Chapter 51: Tart Cherry Debate (2)
New
4 days ago
I looked at her in the mirror. She was scrubbing away, looking at her reflection critically.
I rinsed and spit.
"So," I said, leaning against the doorframe as she finished up. "What's the plan? You going to hog the shower again? Or are you waiting for a written invitation?"
Wanda spat and wiped her mouth. She turned to me, eyes narrowing playfully.
"Are you offering to scrub my back, Doctor?" she asked, stepping closer. "Or are you just fishing for a reaction?"
I felt the heat rise up my neck.
Dammit. She's too good at this.
"I... I was just coordinating schedules," I stammered, backing into the hallway. "Logistics. Purely logistics."
She laughed, grabbing a towel. "Go, Aryan. Before you melt."
I retreated to the hallway.
"I am going!" I called back. "I am retreating to my own territory!"
I walked into my room, closing the door.
"Okay," I whispered to the mirror on my closet door. "Get it together, Spencer. She is flirting. She is definitely flirting. Or she's messing with me. Either way, my heart rate cannot sustain this."
I took a shower. A cold one. It was necessary.
I dried off and opened the closet.
There, hanging front and center, were the clothes she had picked out. The maroon turtleneck. The grey flannel.
I reached for the flannel. It was soft.
"She picked this," I told the audience, pulling it on. "She stood in that store and decided this is what I should look like. Who am I to argue with her vision?"
I looked at myself. Jeans. Flannel. Hair styled (by me, not magic, I promise).
"Not bad," I decided. "I look… handsome."
I went downstairs.
The kitchen was empty, but the coffee pot was still warm. Wanda was still upstairs.
Girl time, I mused. It takes time to look that effortless.
"Okay," I said, opening the fridge. "Breakfast is long gone. We are in lunch territory. What says 'casual Tuesday' but also 'I am a culinary god'?"
I scanned the ingredients.
"Club Sandwiches," I decided. "But not just any club sandwich. The Spencer Special. Three layers. Sourdough. Turkey, bacon, avocado (if Mrs. Higgins didn't curse them) and a secret garlic aioli."
I got to work.
Bacon sizzled. Bread toasted.
By the time I heard footsteps on the stairs, the kitchen smelled like savory heaven.
Wanda walked in.
She was wearing leggings and one of my old hoodies… the blue one I thought I had lost. It swallowed her frame. Her hair was up in a messy bun. She looked... adorable.
I stopped buttering the bread.
"You found it," I said, pointing the butter knife at her chest.
She looked down at the hoodie. "It was... soft."
"It looks better on you," I admitted, my voice dropping a little. "Way better. I retire it. It's yours."
She smiled, pulling the sleeves over her hands. "Thank you. Does it... fit the aesthetic?"
"The aesthetic is 'Coziness Supreme'," I said. "You nailed it."
She walked over to the island and hopped onto a stool.
"It smells like bacon," she noted.
"Club sandwiches," I announced, sliding a plate toward her. It was a masterpiece of structural engineering, held together by toothpicks. "Eat. Before it topples."
We ate.
"So," I said, pointing to the row of five juice bottles lined up on the counter like suspects in a lineup. "We have unfinished business. The Juice Trials."
Wanda looked at them. Tart Cherry. Pomegranate. Cranberry. Acai. And something green that claimed to be 'Vitality'.
"You bought the entire shelf," she noted.
"I needed a sample size," I defended. "Now, we judge. Here."
I poured a small glass of the Tart Cherry.
"Sample A," I presented it.
Wanda took a sip. Her face scrunched up immediately.
"It is... sour," she rasped. "It tastes like a mistake."
"It's medicinal!" I argued, taking a sip. "Okay, wow. That is aggressive. That tastes like a cherry that holds a grudge."
"Next," she commanded, pushing the glass away.
I poured the Pomegranate.
"Sample B."
She sipped. Her expression relaxed. "Better. Sweeter. But... gritty."
"It's textured," I said. "It builds character."
We went through the line. The Green Juice was a disaster.
"It tastes like lawn," Wanda declared. "Like I am grazing."
"It's kale!" I laughed. "It's good for your soul!"
"My soul does not want to graze," she stated firmly.
Finally, we reached the Cranberry Apple blend.
She sipped. She smiled.
"This one," she decided. "It is balanced. Tart, but kind."
"The winner," I announced, sliding the bottle toward her. "The Cranberry Apple takes the gold. The Green Juice will be banished to the back of the fridge to die a lonely death."
