that in mind, the supplies won't last nearly as long as their plan to leave ("leave" as it'll actually be) intends to be.
But: it's an important part of today's plan either way and with the supplies in hand and with a kiss to Hilde's cheek for her thoughtfulness and that assurance she won't say a word, off the twins go. Oblivious, possibly, to the fond looks they get on their way out and maybe a quiet bet or two regarding when they'll be back.
Outside in the air and as Wanda retrieves her other bag, the possibilities of what to do from here seem limitless. The castle grounds sprawl on and one so they'll have to walk quite a ways, and Sunday reaches for his sister's hand to pull her along. ]
Let's just see where the path takes us.
[ The path in question is one leading to the extensive gardens, ones with all sorts of hedges and walls they can duck behind if someone else is out here enjoying the sunshine and might want to mention they've seen the twins on their way out. On the other side of the gardens closer to the start of the woods is a treehouse they once favored as younger children and still stands when their parents couldn't quite ever commit to taking it down. They can say goodbye to it, too.
That's Sunday's thought, given he's not looking up at the sky to see what while it's sunny now, there's a suspicious number of rainclouds gathering on the horizon. ]
( the path takes them ever onward down a familiar road within the confines of the expertly-cared for gardens. the twins knows but aren't necessarily aware that there are well-patrolled borders at the length of the castle's lands. for them, getting to go down the gardens and towards the woods has always spelled a fun kind of freedom.
wanda's expression brightens when she realizes where sunday's steering leads them, and she's the first to break into a run to greet the old, stalwart tree that has been witness to many of their playdates and adventures. a ladder lingers to the side, made of rope and hardy wood, ever inviting. )
Old Wildspur!
( yes, they've given the trees names. their father, the king, is a man of the land, beholden to the earth, its people, and its many troubles. their mother, however, comes from a group of peoples that live under the stars, without need for roof or hearth, where every living creature has a name and a spirit and essence. their union had been a fortuitous one, in wanting to bridge the growing gap between both cultures. it's why sunday's silver hair and golden eyes are not entirely surprising, as many in their mother's family bore hair of silver starlight and eyes unusually colored; though wanda took after their father in these aspects, her features were delicate, much resembling their mother's traits. the twins held fast to the loving connection her mother's people kept with the natural world. sometimes in whispers, sometimes in song, it was many a time that the twins would claim to 'hear' the trees talking.
there's fondness in wanda as she lightly passes the palm of her hand over the old tree's bark. )
If only we could take you along.
( she says, a little sadly, and the tree's leaves rustle, almost in response. a warning, perhaps, too, as heavy droplets of rain start to fall on the ground, threatening the arrival of plenty more. )
[ Perhaps it's no surprise at all that on their path away from the castle and into the woods where they've spent so much time after the years that their first destination is an old friend. The tree which has watched over so much on mornings, afternoons, or other evenings when they've crept away from obligations to find a sliver of peace.
It's fitting, then, there's an actual goodbye to be had here and that it goes to the tree. In response to what's said, the branches almost dip lower like a parent or grandparent's arms going to encircle a beloved child like Wanda's sadness has touched it. Others might say it's an illusion, a trick of the wind or simply gravity settling the world a little further - but the twins know better, don't they? ]
You'll tell the other trees where we've gone, won't you?
[ A network of rustling leaves and tree limbs reaching for each other the intertwined canopy above them that's also keeping the rain from immediately falling onto them where raindrop after raindrop falls and slowly picks up speed. Sunday's focus isn't on the impending weather either when he also places a hand to the bark which feels alive beyond anything else and it rumbles in response. Doesn't it?
Then again, thunder rolls above them and startles Sunday into finally looking up in time with rain sliding off of the leaves sheltering them to fall directly onto his face. ]
Come on, Wanda. We need to go to the treehouse.
[ The roof on it is still whole even after all these years, secretly maintained by castle staff who know the twins find their way there often enough to need it and with what care the siblings have provided themselves, too. This goodbye to Old Wildspur is far from being complete as he murmurs an apology; they'll come back to finish it before they really leave and aren't in danger of being soaked by the rainstorm. ]
( despite their best efforts, wanda and sunday will get soaked. they manage to track their way to the familiar tree that holds aloft their treehouse in its sturdy branches, and a quick climbs has them reaching up and into the protective roof of their childhood playroom. wanda climbs up after sunday, her brother helping her up on the last spurt upward. they close the hatch, and wanda drops her bags.
looking a little sullen at having being soaked, she heads towards the trunk where many of their clothes and towels and other linen had been kept (and constantly freshened up by the castle staff in charge). she manages to find a towel for herself and her brother, coming back to him to give him his own—a pastel blue one with an 's' embroidered delicately by hand on a corner. )
It's so stuffy in here.
( part of the role of the staff keeping up maintenance is to keep the treehouse feel like it hasn't been used for as long as the twins haven't been in it, for the sake of 'realism'. oh, how carefully curtailed their whole lives have been. wanda sits herself down on a hammock chair, drying her hair, legs hanging as she swings lightly back and forth. )
The west wind shouldn't be blowing storms this way this time of the year.
( and yet, it's a cacophony of heavy rain outside, a blistering sound above them. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
✴︎ bob
at least, she is in a place where they speak english and all signs are, too, in english.
she's not quite detained, but australian authorities won't let her through to join her travelmates in their connecting flight to indonesia, where they'll eventually make their way through to malaysia via bus and ferry. wanda genuinely does not expect them to stop because of her—she's just a stranger to them, someone who is piggybacking off of their efforts to travel SEA to fulfill her twin brother's dying wish. and so she sits here, alone, in a cold waiting room, with other 'detainees' like herself, scared shitless, while australia decides her fate. someone told her it should be okay, that it'll just take a while, before giving her a granola bar and a water bottle.
but wanda is not reassured.
she sniffles, back so straight her shoulders are stiff, linking her fingers tightly together; tears stream down her face, because she just feels so — so lost, and so alone. )
✴︎ matt
( wanda is still angry (and embarrassed) at herself. it's been a few days since she last talked to matt, and every time she picks up her phone wanting to give him a call to talk with him about the usual mundane shit she tends to throw his way, those feelings well up again. it's not unusual for them to argue, but this time was a little more personal than other times; she'd accused him of not being open with her because he was 'too busy' with 'smarter girls'. his reaction would have been comical, if she hadn't felt so embarrassed by the strike of realization that seemed to have hit the both of them at her statement.
so, she hasn't called matt, and he hasn't called her. her phone remains idle on the windowsill, as she stares out into the night, a curtain of rain painting hell's kitchen in muddled colors.
her cup of tea runs hot, and she blows on it before taking a sip; the tv plays in the background, on some programme she isn't particularly paying attention to. )
slides in here immediately
It's his fault, really, it usually is, but this darker, other life he lives, the one that he might even say he's addicted to (though never aloud, never even to himself — so that the only one who really knows is God, and who's He gonna tell?) is just something he can't tell her. He can't bring her into it because ... because —
Well.
It's not normal. He knows that. And it's dangerous, which is probably the most important reason why he tends to get a little squirrelly around the topic. It usually starts with a patrol, just a casual walk around a scummy neighbourhood — and not every night winds up with him getting his ass beat either. But some nights it can get pretty bad, and then he'll make up some excuse about why he can't see her, not until the bruises fade enough that he can call it clumsiness; the result of being blind. Law school becomes a pretty good alibi.
But tonight's different.
He's bringing her into it now, whether she's asked for it or not. Because this night, after countless stupid excuses about having to study late, or Foggy needing him to act as wingman, or yeah — that goddamned stupid comment he'd made about dating 'smarter girls', Matt comes tumbling through her kitchen window, bruised and scraped and a little rougher than she's seen him in all the time they've known each other. He rolls over onto his back, a damp dark fabric covering half of his face. His breathing is hard and he leaves a smear of blood — his own? the other guy's? — diluted with the rain on her once pristine white tile floor.
He didn't know where else to go and Wanda's always been ... safe. ]
no subject
not to mention that she has these powers now that make her feel like a freak, and the orphanage is too loud with sadness and grief and unfettered anguish.
which is why she lives on her own, the apartment subsidized by the government through a social program the orphanage works with, and she's gotten herself a job at a local diner while assisting night classes at the community college to get some degree or another—nothing fancy.
so, when she hears the rain get louder because of the window in her kitchen opening, wanda tenses up. she sets her teacup down and picks up the metal baseball bat she keeps by the front door, quietly shimmying against the wall, hearing the hard breathing, the tumbling of a body, and it feels like the rain gets even louder still when she sees the man lying down on her kitchen's floor, bloodied, wet, and bruised.
it's so immediate to her, the realization— )
Matthew?
