Chapter 41: Barbie Doll Protocol (1)
New
[Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]
The morning light in Westview was polite. It crept through the blinds of her room painting tiger stripe shadows across the duvet.
Wanda lay perfectly still. She didn't want to move. Moving meant waking up and waking up meant acknowledging that the night was over.
She shifted her gaze to the man sleeping beside her.
Aryan was on his back, one arm thrown loosely over his head, the other resting near her waist. He was asleep. Peacefully asleep.
Wanda watched him with the quiet devotion of a woman who had finally found the only thing in a broken universe that truly belonged to her.
No nightmare, she noted.
Usually, she could feel the static of his bad dreams radiating off him like heat from a sidewalk. She could sense the tension in his jaw and the twitching of his fingers as he fought invisible monsters in his sleep.
But this morning? He was calm. His breathing was a rhythmic tide. His face was smoothed of all the worry lines that usually lived between his eyebrows.
It is me, she realized, a possessive thrill curling in her stomach. I am the anchor.
He had lived alone in this big house, surrounded by ghosts and silence. He had nightmares because he had no one to tell him the monsters weren't real.
But now he had her.
She reached out a hand, hovering her fingers just millimetres above his cheek. She traced the line of his jaw without touching it, feeling the warmth of his skin.
He looks so... unprotected, she thought.
She remembered how he had held her last night. The rain had been such a gift from the universe that felt almost too well timed. It was as if fate itself had finally decided to be kind to her, opening the clouds at the exact moment she needed a reason to stay in his arms.
She didn't know how he managed to be so lucky, but she was starting to believe that whenever she was with him, the world simply aligned to make them happy.
A mischievous thought bloomed in her mind. It was a bubbly feeling she hadn't felt since...
Wake up, Baker, she thought.
She lowered her hand.
She found the sensitive spot just above his hip bone, right where his hoodie had ridden up.
She wiggled her fingers.
Tickle.
Tickle. Tickle.
[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
Peace.
Absolute peace.
I was floating in a void of high thread count cotton. No exploding universes. No screaming. Just the smell of vanilla and the distant sound of birds who were clearly on the payroll of the Westview Tourism Board.
So this is what serotonin feels like, I thought groggily. I should bottle it.
Then, the attack came.
It was a strategic strike on my flank.
"Gah!"
I jerked awake, my body convulsing in a reflex that was purely biological.
"No! Stop! Truce!" I gasped, thrashing as the phantom fingers danced over my ribs.
I opened my eyes to see Wanda. She was propped up on one elbow, her hair a magnificent auburn mess, grinning down at me like a chaotic cherub.
"Good morning, sleepyhead," she teased, her fingers moving to my underarm.
"Wanda! I am a doctor! I have dignity!" I laughed, trying to catch her wrists. "This is assault! It's a violation of the Geneva Convention!"
"There is no Geneva Convention in the Wanda Wing," she declared, showing no mercy.
My survival instincts kicked in. Not the 'fight or flight' ones, but the 'playful wrestling matches from previous world' ones.
Without thinking, I grabbed her wrists. I used my momentum. I twisted.
In one smooth motion, I rolled over.
The world spun. The duvet tangled.
And suddenly, I was hovering over her.
I had her wrists pinned gently to the pillow on either side of her head. My legs were straddling hers. My face was inches from hers.
The laughter died in my throat instantly.
I looked down. Wanda looked up.
Her eyes were wide, the green irises dilated. Her lips were parted, breath coming in shallow gasps from the exertion of the tickle fight. Her hair was fanned out on the white pillow like a halo of fire.
The air in the room suddenly felt heavy.
I realized exactly what position we were in.
Look at you. You're practically drooling. Wipe that smirk off your face, you voyeuristic little leech. I know what this looks like. It's the classic 'Accidental Pin'. It's chapter 41 of every romance novel ever written.
I swear on my medical license, this was a biological imperative. My subconscious detected a high level tickling threat and executed a standard tactical neutralization. It was muscle memory. I didn't plan to end up hovering over her like a starved man at a banquet.
But also... wow.
She looked at me. Her gaze dropped to my lips, then back up to my eyes. A slow smile curved her mouth.
"You have captured me, Aryan," she whispered. "What are your demands?"
My brain short circuited.
Demands? Oh, I have demands. I demand to stay here forever. I demand a kiss. I demand to know why you look like a goddess at 8 AM.
"I..." I cleared my throat, my voice sounding rougher than intended. "I demand... amnesty. No more tickling. It's a cowardly form of warfare."
Wanda shifted beneath me. Just a tiny movement. Her hips adjusted against the mattress.
"I accept the terms," she murmured. "For now."
I slowly released her wrists. I pushed myself up, sitting back on my heels, putting some much needed distance between us before I did something reckless like kiss her good morning.
"Right," I said, running a hand through my hair. "Okay. Good. Crisis averted."
I looked at the window.
"Sun's up. Birds are screaming. It's a new day."
Wanda sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. She looked thoroughly pleased with herself.
"It is," she agreed. "Did you sleep well?"
"Better than I have in months," I said, and for once, I wasn't exaggerating for effect. Usually, my nights were a kaleidoscopic horror show of collapsing realities and screaming voids. "There must be something in the water in Westview. Or maybe it's just the company."
"I am glad," she said softly, her eyes searching mine with an intensity that made me wonder if she could see the relief written all over my face.
She reached up, a stray lock of hair falling over her shoulder. "You kept your promise, then. You stayed."
"I'm a man of my word," I admitted. "And I have to say, you're a remarkably quiet sleeper. No snoring and no stealing all the covers. It's a medical miracle."
Wanda let out a low hum, stretching her arms above her head until her knuckles grazed the headboard. "A miracle? Or perhaps you were simply too exhausted from your 'guard duty' to notice my flaws."
"Oh, believe me, as a physician, I was trained to notice every flaw. You are, quite unfortunately for my clinical objectivity, perfectly silent," I countered, my eyes lingering on the way the morning light caught the copper in her hair.
Chapter 42: Barbie Doll Protocol (2)
New
I turned back to her morning face, clearing the sudden huskiness from my throat.
"But don't get used to the five star service. I haven't even had coffee yet, and my professional bedside manner is currently at a zero."
I swung my legs off the bed, the cool floorboards a necessary shock to my system.
"I should... go get fresh. My breath probably smells like yesterday's regret and too much garlic."
"Aryan," she said.
I turned.
"There is an extra brush," she said, pointing to the en suite bathroom door. "In the cabinet. I bought it. Just in case."
I stared at her.
She bought a toothbrush for me. In her bathroom.
"Domesticity level: Critical," I whispered to the invisible audience.
"Okay," I said aloud. " communal dental hygiene. I'm in."
[The Bathroom]
Standing side by side at the double vanity sink was... intimate.
I stood there in my rumpled hoodie and sweatpants. Wanda stood next to me in her oversized sleep shirt.
We brushed.
Brush. Spit. Rinse.
Brush. Spit. Rinse.
I watched our reflection in the mirror. We looked like a couple. A comfortable couple.
Look at this, I thought at you, pointing my toothbrush at the mirror reflection. This is the endgame. Forget saving the multiverse. This right here? Standing in a bathroom with Wanda Maximoff, foaming at the mouth with mint paste? This is the peak of human existence.
"You hold your brush like a dagger," Wanda noted, rinsing her mouth.
"I attack the plaque," I said, wiping my face with a towel. "It's a battle, Wanda. Bacteria take no prisoners."
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.
"I need to take a bath," she announced, stretching her arms over her head. The movement made her shirt ride up.
