( it isn't lost on wanda that pietro is on tenterhooks with pretty much every significant thing in his life. even his party buddies are ephemeral, only there for the clout of getting to hang out with an actual avenger when the rest of the team is more insular. he should be aware of how his actions reflect on her, on how she suffers incredible embarrassment when he acts cocky and indifferent in front of those who are becoming her new family here in america; the way she hates feeling disappointed at him whenever they come back from a mission he could have helped minimize casualties for. it's hard for wanda, who is caught in the middle, especially when the moment a lecture from steve starts brewing pietro bails, leaving her to reckon with the anger and discontent of the rest of the team.
and, despite all of this, pietro is still her brother, and wanda still adores him. he could never lose favor in her eyes, even if it gets increasingly harder with every stunt.
especially when it feels that he only reaches out to her anymore when he needs someone to either clean up his messes or when he's falling into a lull and needs to take a breather.
with a sigh, wanda stops patting his face and sits down on the edge of the bed, glancing around his mess of a room, letting his half-awake thoughts settle. wanda knows he's going through something that he is unwilling to admit to and talk about. they had so little in sokovia, and now they basically have anything they could ever want; why not live in excess? and with the way pietro's speed works, how time means little to him and there's no real sense of expectation and responsibilities are hardly grounding.
(wanda, too, doesn't know how to go about it.)
once pietro's breathing deepens again, wanda gets up and pulls the blanket off of him; she rolls him onto his side, this bulk of dead weight, and shifts him so he's lying on his back. she speaks in their mother tongue, ditching the american english and the accent they've both improved on since coming here, her words a little harsh and clipped. )
I'm not going to touch your shoes, but you're going to have to get up and at the very least change. A shower would be better. You stink, Pietro.
( she sets the glasses on his bureau, twirls her wrist for strands of red plumes to pull the curtains open, letting in the afternoon sunlight glare. )
I'll put some water to boil. ( for tea, of course. some things don't change despite crossing the ocean. ) And I'll try to find something for you to eat.
( wanda will wait until she sees the slightest movement, before heading out towards the kitchen, picking up some of the trash on the floor on her way. )
( his mind drifts along a stream, occasionally bumping against rocks and debris before finally settling on a bank. his first thoughts drum against the surface of the water, stirring him from consciousness. it's not the orphanage. it's not sokovia. his shoes are still on his feet, laces double-knotted. and the glare that stares down at him is not sister verka's, but his sister's.
is wanda here because he called her, or because she sensed she was needed? sometimes pietro can feel her in his mind, like a fly in a small, enclosed area β silent, inconspicuous, and hidden until its wings beat and buzz near the periphery of one's earshot. then it's deafening, annoying, and overwhelming. it's the worst after he misses a training session or a mission, and her presence is on his mind like a cloud of locusts on the horizon. like it's his fault that he loses track of time or of his phone. who's to say that the vibration in his pocket is from his phone or his leg bouncing up and down and up and down and up and down as he tries to focus on what his manager gail is saying? why must she speak so slowly like he's an idiot? his american english has improved enough that he mostly understands everyone. and yet, everyone treats him as if he doesn't know what he's doing. he's got this.
speaking in his brother tongue, pietro immediately retorts, )You stink.
( a slice of the afternoon sun stabs his eyes, and he turns his face away into the pillow, grimacing. figures wanda would play dirty and not even give him the relief of nursing his hangover in silent darkness. maybe if he plays opossum long enough, she'll leave him be. it works on his friends. none of them want to be responsible for him any further than dragging him from place to place to get them into bars and clubs. his face is a currency, an all-access pass that opens doors. pietro knows what he is to them, and what they are to him. is it parasitism or mutualism? if both parties are aware and no one gets hurt, what's the problem?
but his sister is not like his friends, and she won't leave until he moves. her impatience is another fly buzzing around his head. loudly groaning, he rubs a hand across his face and starts toeing off his sneakers. )
( his brother tongue is one she is far too familiar with, so she pays her no heed; it at the very least tells her that her brother is alive under all those layers of whatever drugs and drinks he had the past couple of days.