( no mask could hide him from her, especially when she spent so long staring at his face, as they studied together in the orphanage, knowing that he couldn't see her doing that. he'd always be recognizable to her.
she sets the bat down and with a sense of urgency crawls over to him, a hand pressed to his chest, the other pushing this dumb fabric from off his eyes, his head. her hands are shaking, a million thoughts rushing through her head.
(she had found pietro in a similar state, cold and unresponsive, before anyone else had come to help them. the streets of hell's kitchen had always been dangerous, and pietro had gotten himself killed—because of her. how dare matthew do this to her, like this.) )
Matt. ( there's a shakiness to her voice, and she doesn't care that the open window is letting rain into her kitchen. ) What happened? Who ( —she swallows hard, one of her hands pressing to his face— ) did this to you?
no subject
This is probably the most exposed he's ever been, one of his very last secrets laid bare now in Wanda's tiny kitchen. But of course it would be with Wanda. It should be. Who else knows him better than he knows himself? Who else has seen him grow up from the quiet, struggling blind kid to the lanky teen, to the guy who decided he wanted to go to law school and worked his ass off to get there? It's not fair that the secret should come to light this way, though; and he's self-aware enough to know how much of an asshole move it probably is to be here.
But what other choice did he have?
He's still breathing hard when she pulls the fabric from his face so that the light in the kitchen hits him square on. He can't exactly see the fixture itself but he knows it's there, he can hear the buzzing from the bulb and the warmth of it burns bright in his vision of red, hazey hellfire. The pupils in his eyes, devoid of any real 'sight', shift, but as usual remain unfocused.
He stifles a quiet grunt. ]
Some guys, they got the jump on me. It's no big deal. [ — said as he winces, trying to move in his prone position, and proving just how 'no big deal' it is. Really. ] I had to get away. [ He pauses to catch a tight breath. ] I'm sorry, I didn't know where else to go.
no subject
when he tries to sit up, wanda fusses, because he's clearly struggling to move. she sits back herself, placing a hand around his back to help prop him up.
and she has every right to berate him, to question every word he has told her so far, add the inconsistency of the fact that he came in through her kitchen window—all that, despite the fact that she's pretty certain all he has is an address, but no clear certainty of where she lives in, because he's never taken her up on the offer to come over to show him the place, 'busy' as he's been.
but she can't stay angry, not right now, not when he says he's sorry, that he didn't know where else to go. )
Idiot.
( she says, softly, half-fondly, because—being an orphan herself—wanda knows better than anyone what it's like to feel like you have no one to go to, nowhere to feel really safe. he'd promised her, a few days after pietro was gone, that he'd always be there for her; that they had each other. it might just have been something to make her feel better in the moment, but matt—matty—didn't once break that promise, until him leaving for university made it more difficult to keep.
of course she'd be there for him, too, when all else failed.
wanda now manoeuvres herself to put one of his arms around her shoulders, to try and lift him up to stand. he'll hopefully be able to feel that the counter is close enough for him to grab onto. )
I'm taking you to the bathroom. You're dripping wet. ( —she doesn't think he's gotten hurt in any significant way with a weapon, despite the blood she sees on him— ) You can wash off the blood and keep pretending it's not a big deal.
( he can pretend that she'll drop it if he does— )
I won't say thank you for not breaking my window.
( she probably should get a working lock for it. wanda measures matt's movements, to see if he's ready to walk with her out the kitchen and down the hall. )
no subject
He can make out the arrangement of the kitchen — the placement of the little two-person table to one side of the wall, the kitchen counter on the other side. The way the window in the centre, where he'd come in from, will bring in enough of the morning light. The stove is still warm from a kettle having gone off not long ago; he can smell the scent of jasmine tea wafting in the next room, freshly steeped. It's all so small and intimate, and there isn't much but it's — it's cozy.
It's the kind of feeling he and Wanda had always talked about while growing up in the orphanage surrounded by things that didn't belong to them, and belonging to no one either. They'd talked about it like it was something they could ask for Christmas, something they'd wanted for themselves one day.
Idiot.
He's distracted from his thoughts by Wanda's gentle admonishment — well deserved, really — before she suggests that they move towards the bathroom. Probably a good idea, even if it does mean tracking rain and the traces of blood across her hallway to get there.
By now he's certain that most of it isn't his; he hurts a hell of a lot, sure, but it isn't as fatal as needing the hospital. Maybe a few bruised ribs, and plenty of cuts and scrapes to boot, but he can feel the kind of exhaustion that only needs a good solid sleep, and not the kind that means he can feel his life slipping away.
They move, slowly but deliberately, Matt trying his best to bear his own weight and avoid leaning too heavily into her. It's only now that he catches glimpses of the space — its warmth, the sound of the television in the next room, the way this place really does feel like Wanda made it her own. He likes that for her, even when he selfishly wishes that he could tuck a sliver of himself here and there between the picture frames and the couch cushions.
And he huffs a pained chuckle at her comment about the window, mouth quirked beneath crusted blood from a bleeding nose. ]
Hm. But I was so careful.
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( she replies, sharply, because it infuriates her that despite this whole thing, despite the baggage behind their not talking for so many days, he gets to be charming and smile about it like nothing has changed. all the while he's tracking rain water and blood into her home, and has made her so afraid for him that her heart hasn't stopped beating at a high rate.
(because she is afraid, because what the hell has matthew gotten himself into?)
they make it down the narrow hallway that connects her kitchen to the living space; the door to the right, her bedroom, while the door to the left, which she opens, opens up into the bathroom. it's not necessarily spacious, but the light turns on as they enter (a motion sensor one she's indulged in, because she still sleep walks and it fucking sucks) revealing a bathtub-shower, a toilet right next to it, and the sink by the door. )
Just get in and leave your clothes in the tub.
( this is when wanda lets go of him, when matt finally puts a hand onto the railing on the shower door. it smells clean, like lavender, and he'll be bombarded with the scent of the sandalwood soap bar and her floral-scented shampoo and conditioner set. in the meantime, she steps out to find a few things: a folded, clean towel from her small linen closet in the hallway, and the baggiest sweatpants and hoodie she can find inside her closet. she puts the clothes on the closed lid of the toilet, and presses the towel onto his hands before telling him that she's placing it on the wall rack, leading his hand to follow where it is in relation to himself. she then leads his hand towards the knobs for the shower: this is for hot water, this is for cold water.
it's a new place—she's being more than helpful. )
I won't close the door all the way—
( she peers at his face, worried about all the blood that's still there. hesitantly, she reaches up, touches just under his nose, where he's got blood crusted on. her brows cinch in worry when she pulls her hand back. )
—just in case you slip and break your head. Just — scrub up as best as you can. Clothes are on the toilet.
( she feels like she wants to say more, but she stops herself, then steps back, to head out into the hallway. )
See you in a bit.
( wanda has an apartment to clean up!! )
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He doesn't consciously mean to, but he memorizes the layout of her apartment as they move through it. He makes mental notes for the locations of the living room from the kitchen, and the bedroom from there. As they enter the bathroom and she shows him around, he commits that to memory too.
He isn't even sure why he hasn't been here before, can't remember if there was a reason, and if there was whether it was even a decent one; and he feels a pang of regret for why none of this space is familiar to him. It's like their paths really did split for a moment there.
But Wanda's arm around him feels like he's stepped back in time, she's so familiar; the warmth and scent of her, the way strands of her long hair tickle against his skin each time he takes a step forward, leaning into her space. How many times had they been tangled up in each other like this before? A casual arm around the other, a light touch, a playful hair-tug. He'd always liked her hair, long and a little wavy, and smelling like something floral.
There'd been a lot of laughter back then. But there had also been a lot of tears too.
She touches his face and he lets her, pausing while she inspects him. He can hear her heart beating fast, an echoed reflection of his own. And when she pulls back, he exhales the breath he'd been holding onto, nodding his understanding of her last direction. He can hear her step back a pace, caught up in a pause that he waits on.
But when nothing else follows, he manages to slip in a: ]
Thanks Wanda.
[ For whatever it's worth, it's genuine at least.