I immediately looked at the ceiling.
"Great! Excellent. Bathing is good," I babbled, backing toward the door. "I will also... bathe. In my room. Separately. Because of plumbing logistics. And moral fortitude."
"Moral fortitude?" she asked, an amused glint in her eyes.
"Yes. It's a very fragile thing. I need to go nurture it."
I fled the room.
[Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]
She watched him leave. She heard the door click shut.
She smiled.
She turned back to the mirror. She touched her lips.
He had pinned her. He had looked at her with such raw intensity.
He wanted to kiss me, she thought triumphantly. He stopped himself, but he wanted to.
She turned on the bathwater.
"He is a gentleman," she whispered to her reflection. "But I will break him. Gently."
She stripped off her shirt and stepped into the warm water, the steam curling around her like a white shroud. She watched the bubbles drift across the surface, her mind lingering on the way Aryan had looked just moments ago at the sink.
"He wakes up in that plain hoodie," she whispered to the quiet bathroom. "He wears those baggy things like they are a disguise. Even in his sleep, he chooses to be anonymous. He looks like a man who has forgotten how to be seen."
She closed her eyes, and the image from her grocery store vision flickered behind her lids, the Aryan who stood in the Sokovian rain. He had worn clothes that showed a man who was cared for.
"I am going to find that man today," she murmured, a possessive smile touching her lips as she reached for the soap. "I'll peel back the gray and the plainness he hides behind. I'll dress him until he looks like the man I remember. The man who belongs to me."
[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
An hour later, we were in the car.
I was wearing my usual attire: jeans, sneakers and a hoodie. It was comfortable.
Wanda, on the other hand, was dressed to kill. She was wearing high waisted trousers and a fitted turtleneck. She looked like a CEO of a company that manufactured elegance.
"So," I said, turning onto the main road. "Where are we going? You said 'supplies', but we bought the entire grocery store the day before yesterday."
"Not food," Wanda said, checking her reflection in the sun visor. "Fabric."
"Fabric?" I glanced at her. "Are you taking up quilting?"
"No," she said, turning to look at me. Her gaze swept over my hoodie. She frowned. "We are going to buy you clothes."
I nearly swerved into a mailbox.
"Excuse me?" I laughed. "My clothes are fine. This hoodie is vintage. It has emotional value."
"It is faded and shapeless, Aryan," she corrected ruthlessly. "And you look like... a bachelor."
"I am a bachelor!"
"Not anymore," she said. "You are a roommate. You represent the household. And the household has standards."
"This is tyranny," I told the dashboard. "I am being oppressed by fashion police."
"It is not oppression," she said calmly. "It is an upgrade. You have the... structure," she gestured vaguely to my shoulders, "to wear nice things. Why do you hide in sacks?"
"Sacks are comfy," I mumbled.
"We are going to the boutique on Main," she decided. "And you will try on what I give you."
"Yes, ma'am," I sighed.
[The Boutique]
The store was one of those places that smelled like expensive cologne and judgment. The lighting was soft. The music was ambient jazz.
"Okay," Wanda said, grabbing a shopping basket. "Stand there. Do not move. I will scout."
…
You guys seeing this? I whispered to the audience, leaning against a display table. I watched Wanda moving through the racks. She was holding up sweaters, frowning, discarding them and nodding at others. If the Scarlet Witch wants to dress me up, who am I to argue? I value my life. And honestly... I'm kind of curious to see what she thinks I should look like.
She came back with an armful of clothes.
"To the changing room," she commanded.
I followed her like a lamb to the slaughter. Or a lamb to the tailor.
The dressing room was large. Too large. It had a bench, a three way mirror and a heavy velvet curtain.
Wanda dumped the clothes on the bench.
"Start with this," she said, handing me a bundle.
I looked at it.
"A turtleneck?" I asked skeptically. "Wanda, I'm not a French philosopher. Or a Bond villain."
"Just put it on," she said, pushing me behind the curtain. "And the trousers. The grey ones."
I sighed and started stripping.
"What are you looking at? Stop squinting at the screen, I know exactly what you're waiting for… the big 'shirtless reveal' so you can update your mental pin board. Honestly, voyeurism is becoming a little much, don't you think?
But fine, I'll satisfy your pathetic curiosity while I'm back here. Yes, I'm fit. I have the kind of physique that makes personal trainers weep with envy. And no, I didn't spend four hours a day at the gym lifting heavy things like a caveman. My metabolism is a side effect of being a cosmic battery. Reality bending burns through calories like a forest fire. I could eat a literal mountain of those honey cakes and still have a sculpted midsection by lunch.
It's a bit unfair, isn't it? But then again, you're the one stuck behind a screen, and I'm the one in a dressing room with the Scarlet Witch. Life's full of little imbalances."
Chapter 43: Barbie Doll Protocol (3)
New
I pulled on the trousers. They fit perfectly. Suspiciously perfectly.
Did she measure me with her mind? I wondered.
I pulled on the turtleneck.
I stepped out.
Wanda was waiting. She was sitting on a velvet ottoman, legs crossed.
She looked up.
Her eyes widened. She stood up slowly.
"Well?" I asked, doing a little spin. "Do I look like I'm about to discuss existentialism in a café?"
She walked around me. She reached out and tugged the hem of the shirt down. She smoothed the fabric over my shoulders.
"You look..." she whispered, her voice barely a thread of sound in the plush silence of the boutique.
"I look like a man who has far too many opinions about poetry," I joked.
"No," she murmured, her gaze traveling from my shoulders down to my waist with a possessiveness that made the fabric feel like it was smoldering. "You look... right. Like you finally stepped out of the shadows."
I looked at her. The air was heavy with her scent and the sound of my own thudding heart.
"It's a bit tight," I said, tugging at the collar to break the spell. "I feel like I'm being strangled by an incredibly soft sheep."
"It fits," she corrected, her hand resting on my arm, grounding me. "Next."
For the next hour, I was a mannequin.
Outfit 2: A white button down shirt and navy chinos.
I stepped out.
"Too... boat owner," I critiqued.
"No," Wanda said. She walked up to me. "The sleeves. Roll them up."
"What?"
"Roll them up. To the elbow."
I started to fumble with the cuffs.
"Here," she said, swatting my hands away. "Let me."
She stood in front of me.
She unbuttoned the cuffs. Her fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of my wrists. She folded the fabric up.
I looked down at her. Her head was bent. I could see the part in her hair. I could smell her shampoo.
My heart started doing that stupid drum solo again.
This is incredibly intimate. Why is buttoning a cuff sexier than nudity? Explain this science.
She finished rolling the sleeves. She smoothed the fabric over my forearms. She ran her hands up my arms to my biceps.
She looked up. Her eyes were dark.
"Better," she whispered. "Much better."
I swallowed. "Okay. Good. Rolling sleeves. Noted."
Outfit 3: A forest green flannel shirt and dark jeans.
This one felt more like me.
Wanda looked at me. She nodded.
"It matches the picnic," she said. "It matches the cornflowers."
She walked over. The shirt was unbuttoned at the top.
"One more button," she murmured, reaching for my chest.
She buttoned it. Her knuckles grazed my collarbone.
She didn't pull her hand away immediately. She flattened her palm against my chest, right over my heart.
Thump thump.
Thump thump.
She smiled.
"Fast," she noted.
"You're standing in my personal space, Wanda," I said breathlessly. "Biology reacts."
"Good," she said.
Outfit 4: A beige cable knit sweater.
"I look like a librarian," I complained.
