Lore: When a Trickster Meets His Match

Chapter Five: Farewells

There was something about airports. There were expectations that a traveller started to feel the moment that they arrived there, steered and signalled in the right direction by copious overhead signage and the flash of departure boards that cautioned one against being late to check-in. That feeling became stronger the moment that the traveller left the check-in desk behind, after squashing the nervous smile they'd flashed to the gloomy passenger service agent as they tried to match what they looked like in their awful passport picture. Worries started to roost in their stomach as hasty farewells were said before the traveller entered the boarding gates. The halls beyond were so bright and crowded: glass doors, a zigzag of sleepy early-morning commuters, and security teams that forced their yawns into the back of their gloved hands. The suspense continued to build as the traveller dropped off their bags. Conveyor belts sucked away their luggage, by now organised in the very least amount that they could carry so as not to incur the wrath of the airline's excess baggage fee, and the traveller spared a short thought about whether or not they would ever see those things again. Then they emptied their pockets and squeezed through metal detectors, holding their breath as they hoped against hope that the sensors didn't go off and invite an overly friendly pat-down by airport security. Once cleared, still more awaited them. Flashes of lights, perky flight attendants with their easily-rolling baggage that accompanied them, the sinking feeling in the pit of one's stomach.

And for Cressida Xavier - hell on earth.

Cressida's brain was about to splinter under the force of all of these thoughts. It was like trying to pay attention to a hundred television monitors, all tuned into different channels and frequencies, which were all screeching all full volume. She chewed on some spearmint gum, trying to focus on the sound of it sticking and snapping against her teeth, instead of all of the thoughts.

"Aren't you going to check those bags in?"

Wanda was wearing a coat with a fur-lined hood. Hands in her pockets, she elbowed the telepath lightly to get her attention. Cressida blinked and tried to focus on her friend's face. Despite Fury's attempts to make this operation as covert as possible, Wanda had insisted that she be allowed to come to the airport to properly say goodbye. That also meant that she'd needed to come in disguise, which (by her definition at least) meant wearing ballerina flats, purple leggings and a marbled cardigan. On her lips was a weak smile.

"Bags?" Cressida had intense mind fog, almost groaning in reply as she glanced around her feet, "I thought I already -"

"I'm talking about your eyes," Wanda said lightly, "Didn't sleep well?"

Cressida smiled wryly and touched her hands to her eyes, "Hmm. You read my mind."

"I read your eyes."

The two best friends walked over to the duty free store. There wasn't much for them to look at while they waited to hear from Thor, though Wanda did her best to stall for time and toyed with the mini-bottles of hand sanitiser and dental floss. She listed off items that she wanted to make sure her friend hadn't forgotten, inwardly worrying at the shade of curdled milk her friend was turning, and Cressida stumbled through all of it like a zombie.

Wanda's phone buzzed and she checked it, "He's here. News-stand."

The witch grabbed the telepath by the hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, and then started to lead the way.

The shift in Wanda's train of thoughts was an immediate give-away to Cressida. Her friend was worried about how conspicuous the god of thunder still was, though he'd been taken through many tests to get him to look more down-to-earth. He was wearing cropped black cargo pants, a brown shirt that struggled to be pulled up past his biceps, and a pair of dark sunglasses that was suspended from the neckline of his shirt. Also just checked-in, he had no baggage except for a small wheely bag that he'd left at his side. He had picked up a magazine at the kiosk, turning through the pages.