"Agreed," she laughed.
After lunch, we migrated to the living room. The "Post Sandwich Slump" was real.
Wanda sat on the sofa, hugging the textured pillow. I sat on the other end, stretching my legs out.
I looked out the window. It was sunny.
Too sunny, I thought. Sunny means guilt. Sunny means 'we should go for a walk'. Sunny means leaving the bubble.
I didn't want to leave the bubble. I wanted to stay here, in this house, with her.
I glanced at the audience.
Watch this, I thought. Don't tell her.
I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second. I reached out to the atmosphere again.
Hey, clouds. Remember me? Round two.
I pulled the pressure down. I gathered the humidity.
Drip.
Drip, drip.
Drip, drip, drip.
Outside, the sky darkened rapidly.
[Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]
"Wow," Wanda said, looking at the window as the first drops hit the glass. "It is raining again."
She looked at Aryan. He was looking at the ceiling.
"Climate change," he sighed, shaking his head. "It's getting dangerous out there. Unpredictable weather patterns. The jet stream is wobbly."
"Is it?" she asked.
"Oh yeah. Very wobbly. Scientific fact. See? Now it's pouring."
The rain intensified, drumming a cozy rhythm against the roof.
Wanda looked at the rain. It was a gentle soak. The kind of rain that demanded blankets and books.
She looked at Aryan. He looked... full of smiles.
He wants to stay inside, she realized. He wants us to be trapped together.
She didn't mind. In fact, she loved it.
"Well," she said. "Since we are trapped by the wobbly jet stream..."
"Movie marathon?" Aryan suggested hopefully.
"No," she said. "Work."
"Work?" He looked horrified. "Wanda, it's a snow day. Rain day. Whatever."
"The library," she said, pointing a finger at the closed door down the hall.
Aryan groaned. "The library is a graveyard of paper. It's dusty."
"Exactly," she said. "It is next on my list. Yesterday was the clothes. Today is the books."
Chapter 52: Tart Cherry Debate (3)
New
4 days ago
"But I like the chaos!" he argued. "It's... intellectual clutter."
"It is a fire hazard," she corrected. "And we are going to fix it."
She walked over to him and held out her hand.
"Come on, Doctor. Up."
He looked at her hand. He looked at the couch. He looked back at her hand.
He sighed, but he took it.
"You're a tyrant," he muttered, pulling himself up. "A well dressed tyrant."
"I know," she smiled. "Let's go."
The library was a large room at the back of the house, lined floor to ceiling with dark wood shelves. It was filled with books. Thousands of them.
And it was a mess. Stacks of books on the floor. Books leaning precariously on shelves. Books used as coasters.
"Okay," Wanda said, hands on her hips. "This is... extensive."
"It's a collection," Aryan said defensively. "I inherited a lot of it."
Wanda walked to a stack. She picked up a book. It was old and leather bound.
She opened it. The text was Sokovian.
She paused.
"These are..." she whispered.
"Sokovian folklore," Aryan said quietly, coming up behind her. "My... parents. They collected them. They wanted to preserve the stories."
Wanda ran her hand over the page. In her vision, she had seen the other Wanda reading these books.
She looked at Aryan. He was watching her carefully, gauging her reaction.
"They are beautiful," she said. "We must treat them with respect."
"Agreed," he said.
"Alphabetical?" she asked.
"By genre," he countered. "Then by author."
"Acceptable."
They got to work.
It was slow work.
"Mythology goes here," Wanda directed, pointing to the top shelf. "History on the bottom."
"Is 'Legends of the Mountain King' history or mythology?" Aryan asked, holding a heavy tome.
"It is history," Wanda said firmly. "My grandmother swore she saw the Mountain King once."
"Your grandmother also drank a lot of that cornflower tea," Aryan muttered, climbing the ladder.
"She had the Sight," Wanda argued, handing him a stack of books.
They argued over Dewey Decimal vs. The Spencer Method.
They sneezed.
They laughed.
"You have dust on your nose," Aryan said, stopping on the ladder to look down at her.
"You have dust everywhere," she retorted.
At one point, Aryan was high up on the ladder, reaching for a top shelf. He stretched.
"Careful," Wanda said, stepping closer to hold the ladder.
"I'm fine," he said. "I have the balance of a cat."
The ladder wobbled.
"Whoa!"
He steadied himself.