soon enough, she's got water on the kettle and some tea bags from the uppermost shelf on the cupboard (did pietro buy these for himself, or does he keep them for her? it doesn't matter, really; after all, it's black tea, and the smell reminds her of home, and would be great with some fig-stuffed phyllo pastryβ) and waits a beat or two while she glances at the situation about her, fingers tapping on the edge of the counter, as if counting the seconds.
for someone so bothered by how slow everything around him is, pietro sure takes his time pulling off his bed. it's perfect, though, for it gives wanda the perfect amount of time to go about the penthouse and cleaning up the bigger messes, using her telekinesis to move heavy furniture around to where it's meant to be, clearing up a path towards the one expenditure wanda considers to be pietro's best: the record player. a vinyl that resds respighi is picked from the shelf, and a favorite of wanda's fills the space with some amount of serenity.
she doubts pietro's "friends" would ever find value in the music that he spends a lot of his money on.
wanda half-waltzes in tune back towards the kitchen, as the kettle clicks its fulfillment, and she drags two tall, ceramic cups onto the kitchen counter. )
You'll want yours with sugar, I imagine?
( she calls out, half expecting her brother to step out of his room any time now. )
( the water is cold on his back. biting, burrowing under his skin and into his bones.
the orphanage had only cold water. very nice in sokovian summers when the sun baked the concrete and the grass crinkled beneath their feet but not so nice in sokovian winters when the temperature hovered around -20 and they had to wear their coats, gloves, and hats to bed. that was if water was available. a lot of times it would shut off. pipes older than lenin would burst, militias would breach the city, or the oligarchs would think swimming pools or fountains were a more adequate usage for the dwindling water supply. each time, it would leave thousands of people without water for weeks.
he thinks about the showers at the orphanage: the sallow walls, the sharp smell of ammonia, the weak sunlight through the frosted windows, and the chill on his knees and hands. scrubbing the showers with a toothbrush or scouring pots and pans in the kitchen β that was where he could usually be found. "talk back to the sisters again, pietro?" yeah, he's performing his daily act of repentance.
there were so many rules at the orphanage that he never knew he broke until a ruler struck the back of his knees or a pair of bony fingers hooked his ear and pulled. during confessional, he never admitted to breaking any of the orphanage's rules, instead confessing the same list of sins committed before they lost their parents: stealing a few pieces of hard candy from the market, locking wanda in the cupboard, copying wanda's homework, cutting the hair off wanda's doll; grabbing a dog by its hind legs, and pushing him around like a vacuum cleaner. why feign guilt and seek forgiveness for actions he never considered sins? out of fear of hell? what were those two days under the bed with a missile three feet away from them? what was the orphanage?
he showers quickly before the water goes out or turns into sludge. within seconds, pietro gets into a powder blue tracksuit β custom from nike with his name emblazoned across the chest β and is sitting at the counter, sipping tea from a tall, ceramic mug. no sugar. but a shot of rum. he almost changed the record to something else: stravinsky, penderecki, schnittke β anything not by a fascist, but decides against riling up wanda further. for the same reason, he admitted guilt to locking her in the cupboard, copying her homework, and cutting the hair off her doll. his presence is trouble enough for her. no reason to pile it on. )
( unsurprisingly, it takes little to wake pietro up from his hangover. he speeds his way through the shower and getting changed, and the cup of tea that she had been preparing for him is gone from her hands and is, instead, in front of him as he sits at the counter. wanda pouts momentarily, minding now her own cup of tea, before moving to sit next to her brother. )
I think you think I'm upset at you.