"You look smart," she countered. "Put it in the 'Yes' pile."
…
We were down to the last outfit.
A suit.
A charcoal grey suit.
"Wanda," I called from behind the curtain. "This is overkill. Where am I going? The Oscars? A funeral?"
"Just put it on," she commanded.
I put it on.
I stepped out.
I looked in the three way mirror.
Damn, I thought. I look good.
Wanda stood up. She walked over to me. She didn't say anything.
She picked up a tie from the bench. An emerald green tie.
"May I?" she asked.
I nodded, unable to speak.
She stepped into my space. She flipped the collar of the shirt up. She draped the tie around my neck.
She began to knot it.
Her movements were slow. She was looking at the knot, but I was looking at her.
She bit her lip in concentration.
She tightened the knot. She slid it up to my throat. She folded the collar down.
She smoothed the lapels of the suit jacket.
She looked up.
We were inches apart. The air in the dressing room was stiflingly hot.
"There," she whispered. "Perfect."
Her hands rested on my chest. My hands, acting on instinct, found her waist.
This is it, I thought. The dressing room scene. The part where the sexual tension snaps the reality of the room.
"You look..." she searched for the word. "You look like the man I saw."
"Saw where?" I asked.
She froze. A flicker of panic crossed her eyes.
"In my head," she recovered quickly. "The man I... imagined you could be."
I looked at her.
"I'm just Aryan," I said. "Just a guy in a suit."
"No," she shook her head. She went up on her tiptoes. She leaned in closer. "You are more."
Her breath ghosted against my lips.
I leaned in.
Just one inch. Just close the gap.
"Sir?"
A voice from outside the curtain shattered the moment.
"How are we doing in there? Do you need a different size?"
We jumped apart like teenagers caught making out in a closet.
Wanda turned away, smoothing her hair, her face flushed.
I cleared my throat, adjusting the tie that suddenly felt very tight.
"We're good!" I called out, my voice cracking. "We're... great. We'll take it. All of it."
I looked at Wanda. She was looking at the floor, smiling. A satisfied smile.
"All of it?" she teased.
"All of it," I confirmed. "Are you happy, stylist?"
She looked up at me. Her eyes were glowing.
"Very happy," she said.
We walked back to the car carrying ten bags. I was wearing a new flannel shirt and jeans. My old hoodie was stuffed in a bag of shame.
"I feel like a new man," I said, putting the bags in the trunk. "A well dressed, slightly over-mannered new man."
"You aren't over-mannered," Wanda dismissed, her eyes sweeping over the new flannel with a satisfied heat. "And you look... respectable."
"Respectable," I scoffed, leaning against the car. "I used to be cool, Wanda. I had street cred. Now I look like I should be hosting a gala or debating the merits of fine wine."
"You were hiding yourself in layers of faded cotton and anonymity," she reminded me. "You have too much substance to dress like a man who wants to be invisible."
I turned back to her, trying to ignore the way my heart was currently attempting a jailbreak. "Invisible was working for me. It's very low maintenance."
"Not anymore," she whispered, her hand lingering on my arm as I closed the trunk. "I see you."
…
We got into the car.
I looked at the rearview mirror. I adjusted the collar of the flannel shirt.
"It is comfortable," I admitted.
"I told you," Wanda said, buckling her seatbelt.
I looked at the audience.
Okay, fine, I admitted silently. She was right. I look amazing. And she touched me about forty times in the last hour. So, really, who's the winner here?
I started the engine.
"Home?" I asked.
"Home," she said.
Chapter 44: Unsolicited Neighbor (1)
New
[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
The drive back to the house was a quiet affair, mostly because the backseat was occupied by the ghost of my bachelorhood, suffocated under ten bags of high end cotton and wool.
I pulled the car into the detached garage, killing the engine.
"Okay," I said, looking at the mountain of shopping bags in the rearview mirror. "We have a logistical situation. I have two hands. You have two hands. We have approximately forty hands' worth of merchandise."
Wanda unbuckled her seatbelt, looking remarkably pleased with herself. "We will manage, Aryan. Think of it as... weight training. For the new you."
"The new me is already tired," I grumbled, getting out.
We hauled the bags into the living room. It took two trips. By the time the last bag (containing the charcoal suit) was safely draped over the armchair, I was ready to collapse.
"Lunch," I declared, looking at the kitchen. "We need fuel. Fashion is exhausting."
"I will help," Wanda said, rolling up the sleeves of her cream sweater. "What is on the menu?"
"Something simple," I decided. "Pasta. Aglio e Olio. Garlic, oil, chili flakes and parsley. It's the pajama pants of food. Comfortable and impossible to mess up."
We moved into the kitchen. I grabbed the pot; she grabbed the garlic. I set the water to boil; she started chopping the parsley.
"So," I said, leaning against the counter as the water heated up. "Now that you've successfully rebranded me, what's next on the agenda? Are we repainting the house? changing my legal name to 'Fabio'?"
Wanda laughed, the sound bright against the hum of the refrigerator. "No. The house is fine. The name is fine. I just... I wanted you to have options."
"I have options," I countered. "I have 'Grey Hoodie' and 'Blue Hoodie'."
"Those are not options," she said, sliding the sliced garlic into the cold oil. "Those are cries for help."
The smell of toasting garlic filled the air. We ate at the island again, slurping spaghetti and dodging chili flakes.
"Okay," I admitted, wiping my mouth with a napkin. "That hit the spot."
"It is good," Wanda agreed.
We migrated to the living room sofa. The "Post Pasta Paralysis," as I had coined it, set in immediately. I sprawled on my side. Wanda curled up on hers, hugging the textured pillow.
Ding dong.
Ding dong.
The sound shattered the peace like a brick through a window.
I groaned, throwing my head back against the cushion. "Why? Who? It's the middle of the day. People should be at work. Or napping."
Wanda sat up, smoothing her hair. "It might be a package."
"I didn't order anything," I grumbled, standing up. "Unless my past self sent me a time capsule filled with patience."
"I will come with you," Wanda said, standing up too.
We walked to the front door. I opened it.
Standing on the porch was a woman. She had dark hair teased into a voluminous style, a floral print dress that was aggressively cheerful and a basket in her hands that looked like it contained muffins or poison. Or both.
Agnes. Or, as the universe knew her, Agatha Harkness.
Look at her, I whispered to the invisible camera, keeping my face perfectly polite. Agatha Harkness. The nosy neighbor from hell. She's trying so hard to blend in she looks like a caricature of a 'suburban mom.'
"Hi!" she practically shouted, her voice pitched to an operatic high. "I'm Agnes! Your neighbor to the right! The one with the prize winning azaleas… don't look at them today, they're having a mood swing."
She looked past me, her eyes locking onto Wanda. Her smile widened, showing a lot of teeth.
"And you must be the lady of the house! Oh, look at you two! You look like you stepped right out of a catalog for 'Beautiful People Weekly'!"
Wanda blinked, taken aback by the sheer wall of energy. "Hello. I am Wanda."
"Wanda! Exotic! I love it!" Agnes stepped forward, essentially forcing us to step back or be trampled. "And this must be the hubby! Ralph (my husband), he says, 'Agnes, don't disturb the new folks,' but I said, 'Ralph, they have a porch that screams "come say hi,"' so here I am!"
She thrust the basket at me.
"Scones!" she announced. "Orange and cranberry. Ralph hates them, says they taste like potpourri, but what does he know? He eats cereal with water."
"Thank you," I said, taking the basket. "I'm Aryan. Aryan Spencer."