"A clumsy cat," Wanda corrected.
She didn't let go of the ladder. She stood there, looking up at him.
Hours later, the room was transformed. The books were aligned. The floor was clear. The smell of old paper and lemon polish (Wanda's touch) filled the air.
Outside, the rain was still falling.
"We did good," Aryan said, collapsing into a large leather armchair.
Wanda sat in the matching chair opposite him.
"Read to me," she said suddenly.
Aryan blinked. "What?"
"Read to me," she repeated. "One of the stories. My eyes are tired from sorting."
It was an excuse. She just wanted to hear his voice.
Aryan reached for a book on the small table between them. Tales of the Valley.
"Okay," he cleared his throat. "Let's see. 'The Shepherd and the Star'."
He began to read.
His voice was soothing. He read the Sokovian words with a perfect accent, rolling the 'r's just like her father used to.
"Once, there was a shepherd who fell in love with a star that had fallen into his lake..."
Wanda watched him.
She wasn't listening to the plot. She was watching his lips move. She was watching the way his brow furrowed when he hit a difficult word. She was watching his hands turn the page.
She leaned her chin on her hand, staring at him with a look so full of love it felt like it might burn a hole in the book.
He looked up. He caught her staring.
He stopped reading.
"What?" he asked, flushing slightly. "Did I mispronounce 'reflection'?"
"No," she whispered. "You are perfect."
Aryan closed the book slowly.
"The story..." he said, his voice a little rough. "It says they danced. At the end. To celebrate the star returning to the sky."
"They danced?" Wanda asked.
"Yeah. A waltz. Or... the Sokovian equivalent."
He stood up.
"Wanda," he said. "Do you know how to dance?"
"I..." She hesitated. "I remember the steps. From weddings. But I have not danced in years."
"Neither have I," he admitted. "But... the book says we should."
He held out his hand.
"Try it with me?"
They moved to the living room. There was more space there.
Aryan pulled out his phone. He tapped the screen.
A slow melody filled the room. It was a violin piece. Sad, but beautiful.
"Okay," he said, putting the phone down.
He walked over to her.
He took her left hand in his right. He placed his other hand on her waist.
His touch was warm.
"Step closer," he whispered.
She stepped in. Their bodies were almost touching.
"Right foot back," he instructed softly. "One, two, three. One, two, three."
They began to move.
It was clumsy at first. They stepped on each other's toes.
"Sorry," he winced.
"My fault," she murmured.
But then, they found the rhythm.
One, two, three. One, two, three.
They were turning. Spinning slowly in the dim light of the living room. The rain outside provided the percussion.
She looked up at him. He was looking down at her.
His eyes were dark pools of emotion.
"You're doing it," he whispered.
"We are doing it," she corrected.
She moved her hand from his shoulder to the back of his neck. She played with the hair at his nape.
He inhaled sharply. His hand on her waist tightened, pulling her flush against him.
They were clinging.
The music swelled.
She rested her forehead against his chin. She closed her eyes.
This is it, she thought. This is the life she had always wanted. The life she saw in the vision. It was happening.
"Wanda," he breathed.
"Shh," she whispered. "Just dance, Baker."
They swayed for what felt like hours.
Chapter 53: Blue Lipped Miracle (1)
New
4 days ago
[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
The music had stopped.
I wasn't sure when. Maybe five minutes ago? Maybe an hour? Time is a wobbly concept when you're a reality bender, but it's even wobblier when you're holding a woman who smells like rain and cherries.
We were standing in the middle of the living room. My hand was still resting on the small of her waist, her hand was still curled around the back of my neck, playing with the short hairs there. We were swaying, just barely, to the ghost of a melody that had long since faded into silence.
I looked down at her. Her eyes were closed, her forehead resting against my chin. She looked peaceful.
Look at this. Just look at it. I am currently hugging the Scarlet Witch in a living room in New Jersey and neither of us wants to let go. If I die right now, put this on my tombstone: "Here lies Aryan. He died happy and very, very warm."
I tightened my hold just a fraction, pulling her flush against me. I could feel the beat of her heart through the layers of our clothes.
Thump thump (him).
Thump thump (her).
It was syncing with mine.
"Wanda," I whispered, my voice sounding rough in the quiet room.
"Mmm?" she hummed, not opening her eyes.
"The song ended."
"I know," she murmured into my shirt.
"We're just... standing here."
"I know," she repeated, a smile audible in her voice.
