[ of all things Pietro had expected, he could've said that dying was one of them. but no, working with the Avengers? death was a possibility. what wasn't was coming back to life. that was impossible, Pietro knows that; not even the Avengers could have brought him back from that.

and yet there he stands.

his hands move first, touching in all the places that had once been riddled with bullets, only to find them healed, as though they hadn't existed. he remembers them, though. for the first time in years he had been forced to stop, his speed cut short and halted. for how fast his heart used to beat, it was an odd thing to feel it slow again. but it races now the same it used to, an increased rate the way it was meant to be, and there's some level of comfort in it.

that's all the comfort he can find, though. there's nothing else familiar about where he stands, about the building before him, the grounds at his back. if it were an Avengers facility, he'd have woken up in a hospital room, or at least something similar, rather than left standing in front of a too-large house. it doesn't matter the location, though, it doesn't, because all he can think about is one person, all he can think about is getting back to her.

his mind races the way he heart does, a repetition, over and over and over.

Wanda, Wanda, Wanda.

when he finally walks towards the front doors it's with purpose, not stopping for much, other than maybe and interruption or two. ]