With the towels and clean clothes in place, he just stands where he is for a moment, motionless in the middle of this brightly lit space smelling of Wanda everywhere. And then, reminded of his current state, he begins to strip sweat-and-blood-and-rain-soaked clothing from his body, reaching for the hot water knob first and relishing in the sound of rushing water that promises cleanliness and rejuvenation. ]
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(she had hoped that, once leaving the orphanage herself, she could pull herself up on her feet, build the life she has managed to build, and confess to him. he didn't make it to her farewell dinner at st agnes, despite saying he would, and that's when it felt like it all started falling apart; he became more and more distanced, and wanda was left to feel like he didn't have time for her anymore.
her thought-out plans? on hold, even to this day.)
sniffling to herself, hating to be so overwhelmed by how awful she feels about this whole thing, wanda heads with certainty to the kitchen and closes the window. then, it's grabbing a tea towel to dry the water from the surfaces, and using the mop (which she had just cleaned this afternoon, ugh) to mop up the rain and blood from the floor.
the mask he used on his face? she drops into the sink. he can figure it out later.
it makes her queasy—blood always does, like this. it reminds her of pietro. it reminds her of the clothes the morgue returned to her. matt had been there to comfort her, to hold her tightly to his chest when she screamed and sobbed and threw the package away from her, in the middle of the dining hall. the nuns and father lantom complained to the morgue, but no apology she received ever made it better. with a deep breath, she dunks her mop into a bucket with bleach and water, once she's done with the kitchen floor, so that it can soak. the hallway, she cleans up with many sheets of paper towel, on her hands and knees, making sure she doesn't miss anything.
isn't it just like matt, to burst back into her life, without warning, and giving her a lot of messes to clean up?
once she's gotten everything sorted to the best of her ability, she turns to the living room and... leaves the tv on, except she lowers the volume. noise from it makes her feel like she isn't alone, and it helps distract her from all the other supplementary noise she 'hears' from her neighbors. it's only in this moment, as she sets down the tv remote, that she glances at a framed picture of herself and matt, on his farewell party.
(—she had been so upset that day, was absent for the majority of it. through the speeches and the merry-making, and the congratulations and the gifts they had all put some money in to get for him: his brand new backpack for university. she had only stepped out of her room when father lantom came looking for her, saying that matt was leaving soon.
surely, dear, you will regret not getting to say goodbye.
that's what made her rush out of her room, past the old priest, finding matt outside by the front of the orphanage, under the callery pear tree in blossom, a taxi waiting for him to drive him to his dorm in columbia. he was really leaving, and nothing would ever be the same. wanda! one of the nuns had cried out at the teen bumping into her, and that was enough for matt to turn her way, and wanda— crashed into his arms, eyes red from crying, not being able to utter a single word. it'd embarrass her thinking about it, as the days turned into weeks, months, years— but matt had only smiled and hugged her back, excited for his future, and promising her nothing would change.
the nun in charge of the camera urged them for a photograph, just as the taxi honked its horn, asking them to hurry. the callery pear tree sits beautiful behind them with its white blossoms, and wanda's tucked to matt's side, a hand rubbing at her cheek, an expression of someone who is clearly mid-crying, but matt's holding her tight to his side—a bright smile on his face.
wanda can't remember what if anything she said to him, but she had held his hand until he got into the yellow cab, until he really had to go, and with it, his warmth—)
as the memory floods her, wanda scrambles through a basket on her shelf, pushing her hand past her tchotchkes and a smattering of loose change for some sunglasses. it's as important, for matt, as clothes will be, which is why she makes it back to the bathroom and — pushes the door open a touch more, taking one step in and reaching to put the glasses just on top of the sweater on the toilet.
she glances up—despite herself—but the hot water has steamed up the doors of the shower. he's in there, and she cannot tell if he's completely okay, but he's actively moving.
that much has got to be enough for her, as she slinks back outside and waits out in the kitchen, warming up some more water for him. )
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Forgive me, Father ...
In this apartment full of gentleness and warmth and love, of all the good that Wanda is, he feels like a dark smudge trying to force its way into the light.
Now that he's regaining his senses, he realizes that he shouldn't have come here at all. He'd made certain beyond any reasonable doubt that he hadn't been followed — that his path here was one walked by him alone, stumbling and exhausted through the pouring rain to crash through her kitchen window — and yet, he still can't help feeling that his very presence in her life puts her at risk. This other side of him, dark and reckless and violent, born of his anger and grief and guilt and now a monster fully made — he doesn't want her to see any of it.
He wants her to only remember the Matthew he once was before he'd started to train with Stick. (He'd been under the impression that he could learn to defend himself and others the way his father failed to, but it only seemed to awaken in him something different.) He wants her to only know the Matt who looked out for her; the one who held her hand at Pietro's funeral, fingers laced tightly between them with a promise that he would never let go so long as she wanted; who could make her laugh by telling her something so stupid, she would throw her pillow at his head and he'd deserve it.
'Thick as thieves', the sisters would mutter, shaking their heads — but they never made any attempt to separate them anyway, especially in the years after Pietro was gone and it suddenly felt like the world would never know any other colour besides grey. Oh, they'd clung so tightly together. He couldn't even imagine a world without Wanda in it, and truth be told he still can't — even now.
The pulse of a heartbeat approaching catches him a little off-guard, disrupting his reverie. He runs his hands through his hair to get the last of the shampoo out, but he can sense Wanda in the bathroom — not long enough to be awkward before she's ducked out again, but enough for him to wish that things were different. That he was different.
Still, the shower does exactly what he'd hoped it would. Matt turns off the tap, muscles sore and aching, but he feels better. Exhausted, sure, but rejuvenated too.
He steps out of the shower to grab the towel where Wanda had left it and dry himself off, wincing when he grazes past a sensitive spot at his side that he knows will become an impressive bruise by tomorrow if he's lucky. But so long as none of the cuts are deep enough to stain her towels, there's still a possibility he can minimize the dramatics of what had happened to him. Maybe.
When he joins Wanda in the kitchen, he's decked out in the borrowed clothes that smell like her — her baggy sweatshirt doesn't actually look too bad on him, even if the sweat pants are a little tight; and the sunglasses are a nice touch, too. They're very 'I'm on staycation right now, and I don't care who knows it' but they help to dim the brightness of everything around him, and makes him feel just a little more like Matt Murdock and not the Vigilante of Hell's Kitchen, which is exactly what he needs.
He gestures to the chair across from where Wanda is sitting at the small little two-person table. ]
Can I sit?
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so, instead, she says, )
Sure.
( and leans in a little closer, a light wave of her fingers moving the chair a touch, so that the scraping of its legs on the floor gives matt a general idea of its location. she does move the cup of tea she's prepared for him with her hand, placing it close as he sits.
there definitely is an awkwardness here, and wanda isn't sure how to make it not awkward. things with them have been testy as of late (or is it just on her end?), and the last thing she wants to do is force matt to feel like he's cornered, thus not being as responsive or honest with her. because, holy shit, there's a lot of unpack here. he's smart enough to know that, of the questions itching under her skin, of comments she could make, which would all pretty much result in him apologizing.
she studies him instead, how he's foregone the clean-shaven look he sported before at the orphanage, the bruises that mar his face and, upon closer inspection, the bruised knuckles on both his hands. so maybe the 'getting jumped' story tracks. )
—you look stupid.
( is what she settles on, then, mid-breath. with her clothes on him, the sunglasses. she could have said 'ridiculous', but 'stupid' draws forth this feeling she has about his dishonesty, about his squirreling about.
but this is matt, and wanda is inherently too soft, too sweet on him, which is why she stands up with a sigh, pushing her chair back, and looking for a clean tea towel to dampen under the tap on the sink. )
Are you going to need anything? An Advil?
( and returns, bringing her chair closer to him, and with a quiet you got some blood here she uses that as permission to start dabbing just at the side of his brow. being blind means you can't always tell if you got every bit of dirt and soot out of your face, especially when it's crusted in, like blood.
wanda tacks on to her question, )
...an explicit question asking for an explanation, or was that coming eventually?
( the explanation, that is. )
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[ He decides to skip the joke or any light-hearted quip with her admonishment, nodding in agreement instead, and shifting in his seat as though that might make his sweatshirt a little looser, or the sweatpants a little more comfortable around his hips.
A few things happen next: there's tea being offered, there's Wanda getting up to look for something, and then she's coming back to pull her seat closer to where he's rooted, a cloth in her hand. ]
I wouldn't say 'no' to an Advil.
[ He reaches for the mug to wrap his hands around, as though its warmth might lend him strength, but he remains still while Wanda gently wipes at his face. Inevitably some spot he'd missed while in the shower (there had been a fair amount of blood and dirt crusted into his hair and skin), which will only beget that many more questions and concerns.
How could it not?
He has ... a lot of explaining to do, actually, and he's afraid for how this might inevitably change the way she thinks about him. The way she perceives him.
