Wanda Maximoff, child of the one and only Erik Lehnsheer. My brother Peitro and I are looking for our purpose now. We're ready to do good--
(Indie Wanda Maximoff. Mixed 616/other universes.
FC: Elizabeth Olsen)
“Ah.. you are a little bigger than my brother, but there might be some clothes that....” she makes a small triumphant sound. “Ehh... sweatpants, and a tee shirt is what I can offer, and there is a towel or two in the bathroom.” she tells him quietly.
He nods languidly, understanding now —- and he feels rather STUPID that he could not recall it, for he felt as though he’d ALWAYS known it. And he follows her down the street, noting every glance and glare – it was his JOB to notice – but he takes a breath, bringing himself to the present when she introduces herself. He doesn’t know what name to give reply, however, and simply acknowledges her with another small nod.
It’s a modest place, and while his nervousness remains, he finds himself already making his way to the fifth floor without much question.
Wanda was out, walking around the city, taking time to go buy groceries when she was sure she saw a familiar blond head of hair. So she approached,wrapping her own coat further around herself against the coming winter wind.
“You live in Brooklyn?” she asked with a half smile as she came to a stop in front of the good captain.
She looks up, and feels shadowed by him, but not afraid. Slowly she puts her her hand out, gesturing for him to follow.
“It is in the Statue of Liberty... written by a Jewish immigrant” she tells him with a grin, and as they step out onto the main sidewalk, they’re garnering strange looks, and she automatically puts a comforting hand out. “I’m Wanda..” she greets in a gentle tone, leaning them down and around the corner and towards the small house she was given a budget for.
They approached and she dug her keys out of her jacket pocket, letting him in first. “Here... it feels a bit like home.” she admits as she starts towards the stairs, “I am on the fifth floor, if you don’t mind” she adds gently.
His first instinct is always to REFUSE. He must conceal himself, no one else must know him. But there is a quiet whisper in him that urges him onward; her gentleness speaking volumes to him over the FEAR and DISMAY that’s lodged inside him. And thus – warily – he agrees.
He stands —- LOOMING over her, and yet he felt so small. And with a shadowed brow, he listens to her, understanding her words, but not her meaning. ❛ —— What…is that…f–rom? ❜
He did as suggested, and took the photograph, evaluating it more closely now. He could sense no lie in her, no fluctuation of falsity; thus, he was more apt to understand how meaningful it must have been for her to allow him to hold such a precious artifact. He held it gently, carefully, being conscientious not to damaged the frayed edges. FAMILY. That was the one word that rang through his mind. A place to belong. To feel love.
When she took out the granola bar, he became mildly sceptical, though he was quelled with the notion that the treat was completely wrapped and unopened. He took it, and looked to her both kindly, and embarrassed, as he handed her back the photograph. ❛ THANK…YOU. ❜
“I have a place not too far from here, you can use the shower if you’d like, and use the couch if needed” she offered. This is something she was use to offering. Back home, if a friend, or someone in their small town needed help, it was given, not like here in New York were the poor a helpless were left to rot.
She looks over at him and with a soft voice:
"Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door" she whispers to him, a softened smile on her lips.
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Unsure if she is plotting a ploy, he cranes his neck carefully to see the photograph completely, seeing the young woman with a silver-haired young man – odd in of itself. But what she shared with him brought a sense of compassion over him – if not guilt, also. He wondered if he had had any thing to do with their parents’ death; he had been responsible for many. But he was keen not to show his concern for himself, but expressed a grief for her, instead.
❛ Your mother…was KIND, ❜ he says carefully, looking back to her. And her reasoning for wanting to help him makes more sense now; he thinks he might be left with a sense of distaste should he refuse her. Besides, should she become a threat, he figures he might be able to take care of himself. ❛ You learned…from her…? ❜ It’s half a statement, half a question.
“She was...” she replied carefully continuing to hold the photo out. “You can take it--” she offered in a quiet voice, letting her accent thicken a bit. Though she quieted a bit at his question. The alleyway vaguely smelled of rotten cheese, and she wanted nothing more than to get him and herself
“I suppose she did... though some of it was learned from hate” she stated then, digging in her purse and retrieved a granola bar, holding that out to him now.
His eyes don’t leave her, watching her carefully, warily as she notes him and his emaciation. Truly, he had not eaten in several days, but circumstance along with DELUSION have prevented him from any sort of sustenance. He does not think much of it, of personal care – it’s new territory to him. But this woman seems OVERLY concerned – that is to say, in his mind ANY notion of concern from another is foreign.
He takes a step back as she takes one forward, still untrusting of her, although he can sense no obvious MALICE in her, there is something she WANTS, surely.
“——What are you doing?”
When she reads his mistrust, she carefully kneels in front of him. “When I was young--” she begins, moving her bag in front of her, rummaging in it. “My brother and I would eat every night” she says, finally finding the photo, folded into careful fourths, fraying at the edges. She unfolds it and extends it to him.
It’s her and Pietro when they’re teenagers. “I didn’t notice until I was older that mother would only eat dinner, and even then she never had a full plate” she murmured. “She was a cleaner at the local school” she tells him. “Compassionate woman until the end, told my brother and I to do the same” she murmured. “That was two years after our home was shelled by napalm” she murmured.
He sits there, meddled with only his thoughts, ambient breaths hoarded in his lungs as he slithers in shadows, not waiting, but SEARCHING for peace. He finds it amongst himself, seemingly alone. But he STARTS when he hears the patter of the woman’s boots and JUMPS at her voice, raising a suspicious eye to her.
Carefully, he rises, and stands to his full height to see her, sensing something ODD about her, but not altogether malicious. His eyes narrow again and he simply nods, giving her reassurance.
“——-Who…Who are you?”
She’s peering at him worriedly, feeling sorry that she startled him so. She swallows at his question, but manages to remain lax. “I am Wanda--” is all she says. “You look starved...” she mutters to him, taking a half step forward with her hand ot to him.
If she can get skin contact, she can get in his thoughts.... find something of her own.
Wanda was getting use to being in New York, the streets, the never ending bustle (and the strange work hours, eight hours straight did not seem right). Stark had gotten her an apartment away from the tower, the tensions high anyway, so she was out and about.
She’s walking through the Bronx, something about it feeling a lot like home when she sees a hunched figure in an alley way, and she can feel the man’s pain, and distress.
“Mister?” she questions as she comes to him, slowly and cautiously crouching beside him. “Ahre you alright?” she swallows, realizing how think her accent sounds.