( the dainty spoon ricochets inside the ceramic cup, until wanda pulls it out and sets it aside.
wanda is many things regarding pietro, but she could never truly be upset at him. there are circumstances that are out of their control here. is she a bit embarrassed that he likes wearing ridiculously vain clothes with his name on it? yes. is she disappointed that he's put a shot of rum in his cup of tea? of course.
but they're not children anymore, and pietro doesn't have to confess to anyone about the times he locked her up in cupboards, copied her homework, and cut the hair off her doll. he is his own man, and wanda leads her own life, separately but parallel from his. )
I have all day to spend it with you. ( she says, turning her head to him, and raising her hand to fix the curls of damp hair that fall heavily over his eyes. ) I promise I won't be a nag about what you've been up to.
( because, truth be told, it's been a while since wanda has gotten to be around her brother. she misses him; yearns to normalize the closeness they had before coming to america.
she hopes he never leaves her behind.
bringing her cup of tea close to her lips, she adds, before taking a sip to hide her vulnerabilities. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
and, despite all of this, pietro is still her brother, and wanda still adores him. he could never lose favor in her eyes, even if it gets increasingly harder with every stunt.
especially when it feels that he only reaches out to her anymore when he needs someone to either clean up his messes or when he's falling into a lull and needs to take a breather.
with a sigh, wanda stops patting his face and sits down on the edge of the bed, glancing around his mess of a room, letting his half-awake thoughts settle. wanda knows he's going through something that he is unwilling to admit to and talk about. they had so little in sokovia, and now they basically have anything they could ever want; why not live in excess? and with the way pietro's speed works, how time means little to him and there's no real sense of expectation and responsibilities are hardly grounding.
(wanda, too, doesn't know how to go about it.)
once pietro's breathing deepens again, wanda gets up and pulls the blanket off of him; she rolls him onto his side, this bulk of dead weight, and shifts him so he's lying on his back. she speaks in their mother tongue, ditching the american english and the accent they've both improved on since coming here, her words a little harsh and clipped. )
I'm not going to touch your shoes, but you're going to have to get up and at the very least change. A shower would be better. You stink, Pietro.
( she sets the glasses on his bureau, twirls her wrist for strands of red plumes to pull the curtains open, letting in the afternoon sunlight glare. )
I'll put some water to boil. ( for tea, of course. some things don't change despite crossing the ocean. ) And I'll try to find something for you to eat.
( wanda will wait until she sees the slightest movement, before heading out towards the kitchen, picking up some of the trash on the floor on her way. )
no subject
is wanda here because he called her, or because she sensed she was needed? sometimes pietro can feel her in his mind, like a fly in a small, enclosed area β silent, inconspicuous, and hidden until its wings beat and buzz near the periphery of one's earshot. then it's deafening, annoying, and overwhelming. it's the worst after he misses a training session or a mission, and her presence is on his mind like a cloud of locusts on the horizon. like it's his fault that he loses track of time or of his phone. who's to say that the vibration in his pocket is from his phone or his leg bouncing up and down and up and down and up and down as he tries to focus on what his manager gail is saying? why must she speak so slowly like he's an idiot? his american english has improved enough that he mostly understands everyone. and yet, everyone treats him as if he doesn't know what he's doing. he's got this.
speaking in his brother tongue, pietro immediately retorts, ) You stink.
( a slice of the afternoon sun stabs his eyes, and he turns his face away into the pillow, grimacing. figures wanda would play dirty and not even give him the relief of nursing his hangover in silent darkness. maybe if he plays opossum long enough, she'll leave him be. it works on his friends. none of them want to be responsible for him any further than dragging him from place to place to get them into bars and clubs. his face is a currency, an all-access pass that opens doors. pietro knows what he is to them, and what they are to him. is it parasitism or mutualism? if both parties are aware and no one gets hurt, what's the problem?
but his sister is not like his friends, and she won't leave until he moves. her impatience is another fly buzzing around his head. loudly groaning, he rubs a hand across his face and starts toeing off his sneakers. )
no subject
soon enough, she's got water on the kettle and some tea bags from the uppermost shelf on the cupboard (did pietro buy these for himself, or does he keep them for her? it doesn't matter, really; after all, it's black tea, and the smell reminds her of home, and would be great with some fig-stuffed phyllo pastryβ) and waits a beat or two while she glances at the situation about her, fingers tapping on the edge of the counter, as if counting the seconds.