"My legs are starting to fall asleep," I lied. "It's a medical condition. Stationary limb paralysis."
She laughed, a low vibration against my chest. She pulled back slowly, opening her eyes. The green in them was bright, flecked with gold from the setting sun streaming through the window.
"You and your medical conditions," she teased, but she didn't step away. She just loosened her grip, her hands sliding down from my neck to rest on my chest.
I looked at the window. The rain had stopped. The sky was a bruised purple, the sun dipping below the horizon.
"It's 5 PM," I noted, glancing at the clock on the wall. "We danced through the afternoon."
"Time well spent," she said softly.
"We should..." I hesitated. I didn't want to break the contact. "We should get some air. Before we fuse together permanently. As much as I would enjoy being a two headed entity, finding shirts would be a nightmare."
Wanda smiled, finally stepping back. The loss of warmth was immediate.
"A walk," she agreed. "The rain has stopped. It should be peaceful."
"Peaceful," I echoed. "I like peaceful."
[Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]
She watched him walk to the coat rack.
Her body still hummed with the phantom pressure of his arms. It was a strange sensation… feeling held even when she was standing alone.
She grabbed her coat… the long trench coat that matched the scarf she was still wearing.
"Ready?" Aryan asked, holding the door open.
"Ready," she said.
They stepped out onto the porch. The air was scrubbed clean by the rain. Puddles reflected the streetlamps that were just starting to flicker on.
They walked down the driveway.
Wanda looked at his hand. It was swinging by his side, brushing against his thigh.
She saw his fingers twitch. He moved his hand an inch toward hers. Then he pulled it back. Then he moved it again.
He was doing the calculation again.
He is clumsy, she thought fondly. And he cannot figure out how to hold a hand.
She decided to put him out of his misery.
She reached out. She slid her hand into his, lacing their fingers together.
Aryan jumped slightly, looking down at their joined hands like she had just performed a magic trick.
"Oh," he said. "Hi."
"Hi," she smiled, swinging their arms gently. "You were struggling, Aryan. It was painful to watch."
He let out a huff of laughter, squeezing her hand tight. "I wasn't struggling. I was... calibrating. Wind resistance. And Velocity. Hand holding is complex physics."
"It is grabbing," she corrected. "And holding. This is how it is done."
"Show off," he grumbled, but he pulled her closer as they walked. "Okay, fine. You're the expert."
They walked down the street. It was quiet. The wet pavement shone like obsidian.
"Look at the hydrangeas," Aryan pointed out as they passed a neighbor's yard. "They're drowning. Over watering. Amateur mistake."
"Not everyone has your touch, Plant Whisperer," Wanda teased.
"True. Sir Drinks a Lot has set a high standard."
They turned the corner.
"It is nice," Wanda said, looking at the rows of houses with their warm windows. "To just... walk. Without looking over your shoulder."
"That's the Westview promise," Aryan said. "Boring. And safe."
They walked for another block, enjoying the rhythm of their footsteps.
"HELP!"
The scream tore through the evening air.
"That came from the park," he said, his voice dropping all humor. "Come on."
[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
We rounded the corner to the small community park. A crowd had already gathered near the swing set. Maybe ten people. They were panicked, shouting over each other.
"Call 911!"
"Is he breathing?"
"Oh god, look at his face!"
I pushed through the crowd. And I broke into the center of the circle.
A woman… maybe late twenties, wearing a raincoat was on her knees in the wet grass. She was clutching a baby. A boy. Maybe a year old.
She was shaking him.
"He's not breathing!" she screamed, tears streaming down her face. "He swallowed something! Help him!"
I dropped to my knees beside her.
"I'm a doctor," I said. My voice was calm. It cut through her panic like a knife. "Let me check."
She thrust the child into my arms.
The baby was limp.
I looked at his face.
Blue.
His lips were cyanotic.
His fingernails were grey.
Total obstruction, my brain cataloged. Hypoxia setting in. Time is zero.
I placed the baby on my forearm, face down, supporting his head with my hand. I angled him downwards.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Five sharp back blows between the shoulder blades.
Nothing. No object dislodged.
I flipped him over onto my other arm, face up.
I placed two fingers (index and middle) on the center of his chest, just below the nipple line.
"One, two, three, four, five," I counted aloud, pressing down. About an inch and a half deep.
Come on, kid. Don't you dare die on my watch.
I did five compressions. I checked the mouth.
Nothing.