But what other choice does he have? You don't crash into someone's home only to leave without a word and expect them to be okay with it. Even he knows that.
He nods. ] And I know I owe you an explanation for ... all of this. I know that.
[ He breathes out. ]
I just — I don't even know where to start.
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wanda's jaw tenses, at his answer, of not knowing where to start.
pulling back, and with it her hand and the damp cloth, wanda studies his face. lingering in this silence, she decides to comb her fingers through his wet hair, fixing it a little in the same way she always would, back in the orphanage, always teasing him about how his hair was a mess ('but i'm blind, how should i know what it looks like? i'm counting on you to make it look right, wanda').
their paths may have diverted, but at least warmth still remains, between them, despite what she had thought just seconds before. her hand moves from his hair down to his arm, settling only when she reaches for his hand, forcing her fingers to squeeze between his palm and the cup.
matt doesn't know where to start, so — she will, for him, voice tinny and quiet. )
I missed you.
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He swallows instead, countless apologies and rainchecks, unanswered texts and voice messages swirling in his memory, each one an additional fracture compounding against what he'd taken for granted as an unbreakable bond between them. But that's not how friendship works. It's not how loving someone works.
Wanda slides her fingers through his hair and he closes his eyes, lets out a breath, and leans forward just a fraction towards her; it's barely noticeable, but it's there. He can hear her heart beating like a butterfly's wings against her rib cage, waiting for him to say the right thing. He doesn't want to fuck this up.
And then she moves her hand ever still, sliding down his arm to catch at his hand and nestle herself in the space between his palm and the warm porcelain.
He breathes out again.
Putting the mug down, Matt's fingers still over-warm from the tea, he turns his hand to grasp at hers and hold it in place; his thumb gently grazes against her skin, and he finds his voice — and a better truth comes out. ]
I missed you too. And I'm sorry.
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it feels like such a long time since something like this—him holding her hand, after wanda had gotten so used to this flavor of comfort.
her mouth twists and turns, not wanting to make any noise that would alert him to how wretched seven little words make her feel. she swallows hard, shakes her head a little. she's missed him so much, and this fixes things just a little, to admit that he has, too (because wanda needs to believe this is him at his most honest, despite everything else still obscured by avoidance).
when she thinks she has control over her voice, she manages to say, albeit shakily, )
I don't—care what's going on with you, why you're acting like this. Why you can't explain what's going on. Just...
( ultimately, it seems complicated, dangerous, and he's getting so hurt from what she can see, and next time he might be dead in a ditch, a nameless victim of a crime.
her throat tightens again, despite her best efforts. a single tear falls down her cheek. )
—you're all I have, Matty.
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[ Something in Matt's chest clenches, being referred to by his childhood pet name, a privilege only afforded to a very select few.
He hasn't heard it in years.
By the time he'd left St. Agnes, no one was calling him 'Matty' anymore. It became 'Matthew', or 'Matt' to most, like being out of the orphanage meant it was time to grow up and shed the skin of the poor little orphan boy who grew up blind and lonely — save for the twins who were his only real family after his father had died, of course. He picked them the way they chose him.
And Matt had grown up; he'd accomplished a lot since that time, thanks and no thanks to a certain blind sensei who pulled no punches and didn't let Matt slack off, not for a second. True — his path led him elsewhere, making it more complicated to stay true to the memory of the boy at the orphanage. But he never forgot his family or what they meant to him. If anything, he was convinced it was his duty to keep that world separate from this new one for their sake.
But in doing so, is the risk of losing Wanda too great?
He squeezes her hand in his, hearing the tightness in her throat and the shift in her voice, and he hates that the reason she sounds like this, feels like this, is because of him. His free hand comes up to touch her cheek, a finger catching the stray tear and wiping away.
His voice is soft and impossibly fond: ]
Wanda, I'm not going anywhere, okay? I'm here.
[ And growing a little more bold, he allows himself to cup her cheek with his hand. ]
I'm sorry for staying away all this time.
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and that's what she is scared of the most: that he will make choices for her, even without intending to. the same way pietro had.
she is not as subtle about the way she leans entirely into his hand once he places it on her cheek, letting her eyes close for a moment and bask in the warmth of this moment. it hits her how much she has missed him, missed them. halcyon days are called that for a reason, and it's best to have had before than never having at all, but wanda finds herself constantly in the absence of it all, that it breaks her heart.
wanda brings up a hand to grab onto the one that cups her cheek, keeping him there, and chides, gently, )
You can't really promise me that.
( that he's not going anywhere.
especially when he has so many secrets he keeps.
sniffling, wanda just pulls his hand a touch away from her cheek and draws back, pressing a kiss to his palm, a gentle gesture that is not beyond her when they were in sync, in good terms. it's a tactile promise to him that she loves him, cares for him, even when her words are a little sharper than she ever intends them to be. she then stands up again to find him his advil. she's got them all in rectangular tea tin; it jostles as she brings it down from its place atop her fridge, going through its contents to find him two of the medicine.
she stays where she is, though, leaning back against the counter, tin pressed to her belly, for balance. )
Father Lantom isn't here to mediate between us and our problems, and whatever life gets to throw at us. ( because life gets to. two orphaned children who were never adopted: matt, because of his being blind and what being special needs in a home would entail; wanda and pietro, because they wouldn't be separated, and there's still a lot of stigma for those who escaped war-torn sokovia amidst the political climate then and now. neither of them gets to have good things unless they fight for them, but it can all so easily be taken away from them. it's just fact. ) I know you still go to mass.
( on sundays. that he talks to lantom, because wanda goes in, once a month or so, every other weekend, to help out at the orphanage, a little reprieve from adult life (she gets to be fawned on by the sisters that took care of her before, and wanda thinks they weren't as short before, or had that many wrinkles before she left), and she hears about it from the old priest. even if he's mostly fishing.
wanda doesn't go to mass, because she's not catholic. she doesn't think she's anything, even if she remembers jewish celebrations, but all that was lost when her parents died.
she gnaws on her bottom lip. )
...if you're not planning to be honest about your explanation, then don't bother with it. I don't want you to lie to me. Just tell me that you can't tell me.
( that'd be enough, so long... )
So long as — I get to see you more.
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But he's going to damn well try it anyway. He lets his hand linger at her face until she moves to get up, and then Matt takes the opportunity to sip slowly at his tea in lieu of a response. No lies, see?
He 'watches' her grab a tin from the top of the fridge, hearing the minute series of sounds that follow after one another: the uncapping of a tin lid from can, her fingers delicately sifting through the contents of the box, some of it in complete disarray, some of it packaged in paper and plastic and foil.
Then all sound pauses as Wanda takes a breath to speak, bracing herself to let him know something that should hold meaning to him.
And it does.
I know you still go to mass, she says.
He hadn't even realized Wanda's been keeping tabs on him that closely, or that Father Lantom gives her a report on his whereabouts. Didn't consider it a possibility, despite the fact that the two of them had grown up there during their formative years and they would always have a tether to it. And, Father Lantom's always had an invested interest in him and the Maximoffs, probably because they'd spent the most time at the orphanage of any of the others. Or maybe because their stories were where he figured he could help out the most.
Matt still goes to him, after all. ]
Force of habit, I guess.
[ Matt shakes his head.
Not that his visits, or going to Mass changes anything about why he does what he does and why he finds himself at war with his wants even now — how he wants to tell Wanda everything, to absolve himself from the lies and years of distance; how he wants more than anything to keep Wanda safe and protected from this darkness. ]
You're right. I won't lie to you. You deserve better and more than that.
[ And so he doesn't tell her he'll see her more because he just doesn't think that's true if he continues to do what he's doing. He swallows, makes a gesture to himself: the damp hair, the cuts and scratches on his skin, the borrowed clothes, the exhaustion in his face. ]
This — this is a one-off. I was just careless.
[ And that much is true, anyway. ]
no subject
setting the tin down by the sink, wanda fills up a glass with water from the brita filter (can't trust the tap water in this building) and sets it down on the table, alongside with the two oval pills, for him to take.
part of her considers sitting back down, but, instead, she walks around him. )
I'll toss your clothes in the wash.