for someone so bothered by how slow everything around him is, pietro sure takes his time pulling off his bed. it's perfect, though, for it gives wanda the perfect amount of time to go about the penthouse and cleaning up the bigger messes, using her telekinesis to move heavy furniture around to where it's meant to be, clearing up a path towards the one expenditure wanda considers to be pietro's best: the record player. a vinyl that resds respighi is picked from the shelf, and a favorite of wanda's fills the space with some amount of serenity.
she doubts pietro's "friends" would ever find value in the music that he spends a lot of his money on.
wanda half-waltzes in tune back towards the kitchen, as the kettle clicks its fulfillment, and she drags two tall, ceramic cups onto the kitchen counter. )
You'll want yours with sugar, I imagine?
( she calls out, half expecting her brother to step out of his room any time now. )
no subject
the orphanage had only cold water. very nice in sokovian summers when the sun baked the concrete and the grass crinkled beneath their feet but not so nice in sokovian winters when the temperature hovered around -20 and they had to wear their coats, gloves, and hats to bed. that was if water was available. a lot of times it would shut off. pipes older than lenin would burst, militias would breach the city, or the oligarchs would think swimming pools or fountains were a more adequate usage for the dwindling water supply. each time, it would leave thousands of people without water for weeks.
he thinks about the showers at the orphanage: the sallow walls, the sharp smell of ammonia, the weak sunlight through the frosted windows, and the chill on his knees and hands. scrubbing the showers with a toothbrush or scouring pots and pans in the kitchen β that was where he could usually be found. "talk back to the sisters again, pietro?" yeah, he's performing his daily act of repentance.
there were so many rules at the orphanage that he never knew he broke until a ruler struck the back of his knees or a pair of bony fingers hooked his ear and pulled. during confessional, he never admitted to breaking any of the orphanage's rules, instead confessing the same list of sins committed before they lost their parents: stealing a few pieces of hard candy from the market, locking wanda in the cupboard, copying wanda's homework, cutting the hair off wanda's doll; grabbing a dog by its hind legs, and pushing him around like a vacuum cleaner. why feign guilt and seek forgiveness for actions he never considered sins? out of fear of hell? what were those two days under the bed with a missile three feet away from them? what was the orphanage?
he showers quickly before the water goes out or turns into sludge. within seconds, pietro gets into a powder blue tracksuit β custom from nike with his name emblazoned across the chest β and is sitting at the counter, sipping tea from a tall, ceramic mug. no sugar. but a shot of rum. he almost changed the record to something else: stravinsky, penderecki, schnittke β anything not by a fascist, but decides against riling up wanda further. for the same reason, he admitted guilt to locking her in the cupboard, copying her homework, and cutting the hair off her doll. his presence is trouble enough for her. no reason to pile it on. )
no subject
I think you think I'm upset at you.
( the dainty spoon ricochets inside the ceramic cup, until wanda pulls it out and sets it aside.
wanda is many things regarding pietro, but she could never truly be upset at him. there are circumstances that are out of their control here. is she a bit embarrassed that he likes wearing ridiculously vain clothes with his name on it? yes. is she disappointed that he's put a shot of rum in his cup of tea? of course.
but they're not children anymore, and pietro doesn't have to confess to anyone about the times he locked her up in cupboards, copied her homework, and cut the hair off her doll. he is his own man, and wanda leads her own life, separately but parallel from his. )
I have all day to spend it with you. ( she says, turning her head to him, and raising her hand to fix the curls of damp hair that fall heavily over his eyes. ) I promise I won't be a nag about what you've been up to.
( because, truth be told, it's been a while since wanda has gotten to be around her brother. she misses him; yearns to normalize the closeness they had before coming to america.
she hopes he never leaves her behind.
bringing her cup of tea close to her lips, she adds, before taking a sip to hide her vulnerabilities. )
I miss you.