"Aryan and Wanda!" Agnes clapped her hands. "It rhymes! Well, not really, but it has a rhythm! So, how long have you two been hitched? Are we talking newlyweds? Because I see a glow. Definitely a glow."
She waggled her eyebrows suggestively.
I felt Wanda stiffen beside me.
Wanda looked at me. Then she looked at Agnes. She didn't correct the assumption immediately. A faint blush dusted her cheeks.
"We are not... married," Wanda said softly.
"Oh!" Agnes's eyes widened, feigning scandal but clearly delighted. "Living in sin! Even better! More spicy! I love it. Westview needs a little spice. Everyone here is so... beige. You know?"
She leaned in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"So, is this a 'testing the waters' situation? Or a 'we don't believe in labels' thing? Because let me tell you, labels are overrated. Ralph has a label for everything. 'Expiry date,' 'Tax return,' 'Do not touch my bowling ball.' It's exhausting."
I chuckled, shifting the basket to my other hip. "We're just... figuring it out, Agnes. Taking it day by day."
"Smart!" She poked my arm. "Keep the mystery alive! Once you put a ring on it, the mystery dies and is replaced by arguments about the thermostat. Trust me."
She looked around the hallway, her eyes darting like a hawk.
"So, no little ones running around yet? No pitter patter?"
"Just us," Wanda said, stepping slightly closer to me. "And the plants."
"Plants! Good practice!" Agnes laughed. "If you can keep a fern alive, you can keep a baby alive. Mostly. Babies are louder."
She checked her watch.
"Oh, look at the time! I have to run. Ralph is trying to fix the garbage disposal and I'm 90% sure he's going to flood the kitchen."
She started backing down the porch steps.
"You two are adorable! Seriously!," she winked at me.
Chapter 45: Unsolicited Neighbor (2)
New
"It was nice to meet you, Agnes," I called out.
"Toodles!" she waved, practically skipping down the driveway.
We stood there for a moment, watching her go.
"She is..." Wanda started, searching for the word.
"A hurricane in a floral dress?" I suggested.
"Intense," Wanda decided. "But... nice. She brought scones."
"She seems very invested in our marital status," I noted, closing the door.
Wanda looked down at the floor, a small smile playing on her lips. "She thinks we are a couple."
"She thinks we're 'living in sin'," I corrected, walking toward the kitchen to deposit the basket. "Which sounds much more exciting than 'roommates who watch sitcoms'."
Wanda followed me. "She is a nice neighbor. It is... normal. To have neighbors who bring baked goods."
"Yeah," I said, setting the basket down. "Very normal."
Too normal, I thought. Suspiciously normal.
I looked at the scones.
"So," I said, turning to Wanda. "We have clothes to put away. The mountain awaits."
"Yes," Wanda said. "The mountain."
We carried the bags upstairs to my room.
"Okay," I said, dumping the last bag on the bed. "This is everything. I officially have more clothes than closet space."
"We will organize," Wanda said, her eyes gleaming with that same 'General' energy she had in the kitchen. "I will fold. You hang."
I paused. I looked at her.
"Actually," I said, tapping my chin. "I just remembered something. While we were out... I saw a specific kind of juice at the corner store. Tart Cherry. Supposed to be great for... sleep. And inflammation. And generally being alive."
Wanda looked confused. "You want to go buy juice? Now?"
"It's haunting me, Wanda," I said solemnly. "If I don't get it, I'll be thinking about it all night. It's the 'Lemon' situation all over again."
She smiled, shaking her head. "You and your cravings, Aryan. Fine. Go. Hunt your juice."
"You sure?" I asked. "I can stay and help… "
"Go," she pushed me gently toward the door. "I work better alone anyway. Your folding technique is... chaotic."
"Hey! My folding is abstract art!"
"Go," she laughed.
"I'll be back in twenty," I promised. "Don't throw away my hoodies while I'm gone."
"I make no promises," she called out as I walked down the hall.
[Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]
She listened to the front door close. She heard the car start up and pull away.
She was alone in his room.
It was different from the rest of the house. The rest of the house was "staged" for guests. This room was lived in.
It smelled like him. That faint scent of ozone that seemed to cling to him after the rain.
She turned to the pile of clothes on the bed.
She picked up the maroon turtleneck. The wool was soft. She held it up, imagining him wearing it again.
"He looks good in this," she whispered to the empty room.
She began to fold.
She folded the shirts with precision. She hung the suit in the closet, pushing aside his old flannel shirts to make room for the new "Aryan."
It felt intimate. Touching his things. Invading his sanctuary.
She looked around the room. It was minimalistic. A bed. A nightstand with a lamp and a stack of books. And a dresser.
He really did just restart his life, she thought. He has no past here.
She finished putting the clothes away.
She looked at the bed.
The duvet was rumpled from where he had slept the day before yesterday. The pillow still bore the indentation of his head.
She walked over to it.
She sat down on the edge. It was soft.
She lay back.
Her head hit the pillow.
The scent engulfed her. It felt like he was wrapping his arms around her.
She closed her eyes, breathing deeply.
"Just five minutes," she murmured. "I am just... testing the mattress. Then I will go downstairs."
She curled onto her side, pulling the duvet up to her chin. It was warm. Safer than her room. Safer than the world.
Her breathing slowed. The rhythm of the house lulled her.
Within minutes, she was fast asleep in the middle of his bed.
[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
I walked down the street. I turned the corner, out of sight of the house. The street was quiet. Westview was napping in the late afternoon sun.
I stopped by a large oak tree.
"Okay," I said, looking directly at you. "Let's address the elephant in the room. Or rather, the witch in the floral dress."
I leaned against the tree, crossing my arms.
"Agatha Harkness. She has the Darkhold in her basement. And She's currently planning to absorb Wanda's chaos magic and leave her a husk. In the original timeline, this leads to a massive CGI battle in the sky, lots of rune casting and Wanda realizing her true potential through trauma."
I shook my head.
"I don't like that script. It's messy. And frankly, it upsets my roommate."
I reached out with my mind.
I found her.
She was in her basement… the creepy dungeon she hid under the suburban façade. She was standing over a cauldron (classic), muttering in Latin.
She was plotting how to isolate Wanda. How to get rid of the "annoying husband figure"… me.
"Rude," I murmured.
I focused on her existence.
Select: Agatha Harkness.
Action: Delete.
[Perspective: Agatha Harkness]
"Sceleratum... purpura..." she chanted, the purple energy coiling around her fingers.
She grinned. The Scarlet Witch was ripe for the picking. And that boy she was living with? A distraction. She would swat him aside as soon as…
Suddenly, the purple light flickered.
She frowned. "What the..."
She tried to summon the energy again.
Nothing happened.
She looked at her hands. They looked... translucent.
"What is this?" she hissed. "Who is doing this?"
She looked around the basement. The stone walls were fading as well.
Fear gripped her heart.
"No," she gasped, her voice sounding hollow, like it was coming from a great distance. "I am Agatha Harkness! I am… "
She reached for the Darkhold on the stand.
Her hand passed through it.
"NO!"
Chapter 46: Unsolicited Neighbor (2)
New
[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
"Done," I said.
I opened my pocket dimension (the one I just created) and checked.
Floating in the void was the Darkhold. And a few other trinkets I decided to keep as loot. Agatha herself? Dispersed into the cosmic background radiation. She was now just a statistical anomaly in the carbon count of the atmosphere.
I looked at the audience.