( small as this apartment is, they don't have a laundry room in the basement due to some flooding problems, but the grand generosity of management installed a washing machine in a closet at the end of the hall, next to the bathroom, after some zoning law or another was passed. she doesn't let matt stop her (and her doing this at all should telegraph her disappointment), reaching the bathroom and picking out his clothes from the tub, wrapping them in the towel he used, and getting a cycle started on the washing machine.
it starts with a beep, the flood of water into the tumbler, and wanda watches it for a while, sitting on her haunches, making herself small.
outside, it starts raining even louder, thunder rolling, threatening hell's kitchen with rain throughout the night. sirens of ambulances and the police echo between buildings, drowned by the rainfall. in her reflection on the glass door of the washing machine, wanda sees tears rolling down her face, and she breathes in—brushing at her cheeks with her hands.
she mutters, thinking he won't hear her. )
Stupid.
no subject
[ He feels like he's said something wrong. More likely than that, he probably didn't say enough. Omitting a lie doesn't exactly mean being truthful either, and he realizes he's given her next to nothing on top of all that.
He tilts his head towards the glass of water and the two Advil left before him — a reprieve for the pounding in his head and the soreness in every muscle — but he doesn't move to touch it.
Instead he strains his ears and pauses, listening for Wanda's whereabouts within her apartment, paying close attention to her movements, her breathing, her heartbeat. It's cheating, sure, but Matt could use all the help he can get right now.
How the hell is he fucking this up so badly?
It's the sound of fabric rustling that he notices first — Wanda pulling his clothes from the bathroom and moving towards the closet where her machine sits. He didn't even know she had a machine. Following that is the rushing sound of water, and the machine drum beginning to spin; it's almost loud enough to deafen the soft sound of rain outside, and more importantly: the hitched breath and slow heartbeat — the release of tension, and ... hurt.
He gets to his feet, slow and deliberate, and makes his way down the narrow hallway to where he hears the washer at its loudest, and can feel the warmth of Wanda crouched right in front of it. He can smell her too, subtle florals and clean shampoo (the same shampoo he'd just used) and he can taste the salt on her cheeks from tears. ]
Wanda.
[ His voice is soft, and he stands there for a moment before he crouches, getting to his knees to be at her level, soreness be damned. ]
I'm doing this all wrong, aren't I?
[ He reaches out instead, a hand gently placed at her arm until he feels like she won't push him away (because she's well within her rights to do so), and then he leans in to press his forehead to hers, to catch her head with his other hand and draw her into him before he moves to embrace her entirely. The laundry continues to spin behind them, washing blood and dirt and violence out of his clothes, like it could be erased.
If only it were that easy. ]
I just — [ He hesitates for the barest second. ] — don't want you to think differently of me.
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stupid for thinking that matt would go to university, meet new people, have intelligent discussions, grow beyond what the orphanage could offer him, what she could offer him, and still think that wanda was worth all that.
she's angry at him, but does not pull nor push away when his hand is on her arm, gently moving her around towards him. she's stupid for being so weak; to be unable to resist when his warm hands take hold of her, bringing her closer, and isn't she just so stupid for feeling loved and wanted and safe with his arms around her? wanda presses her face to his chest so easily, wraps her arms around him, and clutches so tightly at the hoodie.
it has been so long since she's been held like this, since she's been close to him like this. it hurts so much more than she imagined, and it feels inevitable that this will be the last time this will happen.
crying quietly against the spot between his chest and shoulder, wanda keeps her face hidden, not wanting to let go. listens, without understanding—how could she ever think so differently of him when she loves him so much? when she's always loved him, flaws and all? when even now, when she's this hurt, she feels like an idiot for not finding any reason to hate him. )
You're wrong.
( she manages, throat tight, a quiet sound. courage flourishes amidst the pain, and wanda knows that she ought to be as transparent and honest as possible, even if he hedges on circumstance of deceit around her, of distance and opaque reasonings. )
You'll always be the Matt that I love. I want... to be so mad at you, but I can't. I'll — always choose to love you.
( and isn't that just the biggest truth she's ever tried to keep buried. pietro knew, how wistfully wanda would look at matt; make comments about it, never teasing her, because he knew without having to be told, that his sister's feelings towards the older boy in the orphanage were the truest thing she's felt since they themselves became orphans. you're happy, he'd remark, after a small interaction with matt, and wanda would smile, looking up with a shrug, her heart filled with warmth.
and, because pietro knew, it meant that wanda understood what she felt, couldn't keep it a secret from herself, either. )
no subject
[ 'I'll always choose to love you—' reverberates in his skull, tingling in every atom that makes up this aching, fragile body until he's barely sure he'd even heard her correctly.
Because he certainly can't have, right? Even if his hearing is damned near superhuman, so much so that he can hear a person's heartbeat to tell if they're lying (she's not), or hear the hitch in someone's breath as though they might be trying to draw the words back in hesitation (again, she isn't)?
No, he's heard the words all right, and he hears her sentiment, and it's all from the heart. But he tells himself it's the love of childhood friends who have grown up over the years, seeing each other in their best and worst moments — and it's nothing more than that. It's true and all-encompassing, yes, but it's not —
No.
No one's ever really chosen him; that's the thing about being an orphan with one of the longest tenures at St Agnes. You hope and you hope to be chosen, until that hope eventually fades away and you work to leave on your own terms.
Nevertheless, something in his chest feels heavy and sore at the rest of his unfinished thought, but he ignores it. It's not important right now, and it's selfish, and it isn't what Wanda needs. She's clinging to him, wetting his hoodie, and he doesn't move back or shift or turn away from her but keeps his arms around her, holding her close and relishing in the warmth of her weight against him because he isn't sure how many more moments they'll have like this.
It isn't that Wanda is lying when she claims steadfastness in this moment, that much he's concluded. But whatever he decides to tell her next could change everything. Words have power; the truth has power. He knows as much defending his clients in the courthouse, whether they're innocent or not. (Of course, thankfully they generally are.)
Will she still stay in his life when she finds out how he spends his nights? When she learns that the reason he'd tumbled through her window tonight has everything to do with his frustrations with the justice system and the quiet corruption he sees in Hell's Kitchen — and how much he enjoys seeking out this physical enactment of justice? Helping people through his fists when he can't help them with his words? When the system fails them? When he feels like he fails them?
He pulls back only far enough to reach up and take his borrowed sunglasses off. He can't see her, not exactly, but he wants her to see him. He touches her cheek, thumb gently tracing the line of her jaw with exceeding gentleness, feeling wetness against her skin.
His voice is soft when he speaks. ]
At least let me explain myself before you tell me something so profound.
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wanting, more than anything else, that the warmth in being surrounded by his arms were more than just something he's done because he wants to mend the hurt he's caused her. how lovely it would be, that they could be together like this, happy, unconcerned with everyone else, caring only about the two of them—even if she knows full well that the world doesn't work like this. why does it feels bad, why does it hurt so much, to want to be his girlfriend?
his thoughts are wracked with turmoil, and though wanda wishes to be nosy and know what he's thinking, she doesn't. she draws back when he starts moving, touching her cheek, when he speaks again—
a sentence completely different from the one he cut himself off from. )
Just say that you want me to hate you.
( she responds to that, imitating how quietly he speaks, keeping her chin down. it's embarrassing, after all, confessing in such a roundabout way, knowing that matt is intelligent enough to know what it is she meant, and not getting a direct response about it. whenever she told pietro she loved him, he would reply right away. she's offered matt her heart, and it's still sitting raw between them, shame slowly picking at her.
drawing his hand away, wanda worries at drying her own tears herself, like she's done for the past few months. )
I don't need you to explain to me who you are, Matt.
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[ Not that it isn't something he doesn't deserve.
All of the evasions, the distance, the excuses and lies ... he's surprised she'd even let him stay in this apartment for as long as he has.
But the way she pulls away from him ... well, he tries not to let it bother him, because that's his fault too, but it does. He sits back, his head tilted to face her head on whether or not she offers him her attention. Whatever he says next, he leaves their relationship in her hands, whether it be a secret that binds them, or the thing that breaks all of this apart. He'll accept whatever happens; he doesn't really have a choice but to.
With an exhale, Matt gestures to the clothing tumbling in a cycle right now, the hum of the laundry machine filling in the silence between their pained words and bruised hearts. ]
Every time I told you I couldn't see you because I was studying late, or Foggy needed me to wingman for him ... or any of those reasons — I was lying to you. These clothes, and the scarf in the kitchen sink — I wear them to hide who I am from the guys who terrorize Hell's Kitchen.
[ He shakes his head. ]
I think some people have started calling him — me — the 'Devil of Hell's Kitchen', or at least that's what I've heard.
[ He tilts his chin downward, as though he can't bear whatever disappointment or anger he expects from his confession.
He adds anyway: ]
There's only so much that the justice system is capable of; I had to learn that the hard way. And tonight I was a little in over my head.
