A/N : Final part, perhaps a little less trigger.

Thanks again to Inavia for requesting this :-) xx

3

They had been forty, when she had finally had the courage to ask again. Woozy from wine, a pleasant ache in her jaw from laughter. Some part of her was light and gay and dancing along on fumes of alcohol and the happiness of spending time with some of the people she loved most – her sister, her twin, his wife – and doing nothing but celebrating their lives together. Another part could not dance. There was a heaviness in her heart when she had decided to check on her brother, who had gone for a breath of fresh air on the patio outside.

A high full moon did its best to lend the scene a ghostly glow, the lapping of the Hudson in the near distance rhythmic and peaceful. The hotter glow of a burning cigarette leading her to a lawn chair. He too, was illuminated and glowing in the moonlight, gleaming off his satin-soft hair and setting sparks dancing in the depths of his eyes, catching at his dimples when he smiled up at her.

"I thought you gave up" she'd said quietly, swayed across to kneel beside his chair, lean on the armrest. He smiled again, cheeky now – the smile she had got used to and loved more than any other.

"Not when I'm drunk," he'd said. The hand that was not holding the cigarette fell to caress an errant strand of red that had escaped from her updo. Turning slightly white now, just that one fallen strand, "Which I rarely am, so I'm not bothered"

She laughed drunkenly, softly. Peter had kept a battered half-empty carton of cigarettes in the inside pocket of his jacket for as long as she could remember, but he'd never really taken up smoking fully. He just liked to know they were there for when he really felt he could do with it. It had never harmed him, and Wanda didn't care. It was in many ways a life-affirming habit for him, a reassurance that he was still breathing despite the feeling that his whirlwind emotions were suffocating him. The odd sneaky smoke had been a part of him for almost twenty years, something even his wife hadn't known until tonight.

She remembered when he'd taken it up. It was something to do with his hands other than bang his wrists against things, dig a blade into his skin. An acceptable way to hurt himself that hadn't really left any damage behind. Two or three a day at most, none by the time he'd turned 25, but the pack was there anyway, just in case. Now just the occasional one when he'd had too much to drink.

"Are you okay?" she asked, squinted up at him, taking one last drag before he crushed the butt out, "Really, I mean?"

He'd thought a while before he answered, stared into the tree-lined gardens, contemplated the moon on the pines and the silver glimmer it cast. Looked deep into the darkness and finally, reached for her hand and smiled again. A full, gentle, lovely smile.

"I'm okay" he told her, squeezed her fingers tight. His hands were cold, but soft and loving, "I promise"

He rose and offered her his hand to get to her feet. Led her gently not straight back to the hotel, but down a path that looped around the grounds, skirting the forest the bounded them in. She slipped under his arm, enjoyed the weight of it around her shoulders, the hard, rounded bulge of his bicep resting against her neck. Wound an arm around his narrow back and rested her hand on his hip, felt the powerful muscle there stretch and contract with each stride. Loved the health and strength she could feel against her, heart swelling with gratitude for it. The pines smelled sharp and delicious, the smell of petrichor leaching from the rich earth and mingling with the familiar violet smell of his shampoo, the bourbon on his breath.

"You're drunk, Vanda," he chuckled as she stumbled around a corner, steadied herself with a hand pressed to his firm, muscular belly, "Careful now"

"Always," she told him, squeezed him tight. Bit her underlip and didn't meet his eyes for a while, "I'm sorry"

"For what?"

"For not knowing what to do," she sighed, "When we were young. For not being able to cope"

He had stopped under the shade of a pine, the little moonlight filtering through painting camouflage shadows on their faces, turning them both into midnight tigers. Rested his hands on her shoulders, turned her to face him and bring her eyes up to his, felt her hands slip to sit lightly on his waist. No woman but his wife and sisters could touch him this way and not make him slip from their grasp immediately, love and warmth spreading from her fingertips to fill his body. Looking down at her, eyes huge and black in the night

"You coped the only way you could" he told her earnestly, "And I'm grateful for everything. All the punches, all the shouting, all the pushing and tantrums. Every bit of it did me good, my darling, wonderful sister."

"You've stopped, haven't you?" she asked. Her lips were wet, her eyes shining and on the verge of spilling messy alcohol-fueled tears down her cheeks, "Hurting yourself?"

"I stopped the day you told me to" he said. She could tell it was the truth. Nodded, swallowed, asked in return

"Why?"

One hand reached to brush that errant strand away, before he had pulled her close to his chest and she felt the pads of his fingers stroke firmly against her skull, his heart loud and strong and quick against her face.

"Because I couldn't hurt you any more" he whispered, "And I'm sorry. For everything"

There was no more to be said. They walked, arms tight around one another, until the lights of the hotel had shone out of the darkness, the happy laughter inside beckoning them on. She let him go first, back to the arms of the woman who adored him and the sister who would always look up to him. Wanda breathed the pine-earth-night smell deeply and closed her eyes, let the anger and fear she had felt for all that time seep away from her and into the roots of the trees. Let it turn to sap and life and moonlight and emptied herself of concern at last. Smiled once more and returned to the small gathering, glad that she could finally trust her twin with his own life.