A/N : So guess who waved his beloved Twinface off at the station this morning? :'( It's been so good to have her here for the weekend. I just had to take it out in fic form! This is part one of two, there may be a delay in part two being posted.
Part 1 - Wanda
It is always so hard to let go, at the end of the visit. Pulling apart from that one final tight hug feels like it should be accompanied by a ripping sound, by physical pain. Every time, it comes with a touch of heartbreak, with anxiety and upset. It never gets easier no matter how many times it is repeated.
Part of her wishes that he would not come to see her off. Would not wait whilst the car drives away. Would not wave goodbye with a smile that would fool anybody apart from her. She will feel her heart sink when she sees the car turn into the driveway of the Academy, as though it will be taking her to her execution rather than home to her team. Tony insists on sending one of his fleet of limousines for her. If he's trying to impress someone, he's failing – her brother might be impressed if it were a Porsche, but a limo is just another car to him. She will feel for his hand and knot her fingers tightly into his – his hands are always cold, always feel so soft and slender in hers. She knows they are deceptively strong, but she will feel his fragility in those bony fingers. She will wait until the very last moment, when the car has pulled to a halt, before she admits to herself that it's time to go.
She will turn then and put her arms around him one last time, the way they have done since forever, since before birth. Their bodies fit together like jigsaw pieces, making both feel whole before they are abruptly broken again. She will grab him tightly and lift him up – he hates it when she does that, but ever since she discovered she could, she can't resist. He's taller that her now though, and she only manages to pull him onto his tiptoes. She will crush his strong little body against hers and take one last deep breath of violet shampoo and the lingering sweetness that she's sure comes from eating so much chocolate, and the indefinable masculine scent that is simply Him. Fill her lungs with it as if she could take some part of him with her.
She will pick up her bag, get into the car – he will hold the door for her, give her that little wave as he closes it, a smile that doesn't touch his eyes though it looks genuine enough unless you know him well. She looks back only once, just as the car turns out of the driveway, will see him standing on the front steps, lifting his hand to wave to her. She will blow a kiss, or flip him the bird, or sometimes just wave back – she likes to let him guess which it will be. Then she will turn back and not look up until she is home.
She will slouch down in the comfortable plush leather seats, and the collar of her coat will rise up and reveal a lingering breath of chocolate and violets that tugs at her heart and makes her eyes prickle. The driver knows by now not to speak to her, only to drive, she will not respond if he tries to make small-talk, ask about her visit. She is too wrapped up in the yanking pull of the ties that bind her to her twin, hurting like an aching tooth as they pull tighter over the increasing distance. In a mile, she can no longer sense his chattering mind, further than that and the distance will feel like a yawning void separating them.
She won't cry. She's not the crying type. But she will ache, and long, and begin planning when she can next get back to Westchester to see him again.