"Oh, were you expecting a magical duel?" I smirked. "A 'clash of the titans'? Sorry to ruin your entertainment, but I'm a Class VI Reality Bender, not a stage magician. I don't have time for her three hundred year old 'purple spark' nonsense. She was a threat to Wanda's peace. Now? She's a statistical zero. I've deleted her from the script. If you wanted a boss fight, go watch a movie. I'm busy living a life."
I pushed off the tree.
"Now," I said, checking my watch. "I actually need to buy that juice. Or my cover story is trash."
I walked to the corner store. I stood in the aisle.
"Tart Cherry," I muttered. "Or... Cranberry? Pomegranate? What is the most convincing 'I need this for health' juice?"
I grabbed one of each. Five bottles. Just to be safe.
"Overkill is underrated," I decided, paying the confused cashier.
…
I walked back into the house.
"Wanda, I'm home!" I called out, kicking the door shut. "And I have enough antioxidants to live forever!"
Silence.
"Wanda?"
No answer.
I walked into the kitchen. I set the bags down.
"Wanda?"
Still nothing.
I frowned. "Did she fall into the closet? Did the clothes revolt?"
I walked up the stairs. The door to my room was slightly ajar.
I pushed it open.
"Hey, did you finish the… "
I stopped.
The room was bathed in the dim light. The clothes were perfectly folded in stacks on the dresser. The closet door was closed.
And on the bed...
Wanda was curled up in a ball, fast asleep. She was clutching my pillow like a teddy bear. Her hair was spread out over my side of the mattress.
My heart did a somersault.
"Well," I whispered. "How cute is that."
I stood there for a minute, just watching her. She looked so peaceful. So completely at home in my space.
I walked quietly over to the bed. I sat down on the edge, careful not to jostle the mattress.
She let out a soft sigh and burrowed deeper into the duvet.
I looked at you.
This is my bed. My very comfortable bed. It is currently 8 PM. I am tired. And she is asleep.
Option A: Wake her up. Send her to her room. Risk the 'grumpy waked up witch' scenario.
Option B: Sleep on the couch. Result: Back pain and resentment.
Option C...
I looked at the empty space beside her.
Option C: I live here. This is my bed. I have done nothing wrong.
I stood up. I quietly stripped off my jeans and shirt, changing into a pair of soft sleep shorts and a t- shirt.
I pulled back the covers on the empty side.
"Don't look at me like that," I whispered to the air. "You can't blame me for this. It's a logistical necessity. I'm not waking her up. That would be rude."
I slid into bed.
It was warm. Her body heat had created a cozy microclimate under the duvet.
I settled in, turning on my side to face her.
She was inches away.
Suddenly, she rolled over.
She threw an arm over my waist. She pressed her face into my chest. She tangled her legs with mine.
I froze.
Okay. This is... this is advanced cuddling.
I carefully wrapped my arm around her back, pulling her closer.
"I tried," I mouthed to the audience. "You saw me. I tried to just lay here. But she attacked me with snuggles. I am a victim of circumstance."
I rested my chin on the top of her head. I closed my eyes.
"Goodnight, audience," I whispered. "Jealousy is a sin, you know."
I let out a happy breath.
And then, I let myself drift off.
[Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]
She had woken up the moment the mattress dipped. She had sensed his presence the moment he walked into the room.
Through the screen of her lashes, she watched him. He was standing by the bed, stripping off his jeans and shirt to change into sleepwear.
The sight of his back, the muscles shifting under his skin in the moonlight, made her heart hammer against her ribs… thump, thump, thump. She had to force her breathing to remain slow, fighting the urge to sit up and stare openly.
She squeezed her eyes shut as he moved toward the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. She felt the shift in the air and the overwhelming proximity of his heat as he slid under the duvet.
He hesitated. She could feel him lying there, trying to keep a respectful distance.
No, she thought, a possessive joy blooming in her chest.
She waited for a beat, then feigned a shift in her sleep. She rolled over, seeking the heat source. She threw an arm over his waist, pressed her face into the solid warmth of his chest and tangled her legs with his.
She felt him freeze. Then, slowly, his arm came around her back. He pulled her in tighter, holding her against him.
It felt warm. It felt like he belonged to her.
She waited until his breathing evened out. Until she was sure he was drifting.
Then, she opened her eyes.
It was dark, but she could see his face in the moonlight.
He was beautiful.
She moved her hand slowly, inching it up his chest until her fingers rested on his cheek. His stubble was rough against her skin.
She traced the line of his lips.
My Baker, she thought.
I will never let you go, she promised him silently.
She snuggled closer, burying her face in his neck, breathing in his scent.
"Mine," she whispered against his skin.
She closed her eyes again, letting the rhythm of his heart lull her back to sleep.
Thump thump (him).
Thump thump (her).
Mine mine.
Chapter 47: Wet Bed Theory (1)
New
[Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]
The morning sun had a habit of being rude, but today, it was surprisingly gentle. It filtered through the sheer curtains of his room… casting a hazy glow over the bed.
Wanda lay on her side, her head propped up on one hand, her eyes tracing the contours of the man sleeping next to her.
Aryan was just... peaceful. His chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm.
She shifted slightly, the duvet rustling.
She reached out a hand. Her fingers hovered inches from his face.
She lowered her index finger, barely grazing the stubble on his jaw.
He didn't move.
She grew bolder. She traced the line of his nose. She brushed a stray lock of dark hair off his forehead. She tapped his chin.
He twitched. His nose scrunched up, just for a second, then relaxed.
Wanda pulled her hand back, biting her lip to suppress a giggle.
He is deep under, she noted.
She waited. Ten seconds. Twenty.
She reached out again. This time, she ran her thumb over his cheekbone.
He sighed in his sleep, turning his head slightly into her touch.
Her heart did a traitorous little flip.
He seeks me out even when he is unconscious, she realized.
She continued her study. She touched his earlobe. She traced his eyebrow. She was testing the boundaries, seeing how much of him she could claim before the world demanded him back.
But the sun was getting higher. The birds outside were starting their daily screaming match.
Time to wake up, Baker, she decided.
She moved her hand down. To that sensitive spot just above his hip bone.
She wiggled her fingers.
Tickle.
Tickle, tickle.
[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
There is a distinct difference between waking up because the universe is collapsing and waking up because someone is treating your hip bone like a piano.
"Gah!"
I jerked awake, my body convulsing. I tried to roll away, but the duvet had trapped me in a cocoon of my own making.
"Stop! Mercy!" I gasped, batting blindly at the attacking hands.
I opened my eyes to see Wanda hovering over me. She was a menace. An auburn haired menace with a smile that could power a small city.
"Good morning," she chirped, digging her fingers into my side again.
"It is not a good morning!" I laughed, finally managing to free an arm and catch her wrists. "This is torture! I am calling the authorities! I am calling... Mrs. Higgins!"
"Mrs. Higgins cannot save you here," she teased, leaning her weight onto her hands so I couldn't throw her off. "This is a lawless zone."
"You're vicious," I panted, holding her wrists away from my vulnerable tickle spots. "I thought you were a superhero. Aren't you supposed to protect the innocent?"
"You are not innocent," she countered, her eyes dancing. "You stole the covers at 3 AM."
"I did not! That was a tactical retreat due to thermal fluctuations!"
I looked at the invisible camera located somewhere near the ceiling fan.
Do you see this? I thought, my heart hammering against my ribs… partly from the tickling and mostly from the proximity. Three days ago, I was waking up screaming because I remembered the sound of a timeline snapping. Now? I'm being assaulted by the Scarlet Witch before I've even had coffee. If this is a simulation, don't unplug me. I'm serious. I will fight the admin.
