( to be paranoid, if that's what he wants to be; especially in a city like this, with so many unknowns, so many variables, so many strangers. wanda doesn't think it's wrong to feel that way, and sometimes she wonders if she hadn't been taken in by sanji and the rest of his (current) crew if she wouldn't be feeling exactly the same. perhaps she's even been softened up a touch.
so long as clint understands that he doesn't have to be entirely alone, that much is alright. it's not like she's going to babysit him, anyway, and there's a familial pull towards him. )
How old are you again? Seventy, right? ( —she jests— ) I helped someone dye their hair green the other night. I work some boring jobs.
Feels like ninety. [He is perfectly good for joking about how old he is. He sure as hell feels old some days.] Too old to be getting crazy hair colors. What do you think, should I go bright purple, the kind that lights up under a blacklight? [but like don't tho... He runs a hand through the growing out something-hawk he's had going on for a while.] Guess maybe I should get some kind of touch up anyway.
[Quiet. Boring. He hasn't had either of those in years. He did, for a time. Stuck at home driving Laura a little crazy with more home reno projects. Teaching the kids all sorts of things. Quality time. Making up for so much lost time. He can't imagine it now.
Could he imagine it like this? Quiet conversation with a friend who feels like family? (Someone else lost to a madman's quest, a snap of the fingers-)]
You think you could be happy here? With the quiet and boring and occasionally weird.
( the idea of clint going colorful with his hair is enough to make wanda hit a fit of giggles, leaning back and putting down her spoon, as to not do something impulsively to toss her food around accidentally. if he really wanted to, wanda would be happy to help him with that, if that's what he'd want—
though, in her opinion, he looks perfectly fine as is.
but it's his question that draws her back from that moment of mirth, taking in a deep breath, exhaling. )
I am happy.
( she admits, even to herself. if she were to think about it, a kind of sadness, that unrelenting ocean of grief, remains, is unrelenting; here, though, she is free, not just from the raft, but from a world that doesn't seem to want her in it. here, she gets to be some semblance of normal, and the occasional weird perhaps helps with the monotony, for those like clint and herself, who have already dipped themselves into the weird of the world. )
The guy who cooked this... Sanji, we're roommates. I think we're friends. ( with a light smile, she adds, ) He's a pirate, he says, and his crew — Zoro and Nami, they're here, too. We live together. They're strange in their own way, but I — feel that I am one of them.
( the way she's been taken in, by this group of young adults who can manage on their own but seem to just be doing the best they can under the circumstances, who mess up, who fight each other, but who come around together every time, it's—
it's just like how it used to be, when she had pietro, when she had her friends, in sokovia, when she had a home.
belonged.
the thought alone brings a grimace to her expression, rubbing the heel of her palm against her eye, to dissuade the forming tears from spilling. pietro's absence rings so hollowly inside her, ever present. with that same hand, she reaches over the table, to grab at clint's hand, even if she only reaches his wrist right now. )
...but it's okay if you don't think you could be happy here.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
( to be paranoid, if that's what he wants to be; especially in a city like this, with so many unknowns, so many variables, so many strangers. wanda doesn't think it's wrong to feel that way, and sometimes she wonders if she hadn't been taken in by sanji and the rest of his (current) crew if she wouldn't be feeling exactly the same. perhaps she's even been softened up a touch.
so long as clint understands that he doesn't have to be entirely alone, that much is alright. it's not like she's going to babysit him, anyway, and there's a familial pull towards him. )
How old are you again? Seventy, right? ( —she jests— ) I helped someone dye their hair green the other night. I work some boring jobs.
( a shrug. )
Quiet and boring is nice.
no subject
[Quiet. Boring. He hasn't had either of those in years. He did, for a time. Stuck at home driving Laura a little crazy with more home reno projects. Teaching the kids all sorts of things. Quality time. Making up for so much lost time. He can't imagine it now.
Could he imagine it like this? Quiet conversation with a friend who feels like family? (Someone else lost to a madman's quest, a snap of the fingers-)]
You think you could be happy here? With the quiet and boring and occasionally weird.
no subject
though, in her opinion, he looks perfectly fine as is.
but it's his question that draws her back from that moment of mirth, taking in a deep breath, exhaling. )
I am happy.
( she admits, even to herself. if she were to think about it, a kind of sadness, that unrelenting ocean of grief, remains, is unrelenting; here, though, she is free, not just from the raft, but from a world that doesn't seem to want her in it. here, she gets to be some semblance of normal, and the occasional weird perhaps helps with the monotony, for those like clint and herself, who have already dipped themselves into the weird of the world. )
The guy who cooked this... Sanji, we're roommates. I think we're friends. ( with a light smile, she adds, ) He's a pirate, he says, and his crew — Zoro and Nami, they're here, too. We live together. They're strange in their own way, but I — feel that I am one of them.
( the way she's been taken in, by this group of young adults who can manage on their own but seem to just be doing the best they can under the circumstances, who mess up, who fight each other, but who come around together every time, it's—
it's just like how it used to be, when she had pietro, when she had her friends, in sokovia, when she had a home.
belonged.
the thought alone brings a grimace to her expression, rubbing the heel of her palm against her eye, to dissuade the forming tears from spilling. pietro's absence rings so hollowly inside her, ever present. with that same hand, she reaches over the table, to grab at clint's hand, even if she only reaches his wrist right now. )
...but it's okay if you don't think you could be happy here.