I flipped him again. Back blows.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
The mother was sobbing behind me. "Please! Please save him!"
Chapter 54: Blue Lipped Miracle (2)
New
4 days ago
"Wanda!" I yelled.
Wanda was at my side instantly. She knelt in the mud, her expensive coat ruining in the wet grass.
"What do I do?" she asked.
I flipped the baby onto his back again. I started compressions.
"Check the airway," I ordered, pumping the chest. "I can't see it. It's deep. If I stick my finger in blindly, I'll push it further down."
Wanda leaned in. Her eyes narrowed.
"I see it," she whispered. "It is... a plastic coin. It is lodged in the trachea."
"Can you get it?" I asked. "Don't touch the throat walls if you can help it. Just the object."
I stopped compressions.
"Do it. Now."
Wanda raised her fingers. Tiny tendrils of red magic flowed from her tips. They entered the baby's open mouth.
"Come on..." she breathed.
She pulled her hand back slowly.
A small plastic token (like from a board game) floated out of the baby's mouth, wrapped in a red mist.
She tossed it onto the grass.
"It is out," she said.
"He's not breathing," I said. "He's been down too long."
I tilted the baby's head back gently into a neutral position. I placed my mouth over his nose and mouth, creating a seal.
Breath.
I watched the chest rise.
I pulled back.
Breath.
The chest rose again.
I went back to the chest. Two fingers.
"Come on," I gritted out. "Come on."
Pump.
Pump.
Pump.
Pump.
"One... two... three..."
The crowd was silent. You could hear a pin drop in the wet grass.
Pump.
Pump.
Pump.
Suddenly, the baby jerked.
A cough. A hacking sound.
Then, a wail.
It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard.
The baby's skin flushed pink. He started screaming, his little fists bunching up.
I collapsed back on my heels, exhaling a breath that felt like it had been held for a lifetime.
"He's back," I whispered. "He's back."
The mother lunged forward. "Tommy! Oh god, Tommy!"
"Careful," I said, handing the crying infant back to her gently. "Keep him upright. Rub his back."
Sirens wailed in the distance. Blue and red lights flashed against the trees.
The ambulance screeched to a halt at the curb. Two paramedics jumped out with a kit.
I stood up, wiping my hands on my jeans. My knees were shaking.
"Over here!" I called out.
The paramedics rushed over. One of them, a guy I recognized from the grocery store named Herb, looked at the baby, then at me.
"Status?" Herb asked, kneeling down.
"Infant male, approx one year," I rattled off, slipping back into clinical mode. "Foreign body airway obstruction. Plastic coin. Removed. CPR initiated. Two rounds. Responded to rescue breaths. He's conscious, crying, pink."
Herb checked the baby's vitals. He looked up at me, impressed.
"Airway is clear," Herb confirmed. "Lungs sound good. You got him just in time, Doc. Another minute and..." He shook his head.
He looked at the mother. "We need to take him in. Check for throat trauma. But he's going to be fine, ma'am."
The mother looked up at me. Her face was a mess of tears and mascara.
"Thank you," she sobbed. "You saved him. You both saved him."
She looked at Wanda.
The mother reached out and grabbed Wanda's hand.
"Thank you," she said fiercely. "Thank you."
Wanda blinked, stunned. She looked at the mother's hand, then at the crying baby.
"I..." Wanda stammered. "I just... helped."
The paramedics loaded the mother and baby onto the gurney. They rushed them to the ambulance.
As the doors slammed shut and the rig sped away, the silence returned to the park.
[Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]
She stood in the wet grass, mud staining the knees of her jeans.
She looked around.
The neighbors were staring at them.
Wanda braced herself. She waited for the fear. The Witch. The Monster. Because she used magic.
But then, Dottie started clapping.
Slowly at first. Then louder.
"Well done!" Sarah shouted. "That was amazing!"
"Did you see that?" a man asked. "He knew exactly what to do! And she... she just plucked it right out!"
They swarmed them with hands on shoulders and pats on the back.
"Aryan!" Mrs. Higgins (the avocado nemesis) pushed through. "You didn't tell us you were a hero doctor! I thought you were just a regular doctor!"
"I... just did what anyone would do," Aryan said, looking flushed and rubbing the back of his neck.
"Nonsense!" Herb, who had stayed behind to get statements, slapped Aryan on the back. "That was a textbook. You saved that kid's life."
"You're the Scarlet Witch, aren't you?" a teenager asked, eyes wide.
