what if they’re actually saving you from the damage they couldn’t fix? from the emotional wreckage they couldn’t undo? from the grief they never meant to leave in your hands?

ps: but my chaotic-romantic head made up a scenario that somewhere out there, they’re trying so hard—becoming the best version of themselves while watching you grow from afar… just so you both can meet in the middle. healed, ready, steady, just in time.

MOODBOARD: frederick chilton & abel gideon.

His choice communication slides a course off the heart and instead pinprick's an interlude — her gaze rocks side to side in spatial information, looking for meaning or (attempting) a settle in feeling, cutting through confusion. The results reflect to the little, and lessoning, window of time for responding back before the silence swells into something unpleasant. Even the slower baseline pace of her normal speech patterns can only go so far.

❛ Bien sûr⸺ But the capabilities of any being are too personal to be hung up on any singular aspect of someone... no? ❜

The bigger preference to get out of nonspecific conversation takes precedence over someone else leading it.

@rejectory wants to [ GUIDE ]: tony guiding clint through a crowded post-press junket by a steering touch to his elbow

WELL , THIS IS UNCOMFORTABLY NEW . newly uncomfortable . whatever .

those three fingertips on his elbow barely count as a touch and yet manage to be a very prominent part of Clint's sensory system right now . like an unruly child threatening to disappear at the grocery store the second mom turns away .

feels a little bit invasive , truth be told .

his voice drops low , one look cast to Tony from the corner of his eyes . " why exactly are we steering me through here like a horse at the rodeo ? "

The cold wind bit through Joel’s coat, sharp enough to sting. Snow crunched beneath the hooves of their horses, the rhythm slow and steady as they followed the ridge line. The trees around them were stripped bare, reaching up like bones against the slate-gray sky. Dead things clinging to life.

He shifted in the saddle, joints stiff from the cold and from riding too long. Two hours, maybe more, since they’d left Jackson. The silence between him and Tommy had stretched thin but familiar. Comfortable in some ways. In others, not so much.

There was still a trace of the day’s heat clinging to the air. It was not summer yet, but the light held longer now. Blue and orange streaked across the sky, refusing to leave quietly. "And what table might that be?"

Even at a glance, it was clear she was built to endure, sharp where it counted. The kind who knew how to survive, and more importantly, how to win. A good one to keep close, if you wanted to stay breathing. "What is it you really want?"

He had a guess. But it was better to let her speak it into the air, truth always carried more weight when it came from the mouth of the ambitious.

MOODBOARD: frederick chilton & hannibal lecter.

He had felt slightly pathetic, standing just left of the closed door, leaning against the wall and waiting. It’s a familiar feeling, though. It’s been around longer than he could remember. Not embarrassment, not even shame, but something he couldn’t name. Trying to convince himself that what he thought was going to happen, wouldn’t happen, so maybe he wouldn’t feel disappointed if it didn’t.

He counts the minutes without trying to. Five, seven, ten. You’re not going to convince him to move until he hits 90 at least, he’ll tell ya that right now.

He’s very much aware that this time, Steve can hear him out here. Can hear every shift he makes. He knows because even with his own jacked up serum, he can hear Steve through the drywall. So when the door opens, it’s not a surprise. He heard Steve’s footsteps approaching before he even stuck his head out.

Yeah, he doesn’t say, because you’re like me, he doesn’t say.

He slips back into the room without a word, only speaks when he’s leaning a hip against the table. “33 minutes, by the way. To come to that conclusion.”