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the lying isn't a surprise, but the admittance of it is. some relief does relax her tense shoulders upon the realization that he wasn't ignoring her because he was over her; that it was... something else.
something quite unexpected.
(how did he know she had left the scarf in the kitchen sink?)
wanda falls back to sit down properly on the floor, legs crossed, listening now with some amount of skepticism at his words. the devil of hell's kitchen? she'd heard something about that vigilante, in one of the radio shows at the diner, heard some people talk about it. never really paying it much mind. superheroes like new york, and it wouldn't be the first time someone tried their hand at vigilantism, but the fact that it's in hell's kitchen has left the people in their neighborhood excited, hopeful for something beyond the endless violence that does terrorize them.
columbia university is also some ways away from here, so to think that matt is going out of his way to 'patrol' his home (—his loved ones, her?—) sounds exactly like something he'd do. something so selfless yet equally selfish.
not to mention that he's blind—
wanda shoves him, hands on his chest, grabbing momentarily at the hoodie as if halfway regretting pushing him the way she had at all. still, it'll be enough to knock him off balance, exacerbate that soreness he feels. )
You're an idiot, Matt.
( he's right to think that she's get angry, but her anger might not be entirely because of what he thinks. she's angry that he has lied to her, that he's kept this a secret, something that only he has to bear. all this time, trying to 'protect' this thing, this part of him, hurting her in the process, when wanda could so easily stand by him.
her anger festers in her words, in the quickening of her beating heart, but despite that, she grabs at one of his arms with surprising gentleness. pulling the sleeves back, she notices bruises, far too many for a clumsy blind guy, far worse than bumping into furniture could cause. once matt regains some of his balance, she's pulling up the hoodie, too, suspecting, and getting the confirmation, for the bruising on his chest, still-healing scars from what likely has been knife wounds, glass, stitched up poorly.
she picks herself up, letting go, and stepping forward on her knees. her hands reach for him, over his shoulders, and wanda wraps him tightly into an embrace, not caring if it sends them tumbling back on the floor or if he manages to balance them despite himself.
she mutters idiot, again, pointed and angry. )
Why would you ever feel that I'd want you to carry this load all on your own?
( parables from service that they had been forced to attend come to her mind, of the philosophical explanations of scripture that father lantom would go into, of their classes with the sisters about good and evil, of what's right and what's wrong. they'd been through so much together, why would he ever think that she'd abandon him?
over this?
wanda doesn't let him go, her embrace tightening, instead, her voice wrapped still with emotion. )
I love you — of course I wouldn't. You're still the Matt I grew up with. You're still you.
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When she finally lets go, Matt opens his mouth as though to say something, maybe to defend himself or to apologize again, but then she's pushed herself into him, arms winding around to hold him close. The suddenness surprises him — sure, he can trace the exact moment when someone is tries to land a strike on him, can dodge a flying projectile that threatens to pierce through his skin, but this catches him unawares.
They don't quite topple over, but Matt finds he has to quickly catch his balance and hers, righting their weight by leaning into her. And when he does, when they've settled, he stays there with his face buried in her hair, his arms moving to wrap around her waist in kind while they still remain low to the floor, caught up in each other.
He breathes in.
Breathes out. ]
It's not something I would ever want you to have to lie about. If anyone asked.
[ Or if they tried to pry it out of her.
And he knows that bearing this secret alone, for as long as he has, ensures that no one else ever has to be put in harm's way. It all changed tonight, of course, and that's his own damned fault too ... but something inside him releases too — like the pressure and the weight of this other life has finally found somewhere else to go. ]
But I am me. [ He agrees, voice muffled and maybe just a little thicker than mere seconds before. ] I am me. And I'm sorry, Wanda.
[ His nose grazes against the side of her neck, as he too tightens his hold on her, hugging her like she's his lifeline. Like she's always been his lifeline until the moment he let go, swallowed by the darkness of the sea. ]
I love you too. I do.
[ More than she knows. ]
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( she mutters the question, rubbing her face against his shoulder. weirdly enough, she likes that matt smells like her shampoo and soap, something familiar, something of hers on him. while it's heroic that he'd want to protect her from 'sinning', should she ever have to lie for his sake, wanda doesn't think it's that much of a big deal.
in the quiet of this moment, she notices him relaxing, his arms tighter around her, almost like she's done something for him that he's needed—though he's denied himself from it all this time. a shared burden, so to speak.
the words mirrored back at her—i love you too. i do.—casual yet meaningful, makes her breathing hitch in her throat. does this mean that matt understands that she'll accept him, flaws and all? darkness and all? she does hope he knows. there's honesty in his words, that much she can feel, tell.
drawing back a touch, though doing her best not to pull him away entirely, wanda worries on searching his face. light touches on his skin, on his features, now that he's taken the glasses off; she traces over his bruises, under his tired eyes, and—
lingers, eyes on his lips, noticing a cut on his bottom lip, healing from some fight he must have had before tonight. )
When you — say that you love me, do you mean...
( it's scary, asking this. even if she feels certain about how he feels.
wanda swallows, arms herself with courage, lets her hand fall onto his shoulder. )
I want to be with you. To help you, to— to be the one you feel like what 'home' feels like.
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They'd talked about home so much in their younger days, when it felt like something they could allow themselves to fantasize about, something that was so far off into the future, it seemed plausible. They could build their way towards it, and they could burrow themselves within those walls.
Sometimes their visions would be grandiose, filled with large rooms and better furniture than the stuff at St Agnes'. There'd always be talk of food, with a large kitchen to cook it all in. (Matt remembers making a joke about Pietro's insatiable appetite and whether they'd have enough fridge space.)
Matt wanted a library filled with books he could read. He'd even take the ones he couldn't because it still felt like the kind of thing a good, warm house would have. (When Wanda volunteered to read those books to him, Matt smiled so widely, knowing that next to them Pietro was rolling his eyes and dramatically gagging in mock-disgust.)
But as they grew up, home began to seem less likely. More than that, it began to feel wistful, sad even. And when Pietro died ... well, they stopped talking about home all together, although Matt never stopped thinking about it. Not even when he finally found the opportunity to leave the orphanage, moving into the dormitories at Columbia University and recreating a simulacra of what he expected home should have looked like — all while he wondered what Wanda must be thinking, where she was staying, what their lives looked like now that they were so far apart.
Even now, as selfish want wars with the responsibility to protect the few people he has left in this world, even when this dark part of him exists and will continue to exist despite himself, Matt still dreams of home. Can the Devil of Hell's Kitchen have something like that?
He closes his eyes for a moment, thoughtful, and then he opens them again, head tilting towards her — seeing her without seeing her. He licks at his bottom lip, finding her hand — the one at his shoulder — to wind her fingers with his and squeeze them gently between them. ]
It means I shouldn't have shut you out or kept you away from me because I thought I was doing the right thing. It means ... what I've known for years but thought I couldn't have. Or maybe shouldn't have.
[ He lets go of her hand to skim the edge of her jawline now, thumb grazing her cheek with impossible fondness, like she is something precious. ]
Home was never the big house with the books and furniture. It was the people. It was you.
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(she is going to have to tell him about these powers one day, isn't she? they have to be honest, the both of them, and perhaps the idea isn't so unappealing to wanda, as long as they're together through it.)
they are ultimately still orphans trying to find their way in the world, however that may look like, wanting more than anything else for 'home'. wanda had thought it had been so invariably clear, that home would always be them, yet they took such a long, spiraling route to get to exactly this moment.
her heartbeat increases, the touch on her jawline tilting her head up a touch, draws her closer to him. he's tentative, she can tell, hesitant, trying to make sure that they're in the same wavelength. but matt cannot read her mind, the way she can, so he lingers on cues, on what he feels of her movements, on her words.
wanda breathes in, then leans in, hands at his shoulders, closing her eyes as she presses her lips to his—a moment lengthened by how long she can hold her breath. pulling back, slowly, she realizes that tears have once more pooled in her eyes, now rolling down her cheeks.
despite the strained feeling in her throat, wanda adds, lest the silence prolongs itself into something awkward, )
You're home.
( and that much is a certainty she can offer him, the fact that she will be for him that which he's always wanted ever since he arrived at the orphanage after jack's murder; that much is a certainty that she is willing to give up so much for—being with him. )
I love you, Matt. It's always been you, always—
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If that hadn't been the confirmation he needed, there's no clearer answer.