Wanda tensed.
"Yeah," the kid grinned. "That's cool. You guys are like... the Avengers of Westview."
"Our very own power couple!" Sarah beamed. "Saving babies and bringing spinach puffs. Is there anything you can't do?"
Wanda looked at Aryan.
He was smiling at her. He looked proud.
"She did the hard part," Aryan told the crowd, putting his arm around her waist. "I just pumped the chest. She cleared the pipe. Precision work."
"You picked a good one, Doc," Dottie noted, eyeing Wanda with approval. "She's a keeper."
"I know," Aryan said softly, looking down at Wanda. "I know."
Wanda felt a lump in her throat.
For years, her power had been a source of fear. Even when she saved the world, people looked at her hands and saw destruction.
But here?
These people were cheering.
She leaned into Aryan's side.
"Thank you," she whispered to the crowd, and she meant it.
They extricated themselves from the crowd after twenty minutes of handshakes and promises to tell the full story at the next potluck.
They walked back to the house in silence.
They reached the porch.
Aryan unlocked the door.
They stepped into the warm hallway.
Aryan leaned back against the door, closing it. He let out a long exhale.
"Well," he said. "That was... not peaceful."
"No," Wanda agreed, unbuttoning her coat. "It was not."
She looked at him. His hair was messy from the run. His jeans were muddy at the knees. He looked exhausted.
"You were... incredible," she said softly.
"We saved him," Aryan corrected, kicking off his shoes. "I couldn't get it out. My fingers were too big. You were the scalpel, Wanda."
He looked at her.
"You realize what happened back there?" he asked.
"The baby lived," she said.
"No. I mean... the people," he said. "They know who you are now. And they cheered."
Wanda looked down at her hands. The red energy was quiet beneath her skin.
"They cheered," she repeated, the wonder still fresh in her voice. "They called us... a power couple."
"Because we are," Aryan said.
He pushed off the door. He walked over to her.
He reached out and took her hands. His hands were shaking slightly… the adrenaline crash.
"Are you okay?" he asked. "Using magic like that... with the crowd..."
"I am fine," she said. She looked up at him. "I am better than fine."
She squeezed his hands.
"You are a doctor," she said, a smile touching her lips. "A real doctor."
"I told you," he grinned crookedly. "I didn't just buy the diploma online."
"You were amazing," she whispered.
She stepped closer. She released his hands and wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest.
"You are amazing," she murmured into his shirt.
Aryan's arms came around her instantly. He held her tight.
"Just a neighbor," he whispered into her hair. "Just a guy who knows CPR."
"No," she said fiercely. "My hero."
They stood there in the hallway holding each other.
"I need a shower," Aryan said eventually, his voice muffled by her hair. "I have mud in places mud should not be."
"Me too," Wanda said.
She pulled back. She looked at him.
"Go," she said. "Wash off the day."
Chapter 55: Blue Lipped Miracle (3)
New
4 days ago
[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
I scrubbed the mud off my knees. I washed the adrenaline out of my hair.
I put on my pajamas… soft grey pants and a white t shirt.
I headed back downstairs, the house smelling faintly of the sandalwood candles Wanda had lit earlier.
She was already in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a look of quiet contemplation. She'd swapped her muddy clothes for an oversized sweater that swallowed her whole.
"I am too tired for a culinary masterpiece," I announced, opening the bread box.
"Toast?" she suggested, her voice still a little soft from the adrenaline crash.
"Grilled cheese," I corrected. "It's the medical gold standard for post heroic exhaustion. High in comfort, low in effort."
Wanda asked, a small smile across her lips. "Is that not a cardiac hazard?"
"In this house, calories are a myth and butter is a food group," I countered, sliding a cutting board toward her. "Help me with the cheddar? I need surgical precision. No more than an eighth of an inch per slice."
She picked up the knife, "I think I can manage that."
We worked side by side. The only sounds were the rhythmic thud of the knife against wood and the sizzle of the pan as I dropped a knob of butter onto the heat. I watched her out of the corner of my eye… the way she bit her lip when she focused, the way her hair fell over her shoulder.
"You did well today, Wanda," I said softly, flipping the first sandwich. The bread was perfectly golden.
"They didn't run," she whispered, her voice so low I almost missed it over the hiss of the butter. "They saw the red mist, they saw what I am... and they didn't run."