"Okay, okay, truce," I bargained, looking back at her. "I surrender. I yield. I will make pancakes."
Wanda considered this. She looked at my hands holding hers. She looked at my face.
"Blueberry?" she negotiated.
"With the extra syrup," I promised.
"Acceptable."
She pulled her hands back, sitting up on her heels. The sudden loss of contact made the air feel a little colder.
"I need to brush my teeth," she announced, sliding off the bed. "I will be back."
She headed for the door to the hallway.
"Wait," I called out.
She turned, her hand on the doorknob. "Yes?"
I sat up, running a hand through my hair which I assumed looked like a bird's nest.
"You don't have to go to your room," I said casually. "Check the cabinet. Top shelf. Left side."
Wanda frowned, confused. "In your bathroom?"
"Yeah. I... uh... I bought a spare. When we went shopping. Forgot to mention it."
I looked at the invisible camera again, I definitely did not just materialize a pink toothbrush into existence with a thought three seconds ago. That would be irresponsible. I bought it. Totally.
Wanda looked at me. She looked at the en suite door.
"You bought me a toothbrush for your bathroom?" she asked slowly.
"Efficiency," I shrugged. "Why walk twenty feet when you can walk five? It's basic energy conservation, Wanda."
A slow smile spread across her face.
"Efficiency," she repeated. "Okay."
She walked into my bathroom.
I scrambled out of bed and followed her.
We stood side by side at the vanity. I grabbed my blue brush. She grabbed the pink one (which was definitely, totally there the whole time).
We brushed.
There is something profoundly intimate about foaming at the mouth next to someone. It strips away the mystique. You can't be a mysterious cosmic entity when you're spitting mint paste into a sink.
I caught her eye in the mirror. She winked.
I nearly swallowed my toothpaste.
We finished up. I wiped my face with a towel.
"I need a shower," I announced, leaning against the counter.
Wanda looked me up and down. She was leaning against the doorframe, looking entirely too comfortable in my space.
"Enjoy," she said.
"Unless..." I let the word hang there, a playful bait. "You want to save water? The planet is dying, Wanda. Conservation is key."
Wanda raised an eyebrow. She stepped forward, invading my personal space until she was inches away.
"Are you inviting me to bathe with you, Aryan?" she whispered, her voice dropping an octave.
I froze. My bluff had been called. My cards were on the table and they were all jokers.
"I... uh..." I stammered, my face heating up. "I was... speaking theoretically. Strictly... environmental... hypothesis."
She laughed, a throaty sound. She reached out and patted my cheek.
"Maybe next time, Baker," she teased. "When you are not blushing like a tomato."
She turned and sauntered out of the bathroom.
I stood there. Staring at my reflection.
"You coward," I whispered to the mirror. "You absolute walnut."
I looked at the audience.
"Shut up," I warned. "She's out of my league and we all know it. I'm playing the long game. The very, very long game."
[Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]
Wanda walked down the hallway to her own room, her heart racing. The moment the door clicked shut behind her, she leaned her back against it, a shaky laugh escaping her lips.
What was that? she thought, bringing a hand to her still warm cheeks. What has gotten into me?
She had never been so bold. She had never teased a man with such playful intimacy.
She walked into her bathroom, turning on the bathwater with a trembling hand. As the tub filled, she stripped off her clothes, her skin still tingling from the memory of his panicked gaze. All the time she was getting into the bath, a fluttering warmth was spreading through her chest. It was an exhilarating feeling.
She walked down the stairs a little while later, feeling lighter than air.
She had won. She had won the morning. She had won the bathroom standoff.
He turned so red, she thought, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips. He is adorable when he panics.
She walked into the kitchen. She started the coffee machine.
The doorbell rang.
Ding dong.
Chapter 48: Wet Bed Theory (2)
New
Ding dong.
She walked to the door and opened it.
Standing on the porch was a woman. Middle aged, kind face and holding a clipboard.
"Hi!" the woman beamed. "I'm Sarah! From 4B! I saw the lights on and thought I'd catch you before you headed out."
Aryan appeared behind Wanda, his hair damp from his shower, wearing a fresh t-shirt.
"Good morning," he said, stepping up beside her.
"Oh!" Sarah's eyes widened. "I didn't realize... I thought this was the bachelor pad! Mr. Spencer, right?"
"Aryan," he corrected smoothly. "And this is Wanda."
"Well, it's lovely to see a couple in here!" Sarah gushed. "The last guy who lived here was a taxidermist. Kept the blinds closed. Very spooky."
Wanda didn't deny it. She felt Aryan's warm presence next to her.
Couple, she thought. Yes. We are.
"What can we do for you, Sarah?" Aryan asked.
"Right! The clipboard!" Sarah tapped it with a pen. "We're having a block party tonight! A 'Welcome Back' celebration. You know, for everyone who... returned. It's at the town square gazebo. 5 PM. Music, food and minimal crying… that's the rule!"
She handed Wanda a flyer. It was bright yellow with Comic Sans font.
"We'd love for you two to come," Sarah said. "It's a great way to meet the rest of the neighborhood. And show off that you're not taxidermists."
Wanda looked at the flyer.
Then she looked at Aryan. He was looking at her, waiting for her cue.
"We would love to come," Wanda said, surprising herself.
"Fantastic!" Sarah clapped. "Bring a dish if you can! See you at five!"
She waved and walked away.
Wanda closed the door. She looked at Aryan.
"A party," she said.
"A party," he repeated. "With minimal crying. That's a high bar for this town."
"We need to cook," Wanda decided. "We need to bring something... impressive."
"Impressive?" Aryan grinned. "Wanda, we have a spice rack that defies the laws of physics. We're going to ruin the curve for everyone else."
…
The kitchen became a flurry of activity.
"Okay," Aryan said, tying on his apron (the plain blue one, because Wanda had claimed the daisy one). "It's a potluck. That means finger food. Portable and delicious."
"Pastries," Wanda suggested. "Savory ones."
"Yes. Like... Puffs? Spinach and feta puffs?"
"With caramelized onions," she added.
"You read my mind."
They worked in tandem. Wanda chopped the onions. Aryan rolled the pastry dough.
"So," he said, dusting flour onto the counter. "What are we wearing? It's a social debut. We can't show up looking like we just rolled out of bed. Even though we did."
Wanda smiled. She had been waiting for this.
"We have the clothes," she reminded him. "From yesterday."
"The maroon turtleneck?" he asked, pausing. "Is it a turtleneck kind of party?"
"It is chilly in the evening," she reasoned. "And... it matches my dress. Cream knit. With a maroon scarf."
Aryan stared at her. "We're going to be color coordinated?"
"We are a household," she said simply. "We should look cohesive."
"We're going to look like a catalogue couple," he laughed. "I love it. Let's do it."
…
At 5 PM, the town square was buzzing. String lights were draped between the trees. Tables were groaning under the weight of casseroles and potato salads.
Wanda and Aryan arrived.
They look like a power couple.
Aryan wore a maroon turtleneck and grey trousers. He looked elegant and decidedly not like a bachelor.
Wanda wore the cream sweater dress with a maroon scarf draped artfully around her neck.
They walked in, Aryan carrying the platter of spinach puffs.
"Heads up," he whispered to her. "We are entering the danger zone. Prepare for small talk."
"I am ready," Wanda whispered back, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm.
They were swarmed immediately. The moment they stepped onto the manicured grass of the town square, it was like a magnet had been switched on.
