ˈʃiʒa ˈsunt͡so nad tiˈe
He hums to himself, as Kate drives, a lullaby he doesn’t quite remember in a language he doesn’t know. His memories of the Hex aren’t- perfect. He thinks they might’ve been, y’know, but now it’s foggy, fading, blurring, like watercolors bleeding across his mind, leaving gaps that something… else is filling.
Someone else?
He thinks his mom sung him this lullaby, her accent thick and gentle, but the picture starts to run if he focuses on it too hard, the colors dripping down his hands as he tries to catch them, hold them close.
Is Billy forgetting the Hex, too?
Does Billy even remember at all?
He must, right?
He’s gotta.
“Bez veˈdeɪ̆ doˈkude ˈjit͡ʃiʃ,” he whispers softly, leaning his head against the window, the dying rays of sunlight glimmering across New Jersey’s gentle hills. “ˈʃiʒa ˈsunt͡so nad tiˈe…”
“That’s pretty,” Kate says softly, glancing at him. “What’s it mean?”
The window is cool, against his cheek, a comforting chill that slows down his mind and its need to run, run, run. “Dunno,” he replies after a second, closing his eyes and letting the quiet music of Kate’s radio calm his nerves. “She never taught me.”
“...Wanda?” she asks after a second, and he hums a response, a lilting noise in the back of his throat.
“I wish I knew, sorta. Don’t, though.”
“What language is it? Maybe we can find out, y’know?”
“Um.” He frowns, chewing on his lip as he tries to pin the memories down. “I- I dunno. She was from… she didn’t talk about it. She lost her accent. I don’t know where she was from.”
“Oh,” Kate says, quietly. Then, quieter, “Sorry.”
He presses his cheek harder against the glass, like the chill in the air will numb the headache forming behind his eyes with every bit of his life that doesn’t have clear answers anymore. “How long until we get there?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“Would be faster if you’d just let me run, but-”
“Fifteen minutes until we get to the hotel, Tommy,” she corrects, and he groans, pulling his knees to his chest and burying his face against them.
“Come on, Bishop, you can’t be serious-”
“You need the rest,” she says firmly, and he flips her off without looking.
“I’m fine, screw you.”
“I need the rest, then,” she announces, and he groans again, the seatbelt digging into his shoulder as he falls into a ball against the console between them, arms wrapped around his shins.
“Please, Katie, I don’t have the time for this-”
“That’s a Barton nickname, not yours. And I’m fairly frickin’ sure that Rio’s weird witch contact isn’t going to die in the next eight hours, Tommy. It’s fine.”
“I need him back now!” he cries, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. “Kate, you don’t get it-”
“I know I don’t,” she shoots back, lips pressed together in a hard line. “Obviously I don’t. But I do know you’re not going to find your brother wearing yourself to nothing-”
“Kate!”
“You died literally this afternoon!” she snaps, scowling at him. “We are going to the fucking Hilton and we are getting a decent fucking rest and then we can deal with all your issues, okay?”
His mouth falls open, but the words don’t come out. “You don’t-”
“Tommy,” she says, gentler this time. “We’ll find him. But as your friend- don’t you dare try and argue that, it’s a thing now and no takebacksies -I need to make sure you are still here for him to find.”
“It hasn’t even been a day,” is his protest, feeble against the unrelenting force that is Kate Bishop’s determination. “I’d be fine.”
“Again, I have a feeling the actual literal death might be more harmful than you’re taking into account.”
He wants to argue, but she just stares at him- and not the road, no wonder she doesn’t have a license, good god -and, well. That’s the end of that, he supposes. “Fine,” he sighs, defeated. “We’ll stop for the night.”
“Was that so hard?” she needles, as annoying as ever. It’s really a pain that he likes her so much. “We should cut your hair, while we’re at it. It’s a stupid fucking mullet.”
He frowns, crossing his arms as he sits back up. “I like my hair long.”
“It’s a stupid fucking mullet,” she repeats, which he doesn’t actually think is an accurate description but she certainly seems set on.
“Where would we even cut it? The bathroom sink?”
“Yes.”
He groans, exasperated instead of truly upset this time. “It’s really not that bad.”
“I’ll help you dye it, if you let me cut it.”
And, well- that gets his attention, because every time he catches a glimpse of himself reflected in the window or the rearview mirror he’s hit with a jolt of utter disgust, down to his core. Because the reflection in the mirror isn’t him. And yeah, a stupid drastic change like dying his hair on a whim wouldn’t fix that, but-
But at least the reflection wouldn’t be Thomas Shepherd, either.
“…fine,” he relents, kicking his feet up on the dashboard. “Why not? It’s not like you can make my hair worse, I guess.”
“You underestimate my ability to fuck things up,” she replies easily, squinting at herself in the mirror.
Instead of looking at the road.
Again.
“I know that I’m not a beacon of self preservation,” he drawls, “but maybe there’s a reason you aren’t legally allowed to drive.”
She sticks her tongue out at him, very maturely. “I’m trying to decide if I’d look shitty with bangs.”
“Yes,” he replies instantly, throwing her a deadpan look. “You totally would. You should get them.”
“Gee, thanks.”
He shrugs, drumming his fingers on the window. “C’mon, you cut my hair, and I get to cut yours. Deal?”
She snorts, grinning at him. “Yeah, sure. Deal.”
“Deal,” he repeats, tilting his head back against the seat. “…it’s just one night, right?”
“We’ll get back to finding your brother tomorrow,” she promises, a note of truth in her voice. “You’ll be back with him soon, Tommy.”
…soon.
Yeah.
He can do soon.