Your home in Sokovia was destroyed when Ultron decided to make it ground zero for his attempted coup of the world. Everyone had lost someone - some more than most. You? The family you'd worked for had perished - save one. The rumors were that he'd b...
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Peace. Mier. Frieden. Paix. Mír. Ειρήνη. It's all you want and it remains elusive. How many words do you have to try to call it from the darkness that has you in its grip? You have so many languages and each is just as ineffective at summoning a reprieve as the next.
At least the sugar from the stovetop hot chocolate, along with endless summoning of words, keeps you awake until dawn breaks and others in the house start to stir. It is the signal that you can start moving around the room again without fear of drawing Bucky's attention – since you know doors have little dampening effect on his hearing, and you also know how well the sounds of the household travel through the dwelling.
Making the bed may be pointless for the need to wash the sheets but you do it anyway. As you smooth the covers out once more you do your best to ignore thoughts of other early mornings spent packing up, of forcing yourself out of the thing that brings the closest thing resembling rest and into motion because one man in particular willed it. Thinking of The Baron leads you to the words he wished to hear spill out of you, and the many many ways he went about ensuring it would happen.
Everything happened exactly as he meant it. The events of Madripoor. What happened in Riga. All that happened in Riga. The gold chain wrapped around your wrist is evidence of that fact. He meant for you to stay in the world, carry on being a part of it in a way that was no longer an avenue afforded him. The gifted necklace was a means – other than your well-worn bag – to carry the family with you, too. You grace your fingertips over the gold chain before clasping your hand around your wrist and bringing your arms up to your chest.
There. Another silent prayer for the dead.
There. Another silent prayer for the living... wherever they may be.
Your name punctuates a rapping knock on the bedroom door, and a hesitant question, "Are you..."
Awake. Yes. Decent. Also yes. Ready to descend the stairs and begin the day? As ready as you can be. Ok? You likely never will be again.
Sarah opts for a different query than any that you've considered. "Hungry?"
Evidently it is a Wilson family trait to want to feed the people around them. Straightening your shoulders, you inhale every ounce of comfort and warmth the household has to offer and exhale your weariness and exhaustion. Today will be exploring another new place. You force a smile into place as you lift your bag onto your shoulder and deliver what you hope is a cheerful answer, "Only if I am allowed to help with breakfast."
When you open the bedroom door Sarah's focus drops to your duffel but she chooses to bypass commenting, instead turning to lead the way down the stairs, "You'll – have to fight with Sam on that. He's already in there making a mess." There's light laughter in her voice, even as she shakes her head and pretends exasperation.