How many opportunities to do this had they lost because Matt convinced himself they were just friends? Close friends, of course — the closest friend he's got — but still just that. He dared not cross that threshold for fear of ruining the most steady thing he had in his entire life as an orphan, out of respect for her, and out of selfishness to preserve the status quo from upset. And maybe there was a part of him that didn't think he deserved this either. Still isn't sure he does. Wanda could have anyone she wants, and she wants him. It's nearly unfathomable.
But he doesn't take it for granted, not now, and not for the rest of their lives.
He kisses her with intent, his thumbs swiping away at the tears left on her cheeks before he pulls back to cradle her face. ]
Yeah. [ He agrees, his voice soft and a little thick. ] I'm home.
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matt is clumsy, leaning in to kiss her, but she meets him halfway, breathing him in, her hands tight on his shoulders and smoothing over as she pushes back into his space. his intentional kissing met with her own earnestness, the reciprocity of it flooding her ears with her heartbeat, the taste of him, until they are most certainly so close to one another that when he does pull back, their noses are mere millimeters from each other.
she smiles despite herself, then flusters up as she laughs quietly, pushing herself further into his space to hug him tightly once more. all the pain, all her regrets, her second-guessing herself and her place in matt's life—all that, no longer a mystery, no longer a burden.
he's home and, as long as he knows that, nothing else matters right now.
except maybe for the quiet wheeze that escapes him and wanda can't ignore. still hugging him, she glances up, gets a general sense of his thoughts, and clocks the issue. )
...you didn't take the painkiller, did you?
( it's likely still sitting on the table, next to their cups of (cold) tea and the glass of water she had gotten him. another spin cycle tumbles his clothes behind her, the rain grows a little louder, and she finally draws back, hands at the bend of his elbows. )
I want you to stay tonight.
( so that she can look after him, and so they can be together, to maybe — rightfully — kiss some more. )
✴︎ matt
She's going to fight you next time you argue with her about it.
( she grabs tightly at his hand and brings it up to her lips, to press a kiss to his knuckles.
life is good, both for matthew murdock and wanda maximoff. him, an orphan, who made it to columbia and herself the daughter of immigrant parents, who won a scholarship to study there. he was in law school and she in art school, and a chance encounter of him walking in with his best friend to the students' art exposition got them talking. wanda thought he had really liked her art and she spoke nonstop about it with him, only to belatedly realize, when he lingered after the art show had ended, that it was her he had really liked. they made a great match almost immediately, and the rest, as they say, is history.
now, six years later into their dating, they are engaged. matt has definitely become a part of the family; with pietro in california training as a runner with a lot of promise, his presence in the maximoff home has been very welcome. pietro has of course met him already, and though giving matt a hard time at first, matt had gotten his blessing.
she reclines on the couch, hand on his thigh now. )
Tired? I know you had that serious litigation case today.
( the one he had been preparing for for several sleepless nights. wanda knows she's lucky, to be with him, because his income has allowed her to dedicate herself to art as a hobby while she works at the daycare, since she's always loved kids. the way she is with pietro's baby daughter, luna, when she had first met her niece brought up the conversation about having children of their own.
it really is a no brainer for them, how much promise their lives together have. )
We can head back soon. Mom won't mind.
✴︎ sunday
( wanda shushes her brother, loudly, as she sits on the windowsill, one leg out the window, the other still inside. her dress pulled up haphazardly, but thankfully it isn't one of her more delicate ones. the twins were meant to sit in the tea room to play as decorations to the king's guest. well, papa is expecting too much of his rebellious teenage daughter. she doesn't doubt that sunday was dutifully sent to look for her, as it has been a good twenty minutes since their guest arrived into the castle.
looking down, it's not entirely a huge drop, from the third floor to the gardens below, but wanda has also become an expert at climbing down the outer wall of the castle. her bag with the clothes she's 'running away with' were already dropped down before her.
her voice is hushed, even as she sharply says, )
I'm not going to sit and listen to Count Brucker talking nonsense about the villagers and ways to make their lives more difficult. Father ( not papa, because she's angry ) thinks he's a funny old man, but he doesn't know the awful things happening.
You heard Cirio, Sunday.
( cirio, who lives in a townhouse by the docks, gets to see day in and day out the troubles of the villagers in their kingdom firsthand. they get to live in opulence, while count brucker sees their father giving him the room to meet as sponsorship for his sordid acts, taking away from those they were meant to protect.
this is wanda's act of rebellion. )
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So - ]
I'm not saying you have to sit there, I'm just saying that maybe you don't have to climb out a window!
[ It's possible this might have more impact than being whisper shouted at a level to get the supposed shouting part of it across even while being careful to not let it echo through the room, out into the hallway, or out the window itself when anyone might be in the gardens below. Not their parents since they're busy with the Count, a man Sunday doesn't care for either from not only today but all the past times they've had to sit there listening to him spout terrible varieties of the same thing Wanda's correctly pointed out.
He has his doubts, too, about whether Father doesn't actually know what's happening, but he's not about to say so aloud when his goal is to keep Wanda from climbing out. ]
And I'm not saying you have to stay, either. [ Just adding that quickly in hopes it's before she interjects, considering he knows better than to suggest that as he glances over his shoulder. No one's approaching, so there's time yet. ] Just at least take a different way down.
[ There's a multitude of passageways throughout the castle, and most of which he's willing to bet either their parents don't know about some of the ones their children have investigated or have forgotten about them once duty and everything else became their focus. He's counting on that, in fact, when one such hidden entrance isn't far from this very room. ]
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(and, much like fire and water, she can be warm and nurturing when caught in her gentler moments, while he can grow forceful and stormy when truly upset.)
they complement each other very well, masking each other's flaws and bolstering their strengths. together, their mother has said time and time again, they can do just about anything, even if their teenage years has caught them tipping over the scales a lot more extremely in some cases. young royals fawn over sunday and how handsome he is; young ladies of the court are constantly making eyes at him and trying to act cutesy around him. wanda has mentioned her annoyance at being befriended by many of them, only to be bombarded with questions about him, the scheme clear—getting close to the sister would let them get closer to sunday. it's rude, wanda would think, because it's not like her brother was solely interested in girls! in a similar fashion, wanda has found herself wanting more than what the constrictions of her title gave her, to explore and go beyond, oftentimes letting her heart be swayed by swashbuckling smiles and rowdy behavior, which gives endless amount of headaches to sunday, constantly trying to get her feet to land back on the ground.
but, as wanda pouts, her brother's hands at her shoulders keeping her from absconding from the conversation and jumping off, she knows that he's here and trying to change her mind because he loves her. there is no one in the world she loves more than her older brother, the one person who knows her best. frustrated tears form in her eyes, feeling a hundred types of way about the count and his awful ways, how helpless she feels.
all that emotion is removed from her when sunday admits that he isn't here to force her to stay, but rather gives her another solution to escaping this situation. )
One of your secret passageways!
( bursts forth, excitedly, as she pulls herself up and off the window, into the room proper. she draws her arms around her brother in a tight embrace, because she knows what he's talking about. when she draws back just enough, wanda lifts her chin a touch to look into his eyes, hands on his shoulders.
(once upon a time they used to be the same height; wanda had even been taller than sunday once, too, when they were little.) )
You'll come with me, won't you?
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Yeah, the thing you should've thought of first.
[ No, he's not letting it go that she was just in the window over this as an option. He gets why that was her first option since she's made it through there successfully even as it'd caused him immense anxiety then, too, being the one left standing in the window with his hands gripping the sill until she was safely on the ground waving to him cheerfully.
Slow to anger, quick to worry. Always one to contemplate the outcomes before doing something, and always watching with pride and a tinge of envy when Wanda is quick to stand up for what she believes or to tell someone off for it when they have it coming. He's learned to channel that for himself, too, particularly to any of those young royals or nobles who think they might turn a situation to their advantage by finding some way to separate the siblings standing together when they clearly didn't want to be. More than once he's quite happily put them in their place with a sharpness they didn't expect.
At her question, the one he really should have known was coming as he hugs her back, a wrinkle appears in Sunday's brow. Not quite a frown though it could become one at any second - an expression he's started to wear more often these days when it wasn't often seen before, now that he's spent some more time at court in the actual court matters and it's often been the extent of his reaction to something desperately requiring more.
But. If there was ever a weakness and one they both know he has since Sunday won't pretend for a second it's not the case: it's his sister. She looks at him with that not quite pleading look as if she expects him to say anything else but the answer he doesn't have to consider for even a millisecond. ]
Of course. Someone has to keep you from getting lost if you make a wrong turn somewhere.
