#The unashamed wash of human life affecting each other and only silently speaking more for it

[noblesknightsandswords]

The Starless Sea

"She organized willing participants into arrangements of tangled limbs and twined bodies that would last as long as their living pieces could manage, the story changing from each angle viewed and then changes more as the models fatigued, hands slipping over thighs in unsubtle plot twists."

-The Starless Sea

[ivoryribcage]

Story + 15

@wcllcrawler | Send “Story + #” | ACCEPTING

PROMPT. The first time my muse tasted your muse’s cooking.

TITLE. Wish I Were HereSETTING. MarvelCHARACTERS. Peter Parker (@wcllcrawler), Steven Rogers (@capsiicle), Tony Stark ( @cheeseburgerfirst ), Veata Aydelotte (@ivoryribcage)

SUMMARY. The memories wane, but the aftershock remains.

The funeral of the United States’ most iconic hero had been held a month after his death. During those four weeks the nation took its first uncertain steps in learning how to shoulder the burden of its grief. Regardless of how the public’s opinion had gone to war over him in the last months of his life few could disregard the impact he’d had on people. Proof of as much had been in the masses that had flooded the streets singing the national anthem – in the flags that had been lowered to half-mast, in the unashamed tears of their president when he delivered his address. The people came together to honor him in a funeral that had been nothing less than perfect, and she had resented each minute of it with a vile anger she hadn’t thought the human heart capable of.

Captain America had been a public figure of the people. The man that had been born Steven Rogers had been hers. In life such a difference had been minute. Veata had understood the two were one and the same. She would have no sooner asked him to retire from the mantle than she would think herself so important that she deserved to come before countless other lives. The most she had asked from Steve was to be the most important person in his heart. Not in his life. In death however the fissure became a chasm. At the funeral of Steven Rogers she’d collapsed into her grief as his bereaved widow, but at the funeral held for Captain America there’d been no place for the pieces of herself his absence had carved out.

There’d been no sense of fairness when she’d stood one of thousands at the memorial – these people that grieved for their fallen hero but thought nothing of the man behind the mask. Part of her had understood such circumstances had been through no fault of theirs. Her teeth however had sunk too deep into her poisonous resentment to listen to reason. She’d been hurt. But it hadn’t been the public alone that Veata had hated that afternoon either. Rather it’d been the world itself that had angered her – the chain of events that had brought him to his death. He’d deserved better after the countless sacrifices he’d made in the service of others. Yet there’d been people that had turned on him when he’d dared to pursue a decision that had been for himself.

Grief consisted of five different stages, but it hadn’t been until his death that she’d learned the process was not so simple as that. She hadn’t known that the stages weren’t always seen in order  – that she could without warning regress from acceptance to denial at the drop of a pin, that she could find herself tangled with multiple stages at once in a single instance. Such lessons couldn’t be taught, but rather were learned through personal experience, and as Veata laid there in their marital bed four months after its other occupant had been shot through the throat she found herself exhausted of even tears. Depression. How many times could a person return to this stage before it became a permanent part of themselves?

It’d been for the children that she’d gathered the strength it took to rouse herself each morning that passed after his death. On this particular morning however not even the thought of them crowding into the bedroom with mewling concerns could stir a reaction from her. Veata understood that a lack of such should frighten her – that she ought to be scrambling to scrape vestiges of strength together for their sake – but she felt instead only the faintest pang of the emotion struggling for life. That she’d managed for as long as she had before buckling under the weight of her burdens was a miracle. Even so the children deserved better. She needed to contact someone that could look after them for the afternoon. The candidates were at least very few.

There was much that needed attending to before the children woke, but instead the hour passed from dawn to late morning without the slightest stir from her. It wasn’t until Veata felt the cumbersome touch of a hand fumbling against her cheek that she faded into a numb awareness of her surroundings. The widowed mother’s eyes flickered to the concerned expression that darkened the features of their eldest child. His eyes – a sea of blue much like his father’s – were pinched with confusion. On his toes he reached to cradle her face in his hands then mewled in a plaintive tone, “Mama. It’s time to get up.” Her fingers twitched with the maternal urge to gather him and his siblings against her, but instead she held his wrist in a limp grasp. It was the most she could manage.