"Oh, Sarah, you found them! Look at them!" a woman with a perfectly coiffed blonde bob exclaimed, pointing with a plastic fork.
"The new neighbors!" another man called out, raising his can of soda in a toast. "The ones who aren't taxidermists!"
"Try the puffs," a woman in a bright yellow sun hat insisted, already holding a paper plate out to Wanda. "Are these feta? They're divine! You must give me the recipe."
Wanda found herself navigating the crowd with a grace she hadn't felt in years. She was just Wanda, the woman who had brought the spinach pastries.
Aryan was a warm presence at her side, his hand resting reassuringly in the small of her back. He was a natural, deflecting questions with easy charm and making jokes about the humidity that had the older women laughing.
"The garden is a constant battle," he admitted to a man named Herb, who had a formidable mustache. "I'm pretty sure the hydrangeas are plotting against me. They're very dramatic."
(A lie. Sir Drinks-a-Lot was thriving, and Wanda knew it. She had complimented the bush just that morning).
They finally managed to secure a small table near the edge of the gazebo, a quiet island in the sea of celebration. But the people came to them. They were a novelty, a new story in a town that had been stuck on the same tragic chapter for five years.
And the stories poured out of miraculous relief.
"My husband," a woman with a sharp haircut and even sharper eyes named Dottie said, her voice catching as she looked toward a man grilling burgers. "He was Blipped. I spent five years learning how to fix the plumbing myself, how to pay the mortgage and then one Tuesday, he was just... there. Standing in the kitchen, asking what was for dinner, like he'd just come back from the store." She dabbed her eyes with a napkin. "I hit him with a loaf of bread."
A man with a kind face joined their table. "My dog, Rusty. He waited. Five years. Just sat by the door. Didn't recognize me at first. Sniffed me for a full minute, then just about licked my face off."
The air was thick with the ghosts of the lost years. But it was joyful, too. It was the sound of a town learning to breathe again, the collective exhale of a community that had held its breath for half a decade.
Then, a young girl, maybe early twenties. Blonde. Very... enthusiastic.
She made a beeline for their table.
"Hi!" she chirped, looking exclusively at Aryan. "I'm Becky! I haven't seen you around before. You're... wow. You have great style."
She leaned in, ignoring Wanda completely. She touched Aryan's arm.
"Is that cashmere?" she asked, rubbing the sleeve of his turtleneck.
Aryan froze. He looked uncomfortable. He tried to pull his arm back politely.
"Uh, thanks. It's wool blend, actually. And… "
"You have such nice eyes," Becky interrupted, batting her lashes. "Do you work out? You look like you work out."
Wanda stood perfectly still.
The noise of the party faded into the background. All she could see was Becky's hand on Aryan's arm.
Get off him, she thought.
He is mine, the voice in her head hissed.
She focused her gaze on the back of Becky's head. She reached out with a tiny thread of chaos magic.
Suggestion: You are thirsty. You are dangerously thirsty. You need a punch. Right now.
Becky blinked. Her hand dropped from Aryan's arm. She looked confused.
"I..." Becky stammered. "I'm... parched. I need... juice."
She spun around and marched toward the punch bowl like a woman possessed.
Chapter 49: Wet Bed Theory (3)
New
Aryan blinked, watching her go.
"That was weird," he noted. "She went from flirting to dehydration in three seconds."
He turned to Wanda.
"You okay?"
Wanda took a sip of her cider. She smiled over the rim of the cup. It was a satisfied smile.
"I am fine," she said sweetly. "She just realized she was thirsty."
Aryan looked at her. Then he glanced toward the punch bowl, where Becky was now chugging a cup of juice with the desperation of a marathon runner. He looked back at Wanda, who was calmly taking a sip of her cider, the picture of innocence.
He reached out under the table. His hand found hers. He laced their fingers together, his thumb tracing a slow circle over her knuckles.
"You know," he whispered, leaning so close his breath ghosted against her ear, "that sweater is a menace."
Wanda turned her head slightly, her eyes wide and dark in the dim light of the gazebo. "The sweater?"
"Mmm," he confirmed, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her. "Every time you move, I get distracted. It's a public safety hazard. I almost dropped the puffs when we got here."
Wanda felt a delicious warmth spreading from where his hand held hers.
"Then you should be more careful, Doctor," she whispered back, her voice a little breathless.
"I'm trying," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips. "But my new stylist has terrible taste in non-distracting clothing."
She squeezed his hand.
"Good," she whispered.
…
The laughter of the neighbors faded into a dull murmur behind them as they stepped away from the glowing gazebo.
Wanda tightened her hold on Aryan's arm, the heavy wool of his sleeve solid and reassuring against her fingers. The evening air was biting at her cheeks, but the heat radiating from him kept the chill at bay.
Neither of them spoke as they navigated the quiet streets of Westview, the rhythmic click of her heels and the soft thud of his shoes were the only sounds in the stillness.
When Aryan pushed the front door open, the silence of the house rushed out to meet them, thick with the scent of the sandalwood candles she had lit earlier.
They climbed the steps together, their shoulders brushing in the narrow space. With every tread, Wanda felt the weight of the house increasing, the "public" version of them (the smiling couple) slowly stripping away.
Wanda stopped in front of her door, her hand hovering over the wood, but she looked at Aryan. He was standing by his own door, his silhouette tall and dark against the dim hallway light.
The space between their doors (barely six feet of carpeted floor) suddenly felt like a vast canyon.
Wanda glanced at the knob of her room, then back at him.
[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
I stood there, my hand frozen on the brass knob of my bedroom door. I looked at Wanda, then I looked at the six feet of hallway carpet.
Option A: I go into my room like a "respectable" roommate and spend the night staring at the ceiling fan while my bed feels like an ice box.
Option B: I acknowledge that we basically slept in the same bed last night and ask her if she wants to do it again.
"Well," I said, my hand finding the back of my neck. "Big day. Socializing. Small talk. I'm exhausted."
Wanda was studying the pattern of the rug as if it were a high stakes puzzle. "Yes," she whispered. "It was... a lot."
"Right. So... sleep."
"Sleep," she echoed.
We stood there for five seconds. Ten. The silence was so thick it was a physical weight, pressing against my chest. Neither of us moved.
"Goodnight, Wanda," I said finally, the words sounding like a white flag of surrender.
"Goodnight, Aryan," she said softly.
I closed the door and leaned my back against it.
"You idiot," I whispered to the empty room. "You absolute moron. Why did you leave? You had the momentum! You were the power couple!"
I walked over to the bed. It looked huge.
"I can't sleep here," I told the audience, pacing the floor. "I've been spoiled. I need the cuddle. I need the scent of cherries. I have developed a dependency."
I looked at the water glass on my nightstand.
An idea formed. A flimsy idea.
"Okay," I said. "This is going to be humiliating. But desperate times call for desperate lies."
I grabbed the glass of water. I walked to the bed.
I tilted the glass. I poured about a teaspoon of water onto the corner of the duvet.
"Oh no!" I gasped theatrically. "A flood! A disaster! The structural integrity of the mattress is compromised!"
I looked at you.
Don't judge me. It's method acting.
I put the glass down. I messed up my hair to look distressed.
I walked out of the room and crossed the hallway.
I stood in front of her door.
Knock. Knock.
"Wanda?" I called out, putting a tremor in my voice. "Emergency."
"Come in," her voice floated out.
I opened the door.
She was lying in bed, reading a book. The lamp cast a warm glow over her. She looked up.
"Emergency?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"You're not going to believe this," I said, wringing my hands. "I was... drinking water. Like a responsible adult. and... I tripped. Clumsy feet. The curse of the Disc O King."