[ Unlikely to happen, and it's not like Sunday needs a reason, an excuse, or anything at all when it's Wanda who's asking. Which is why he steps back and grabs one of her hands to tug her towards the doorway, whatever hesitation there now vanished. ]
C'mon, but only if you're up for more sneaking around.
[ Unnecessary, and the mischievous smirk he shoots back over his shoulder to further prod at his sister like all siblings do, no matter how proper they might be learning to be outside of here. ]
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I wouldn't get lost.
( she replies, halfway through a pout, as she holds her brother's hand tightly as he leads the way. out the door and into the hallway, which is, for now, deserted; wanda looks one way, sunday the other, then back at each other with a nod. wanda knows that he will guide the way to this secret passageway of his—one that she remembers existing, but cannot honestly remember the last time she's used it.
as they traverse the many turns in their home's vast hallways, wanda spares a moment to, win a whisper, think about him, )
I have some pants that might fit you in my bag. ( he didn't pack his escape bag! ) We have to make sure to grab it on our way out!
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If not actually there, eventually. Sunday's choosing to ignore that for time being while they walk quietly through the hallway. It's empty, and almost suspiciously so, of anyone coming to find the siblings to guide them to this meeting they're avoiding where one or both of their parents will have to explain.
A problem for future them since for now there's leaving, and when he looks back at Wanda again he raises an eyebrow. Right - clothing. He definitely hadn't thought about that at all but with his room so far away as they've kept going? Too late for that now when he presses on a piece of molding which pops up the hidden panel he was looking for. ]
We should bring something to eat with us, too.
[ For however long they'll be gone, on the topic of preparations. This passageway has a branch to lead to the kitchens and if one of their favorite cooks is there, well. It'd be easy to get up with more than enough snacks before they go. ]
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not to mention that the twins were fated, by prophecy, to bring further peace and understanding between nations. whatever details this entails, no one knows, but the twins do bring joy wherever they go, their kindness and love for the staff born naturally from within. it really isn't just one favorite cook, so much as the kitchen staff adoring them, as they are the least picky eaters and have even tried to spend time in the kitchens learning.
unsurprisingly, sunday is thinking about food. )
I hadn't thought of that.
( she admits easily, as the wall's mechanisms pull and move at the passageways hidden door to reveal its entrance. once upon a time, during darker times, this very same passage led many royals to safety and helped them avoid a gruesome, torturous death. to think it had been part of the twins' playground really speaks of how times have changed.
inside they go, treading ever onward, wanda's hand still holding tightly onto sunday's as he leads the way. )
We'll have to swear any of the kitchen staff that do see us to secrecy. We need a proper head start before Father realizes we've gone.
( this is such a serious matter, and yet it's such a lousy plan in concept... )
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(It does, however, escape Sunday's notice each and every time that someone else has intervened prior to whatever they've planned.)
That makes it an easy decision to make the kitchen their next destination as he was already planning so when the turn down those passageways approaches they travel it together. ]
It should be busy what with the count arriving soon. [ 'Count' said with considerable disdain - the same he'd felt earlier but hadn't voiced aloud so best to make it clear right now. ] That'll make it easier to sneak in and whoever we come across will have what they need to get done, so maybe we can just say we're there for a snack.
[ It wouldn't be that out of place when those dinners are often late to allow for the required socializing to happen first from all the nobility working their way through court. Attention their parents must pay to them as the leaders, certainly, but even that only goes so far for the schemes put into place by those who would try them. Ones that are getting ever closer to the twins themselves as they've grown older, and ones Sunday looks at with disdain.
So at last when they come to the door that leads to the kitchen, he's ready for this departure. One nudge opens it enough to peer through; sure enough, the staff is working on any number of things though he spots Hilde at a stove, one of the older cooks who's quite fond of them indeed, and nudges his sister with his elbow. ]
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it takes little coaxing to ask hilde for some snacks, for some food proper, once wanda's eyes catch onto things inside the ice box and on the counters. hilde never asks, she just plays along with the twins.
and, sure enough, between sunday and wanda, they manage a bag packed with enough snacks and food to last them... perhaps an afternoon, if they're careful and ration properly. a task that, undoubtedly, they've not had to do in their lives, so this might be too much of an ask. back to their secret passageway, and soon they're out toward the garden. wanda rushes toward the bushes to find the bag she had dropped, hitching it up on her shoulder as she rejoins her brother.
so far, so (suspiciously) good. )
Where to now?
( sunday is, after all, the expert in directions, considering his route through the secret passageway. )
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But: it's an important part of today's plan either way and with the supplies in hand and with a kiss to Hilde's cheek for her thoughtfulness and that assurance she won't say a word, off the twins go. Oblivious, possibly, to the fond looks they get on their way out and maybe a quiet bet or two regarding when they'll be back.
Outside in the air and as Wanda retrieves her other bag, the possibilities of what to do from here seem limitless. The castle grounds sprawl on and one so they'll have to walk quite a ways, and Sunday reaches for his sister's hand to pull her along. ]
Let's just see where the path takes us.
[ The path in question is one leading to the extensive gardens, ones with all sorts of hedges and walls they can duck behind if someone else is out here enjoying the sunshine and might want to mention they've seen the twins on their way out. On the other side of the gardens closer to the start of the woods is a treehouse they once favored as younger children and still stands when their parents couldn't quite ever commit to taking it down. They can say goodbye to it, too.
That's Sunday's thought, given he's not looking up at the sky to see what while it's sunny now, there's a suspicious number of rainclouds gathering on the horizon. ]
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wanda's expression brightens when she realizes where sunday's steering leads them, and she's the first to break into a run to greet the old, stalwart tree that has been witness to many of their playdates and adventures. a ladder lingers to the side, made of rope and hardy wood, ever inviting. )
Old Wildspur!
( yes, they've given the trees names. their father, the king, is a man of the land, beholden to the earth, its people, and its many troubles. their mother, however, comes from a group of peoples that live under the stars, without need for roof or hearth, where every living creature has a name and a spirit and essence. their union had been a fortuitous one, in wanting to bridge the growing gap between both cultures. it's why sunday's silver hair and golden eyes are not entirely surprising, as many in their mother's family bore hair of silver starlight and eyes unusually colored; though wanda took after their father in these aspects, her features were delicate, much resembling their mother's traits. the twins held fast to the loving connection her mother's people kept with the natural world. sometimes in whispers, sometimes in song, it was many a time that the twins would claim to 'hear' the trees talking.
there's fondness in wanda as she lightly passes the palm of her hand over the old tree's bark. )
If only we could take you along.
( she says, a little sadly, and the tree's leaves rustle, almost in response. a warning, perhaps, too, as heavy droplets of rain start to fall on the ground, threatening the arrival of plenty more. )
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It's fitting, then, there's an actual goodbye to be had here and that it goes to the tree. In response to what's said, the branches almost dip lower like a parent or grandparent's arms going to encircle a beloved child like Wanda's sadness has touched it. Others might say it's an illusion, a trick of the wind or simply gravity settling the world a little further - but the twins know better, don't they? ]
You'll tell the other trees where we've gone, won't you?
[ A network of rustling leaves and tree limbs reaching for each other the intertwined canopy above them that's also keeping the rain from immediately falling onto them where raindrop after raindrop falls and slowly picks up speed. Sunday's focus isn't on the impending weather either when he also places a hand to the bark which feels alive beyond anything else and it rumbles in response. Doesn't it?
Then again, thunder rolls above them and startles Sunday into finally looking up in time with rain sliding off of the leaves sheltering them to fall directly onto his face. ]
Come on, Wanda. We need to go to the treehouse.
[ The roof on it is still whole even after all these years, secretly maintained by castle staff who know the twins find their way there often enough to need it and with what care the siblings have provided themselves, too. This goodbye to Old Wildspur is far from being complete as he murmurs an apology; they'll come back to finish it before they really leave and aren't in danger of being soaked by the rainstorm. ]
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looking a little sullen at having being soaked, she heads towards the trunk where many of their clothes and towels and other linen had been kept (and constantly freshened up by the castle staff in charge). she manages to find a towel for herself and her brother, coming back to him to give him his own—a pastel blue one with an 's' embroidered delicately by hand on a corner. )
It's so stuffy in here.
( part of the role of the staff keeping up maintenance is to keep the treehouse feel like it hasn't been used for as long as the twins haven't been in it, for the sake of 'realism'. oh, how carefully curtailed their whole lives have been. wanda sits herself down on a hammock chair, drying her hair, legs hanging as she swings lightly back and forth. )
The west wind shouldn't be blowing storms this way this time of the year.
( and yet, it's a cacophony of heavy rain outside, a blistering sound above them. )