Her eyes shut with a long, slow blink though she fought as hard as possible against the urge. “Mama,” Logan repeated. The sheets shifted at her feet as a second person began to clamber onto the mattress next to her. From the quiet grunt of exertion she knew it to be their daughter Adeline. Her hands fumbled onto her shoulder with a gentle shove once she’d settled on her knees in front of her. She was rewarded for her effort with the slight opening of her mother’s eyes as she considered them through a lackluster haze. Nathaniel soon joined his older sister, and Logan followed suit just as the heaviness weighing on her chest became unbearable. Her eyes closed once more. She wanted to apologize to them – to tell them that she was too tired – but the words weren’t there.

Nathaniel lifted her arm then positioned himself against her in a warm snuggle. At only four years of age he hadn’t yet learned how to be embarrassed by such small tokens of affection. She hoped that he never would, but it would happen regardless. Her head lowered a scant inch to breathe in the scent of him. It was odd – the little details she could use to pick out their children from others. Veata knew by heart their individual scents, their individual voices, their individual touch. It seemed that for as much as the children had inherited from their father and herself there was much more that was their own. The mattress shifted once more as Adeline moved to drape herself over her hip. “Mama, it’s breakfast time. I’m hungry,” she murmured into her shirt.

Tears burned behind her eyes, but the sheen of them didn’t reach her gaze. Like herself these were ensnared in the void that had bled into her in minute increments over the past four months. Her thumb traced a circular path against the back of Nathaniel’s hand. She wanted to tell Adeline that she’d been heard – to rouse herself long enough to prepare breakfast for them. The weight on her hip felt heavier as if their daughter had laid her head to rest on there. When Logan had left the bedroom she couldn’t recall, but she heard his voice then through the door that had been left open a crack. He was speaking with someone. Given there was no one else in the house other than themselves she needed to check on him.

Logan had returned to the bedroom by the time Veata managed to open her eyes. She watched him as he replaced her cellphone – she didn’t remember the seven-year-old taking it – on the nightstand then turned to her. He folded his arms next to her pillow, placing his chin on the self-made cushion. In a hush he informed her, “Uncle Pete said he’s coming over. It’ll be alright, Mama.” Peter Parker. At once shame and relief washed over the mother. He would look after the children with the same caring devotion that she had him after his aunt’s passing. It wasn’t fair though that he should be asked to shoulder such responsibilities. Hers was the maternal role. When Logan brushed the hair from her face she quivered at the touch. He’d learnt the gesture of comfort from her.

Of the three it’d been Adeline that had taken his death the hardest. That wasn’t to suggest their sons hadn’t been left crippled under the weight of their shared grief, but much like her mother as a child Adeline had without a doubt been her father’s darling girl. Even as a newborn she’d adored him. When business would take him from them for weeks at a time the best method of lulling her to sleep had been tucking in one of his more well-worn shirts around her swaddled form. Veata remembered the first time Adeline’s grief had rendered her mute to the world. She’d gathered her from the sheets, and for an hour her head had rested in her lap as Veata stroked her hair until the tears came for their daughter. In that entire time Logan had waited with them silent as a ghost.

“Veata.” When the mother next came to it was the sound of Peter’s voice that snapped her from the trance. She blinked then noted with calm detachment that she had been arranged into a seated position. When? Peter held one of her hands in his, and the other he’d placed on her shoulder to help support her weight. She scanned the bedroom as he continued speaking. His voice was present and undeniable, but the words themselves were faded background noise. Their brood wasn’t to be found. “Where are the children?” The abrupt question interrupted Peter, but she remained oblivious. “They’re watching cartoons.” He squeezed her hand with a muted, boyish smile. “Don’t worry. I remember the rule: only half an hour.”

Beneath the attempt at cheer in his voice there was relief, but her perceptions were deaf to anything less than forthright. Her eyes clouded with a distant haze she peered over his shoulder as if the children might conjure themselves from thin air. When Peter took her elbow and brought her to stand she complied. “I made them lunch, but you haven’t eaten yet, have you?” Lunch. Her attention flickered at the mention of the meal time. It’d been morning just the minute before. How much time had she lost? “There’s some leftover omelettes. Not as good as yours, but pretty darn good.” His hand returned to her shoulder as Peter began to guide her out of the bedroom – the shepherd to the lamb. Her head turned at the sound of the television.