I took a deep breath.
"I spilled it. everywhere. The bed is soaked. It's a wetland, Wanda. I can't sleep there. It's medically inadvisable to sleep in a swamp. Mildew and pneumonia. The risks are endless."
I looked at her with pleading eyes.
"So... I was wondering... since your bed is... dry..."
[Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]
She looked at him.
He was wearing his pajamas. He looked panicked.
She looked at his shirt. Dry.
She looked at his hands. Dry.
He spilled a glass of water, she thought. And he thinks that destroys a king sized bed?
It was the worst lie she had ever heard.
And it was the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for her.
He was inventing a disaster just to be near her.
She wanted to laugh. She bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself.
"A swamp," she repeated gravely. "That sounds serious."
"Deadly," he nodded vigorously. "Mold spores act fast."
She closed her book and set it on the nightstand.
She looked at him.
"Well," she said. "We cannot have you getting pneumonia."
She lifted the corner of the duvet. It was an open invitation.
"Come here, you clumsy idiot."
The relief on his face was blinding. He practically sprinted to the bed.
"You are a lifesaver," he said, scrambling in. "Truly. A saint."
"Turn off the light," she commanded, hiding her smile.
He clicked the lamp off. Darkness fell.
They lay side by side.
"It is... cold tonight," she whispered. (It was 72 degrees).
"Freezing," Aryan agreed immediately. "Arctic."
"Are you cold?" she asked.
" shivering," he lied.
"You can... hold me," she offered. "To conserve heat."
"If I must," he said, the smile evident in his voice.
He wrapped his arms around her. She turned into him, burying her face in his chest.
"Your bed is drier," he noted, his chin resting on her head.
"Be quiet, Aryan," she murmured, snuggling closer.
"Goodnight, Wanda."
"Goodnight, Aryan."
She listened to his heart.
Thump thump (him).
Thump thump (her).
She closed her eyes, knowing that tomorrow, she would probably "accidentally" spill water on her own bed, just to keep the rotation going.
Chapter 50: Tart Cherry Debate (1)
New
4 days ago
[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
There is a specific kind of silence that exists only at 6:00 AM. The kind that feels like the world is holding its breath just for you.
I woke up into that silence.
I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the blinds of the Wanda Wing.
Wanda was curled against me, her head resting in the crook of my shoulder, her arm thrown casually over my waist. Her breathing was a rhythmic tide against my ribs.
In... out.
In... out.
I glanced toward the shadows at the foot of the bed, my eyes narrowing as I caught the invisible "lens" where I knew you were hovering, probably holding your breath.
"Okay, nobody move." I whispered to the readers, my voice a ghost of a sound. "If you breathe too loud, you'll break the spell. Look at this. Just look at it. This is peak existence. I have peaked. Are you jealous? You should be. While you're living vicariously through my life, I'm currently the center of the universe. Don't blink, you might miss what a real win looks like."
I carefully, millimeter by millimeter, shifted my head so I could see her face.
She was fast asleep. Her lips were parted slightly, her eyelashes resting against her cheeks like dark fans. She looked… beautiful. The Scarlet Witch was simply a girl in a t- shirt who drooled a tiny bit on my shoulder. (Okay, she wasn't drooling, that would be gross, but you get the sentiment).
I moved my hand (the one that was already wrapped around her back) and brought it up to her face. My fingers hovered over her cheek.
I touched her skin. It was warm.
I traced the line of her jaw with my thumb.
An overwhelming urge hit me. I wanted to kiss her lips. I wanted to wake her up with it.
I leaned in.
My breath ghosted against her mouth. I was close enough to count the freckles on her nose. Close enough to smell the faint sweetness of cherries and the soft scent of sleep.
The devil on my shoulder whispered. She won't know.
I hovered there, suspended in the moment.
Then, I stopped.
"No, I told myself," pulling back an inch. "Not like this. Not while she's sleeping. That's cheap. That's stealing."
When I kiss her (and I will kiss her) I want those green eyes open. I want her to look at me. I want her to know exactly who is doing it.
I sighed, a soft sound that barely disturbed the air.
I shifted my target. I pressed my lips gently to her forehead. A soft pressure.
"Morning, Lemon Queen," I whispered, so quietly even the dust motes wouldn't hear.
I pulled back. I tightened my arm around her waist, pulling her flush against me. I buried my face in her hair.
"Just a few more hours," I told the audience. "Don't judge me. I'm comfortable. And she's warm. Wake me up when the world ends."
I closed my eyes. And I fell back asleep with a smile on my face.
[Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]
She wasn't asleep.
She had woken up the moment his breathing shifted from the deep rhythm of REM sleep to the lighter cadence of consciousness.
She felt him look at her.
He is awake, she thought, keeping her breathing steady, keeping her body relaxed.
She felt his hand on her face. His thumb tracing her jaw. It was a touch so gentle, it made her heart ache in a way she hadn't felt since... since before.
Then, she felt him lean in.
She sensed the warmth of his face nearing hers. His breath (warm and smelling faintly of sleep) brushed her lips.
Kiss me, she screamed internally. Do it. Wake me up.
Her heart hammered against her ribs (thump thump, thump thump) surely he could feel it? Surely he knew she was waiting?
But he stopped.
She felt him hesitate. She felt the internal war he was waging.
Then, his lips touched her forehead.
It wasn't the kiss she wanted. But it was respectful and tender. It was the act of a man who valued her too much to take advantage of a moment.
He is good, she thought, a fierce wave of affection washing over her. He is so, so good.
He pulled her closer. His grip tightened to hold her. To ground himself.
She felt his breathing slow down again. He was drifting back off.
Wanda waited until he was deep under. Then, she opened her eyes.
The room was brighter now. She looked up at him.
His hair was a mess. His mouth was relaxed.
She reached up. She touched his eyebrow. She traced the straight line of his nose. She ran her thumb over his bottom lip.
"You are a fool, Aryan Spencer," she whispered, her voice soundless. "But you are my fool."
She snuggled closer, closing her eyes. And she wasn't going to leave this bed until she absolutely had to.
[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
Sunlight.
Bright sunlight.
I squinted one eye open. The clock on the bedside table read 10:14 AM.
Ten? I thought. I haven't slept until ten since medical school.
I was still holding her. My arm had gone numb about an hour ago, but I would sooner chop it off than move it.
The house was silent. The world was still.
GROWL.
It was a sound like a lion waking up in a cave.
And it came from the stomach pressed against mine.
I froze.
Then, I started to laugh. I couldn't help it. My chest shook with it.
Wanda's eyes flew open. Her face turned a delightful shade of crimson.
"That..." she started, her voice thick with sleep. "That was the floorboards."
"The floorboards are hungry?" I teased, grinning down at her. "That sounded like a request for immediate sustenance. That sounded like a protest."
She buried her face in my chest, groaning. "I am betrayed by my own anatomy."
"It's 10 AM, Wanda," I said, shifting my numb arm to rub her back. "Even superheroes need breakfast. Or at this point, brunch."
She looked up at me, hair wild, eyes bright. She smiled… an embarrassed smile.
"Brunch sounds acceptable," she admitted.
"Alright," I said. "Up and at 'em. We have a day to seize."
We untangled ourselves. It was a clumsy process of limbs and sheets, but we managed to extricate ourselves without falling off the bed.
"Bathroom," I announced. "Dental hygiene is a priority."
We walked to the en suite.
Standing there, brushing our teeth together for the third morning in a row, felt... habitual.