In the kitchen Peter lowered her into a seat at the table, and she remained there with her hands folded as he busied himself fixing her a plate. His presence was a seamless addition. How could it not be when he’d made a home with them after the death of his aunt? At that point in time the others had developed quite the affection for Peter, but of them she’d been the only viable option that could provide a stable home for the grieving sixteen-year-old. Tony, in particular, hadn’t wanted to see him surrendered to the system however short the period of time. Veata had done the best for him that she could. It hadn’t been long before she’d considered him as much a part of their brood as the other children. Heavens knew the children adored him with every fiber of their being.

He touched her shoulder as placed the plate in front of her. She considered the omelette then Peter. It struck her how familiar the scene was. The morning after he’d settled into the house she’d done much the same for him: the conversation, the breakfast, the touch. His aunt’s funeral had been the week before, and he’d had a rough time of it. Veata felt her throat begin to close as he offered her a quiet, sympathetic smile. She remembered how small he had looked seated at the kitchen table that morning despite his then sixteen years of growth. There were no words for the loss he’d suffered. Instead she’d offered comfort through touch. She reached for the fork next to the plate then took a bite out of the omelette.

Veata Aydelotte had spent her life learning best how to care after those she’d chosen. In times of struggle she presented herself as a source of steadfast support yet found it difficult to seek out the same comforts for herself . It wasn’t her nature. She’d been taught instead the craft of holding her emotions close to her chest until such a time she could wash herself clean of them without witness. In the eyes of her mother it was a much needed endurance of strength. But even the most practiced individual had her limits, and as the taste of the omelette coated her tongue – perfect and flavorful despite its one pinch too much of salt – Veata heaved a broken sob around the weight constricting her chest. The fork dropped onto the table with a loud clatter as she pressed a hand to her mouth.

Where before the world had felt like a washed out phantom of itself that left her numb it instead became amplified to the point of overwhelming her in a matter of seconds. She sagged under Peter’s touch as he stumbled to gather her trembling frame against him. It wasn’t fair. Like her – like The Avengers themselves – he had lost Steve. Her late husband had been an idolized mentor to the youth not only as Captain America but as Steven Rogers as well. The proposal that Peter be placed under her guardianship until he turned eighteen had been Tony’s, but Steve had been as involved as Veata in the process itself. It’d broken his heart when she and Peter had chosen to side with Tony on the Sokovia Accords, but he’d never faulted them for it.

Grief isolated her heart though her mind understood that she was not alone. There were others she could turn to for support that understood through genuine means the loss his death had carved out in their lives. To connect the two – heart and mind – was another matter. She had wanted to be alone because she felt ashamed of the ugliness that had poisoned her insides – the ugliness that had rendered her unwhole. Veata wished she could have been a better mother to him and the children, a better partner to Steve. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. Her face turned into his shoulder, and she held his forearm as if he were the only anchor keeping her rooted to solid ground. His hand smoothed her hair and he hushed her with frantic tutting. “I’m sorry, Peter.”

The first dish she’d taught him how to prepare had been french omelettes. His first attempts had been mediocre – on his first plate he’d waited too long and the shell had browned, on his second he’d fumbled with the folds and the omelette had been overcooked, on his third he’d over seasoned – but she remembered with perfect sharpness the excitable pride in his expression when he’d succeeded. It wouldn’t surprise Veata if he remembered how she’d sat patient and silent across from him after he’d started digging into the meal – how when the tears came in the middle of his ravenous hunger she’d reached across the table to hold his hand with a polite turn of the head so that he could grieve without shame in front of her without being alone. He’d come far since then.

Steve would have been – had been – as proud as her of the man Peter had become. She supposed though that he’d always been a better person at heart. He’d been tested time and time again, and through each trial he’d walked out from the fire. Strength though hadn’t come from his successes. It’d come from his struggles and his failures, his moments of human nature. Her shoulders heaved with another forceful inhale that knocked the breath from her lungs. Veata knew the tears couldn’t be stopped regardless of how she struggled to smother them, and Peter, kind and courageous like his aunt had been, held the pieces of her in his hands without complaint. On the kitchen table the half-eaten omelette grew cold.