"Because they saw you saving a life," I said, turning to look at her. "People are simpler than you think. They don't care about the 'how' when their world is being put back together. They just care that you showed up."
We sat at the island to eat, the cheese stretching between the bread in golden ribbons. We talked about trivial things… how Mrs. Higgins would probably try to bake us a 'thank you' pie that tasted like cardboard, and how the paramedics looked like they wanted to hire me on the spot.
I caught myself looking at the empty air by the pantry, narrowing my eyes at the "lens" where I knew you were hovering, probably feeling all warm and fuzzy inside.
"Look at you," I muttered to the void, my voice a ghost of a sound. "You're loving this, aren't you?"
Wanda tilted her head, watching me. "Did you say something?"
"Just... debating the structural integrity of the crust," I lied, taking a large bite.
We cleaned the plates together, the warm water and soap bubbles a grounding ritual for the day. We walked up the stairs, the wooden treads creaking under our feet, a familiar melody of a house settling for the night.
At the landing, we paused.
"Goodnight, Aryan," she said, her hand lingering on her doorknob.
"Goodnight, Wanda."
I turned the handle to my own room and stepped inside, the click of the latch sounding far too loud in the sudden isolation.
I turned to the bed.
It was empty.
Option A: Sleep alone.
Option B: Be bold.
I didn't even consider Option A.
I stood there with my hand hovering over the brass knob, my thumb tracing the cold metal.
Knock. Knock.
I froze. My heart did an erratic skip against my ribs. I looked toward the "lens" in the corner, giving you a look that was one part shock and two parts "are you seeing this?"
I pulled the door open. Wanda was standing there, looking remarkably small in that oversized blue hoodie of mine. She was clutching her arms, her fingers digging into the soft fleece.
"Wanda?" I said, trying to keep my voice from sounding like I'd just been caught plotting a heist. "What happened? Is everything okay?"
"I was... I was drinking water," she started, her voice a soft murmur. "I think I was just too tired from the park. My hands were... clumsy. The glass slipped, Aryan. The water fell everywhere. My bed is totally wet."
She finally looked up, her green eyes shimmering with a mixture of fatigue and a very adorable lie.
"And you know," she continued, a knowing tilt to her lips, "according to your advice yesterday, it is not a good thing to sleep on a bed that is damp. The mold. The pneumonia. It is a health hazard, right, Doctor?"
I leaned against the doorframe, a genuine smile spreading across my face.
"Medical science is very firm on the subject of wetlands," I agreed, stepping back to give her a clear path. "It's a catastrophic environmental hazard. Come in, Wanda. The Spencer Clinic is open for emergency housing."
She brushed past me, the scent of cherries and warm wool trailing in her wake. And she went straight for my bed.
She climbed in, the mattress groaning softly under her weight. She slid under the duvet, pulling the covers up to her chin until only her expectant eyes were visible.
Then, with a slow movement, she lifted the edge of the blanket.
I looked back at you, my eyes narrowing as I caught your inevitable smirk.
"Wipe that look off your face," I whispered to the empty air, my voice thick with a mix of triumph and nerves. "I know. She used my move. She took my C grade excuse and improved the delivery. It's flattering, really. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a medical duty to prevent a roommate from catching a chill."
I walked over to the bed and climbed in beside her. The heat was immediate, a localized summer blooming under the sheets. I moved right to the center, closing the distance until our shoulders touched.
Wanda turned on her side, her arms finding their way around my waist, her head tucking perfectly into the hollow of my neck. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her back tightly, feeling the solid reality of her against me.
"Aryan?" she said softly.
"Yeah?"
"I like it here," she whispered, her grip on my shirt tightening just a fraction. "In Westview. With you."
"I like it here too," I said, and I meant it more than I'd ever meant anything in any timeline. "With you."
I closed my eyes, letting the scent of her hair and the warmth of the bed pull me toward sleep.
Thump thump (Me).
Thump thump (Her).
Our hearts beat in a synchronized rhythm.
"Goodnight, Hero," she whispered.
"Goodnight, Witch," I whispered back.
Chapter 56: Magic of the Heart (1)
New
3 days ago
[Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]
The morning light in Westview was a painter and Aryan Spencer was its subject.
Wanda lay on her side, her head propped on her hand, the duvet pooled around her waist. She had woken up before the sun, her internal clock still wired to the anxious rhythms of a life she was slowly leaving behind. But instead of the usual dread, the first thing she felt was warmth.
Solid warmth.
Aryan was asleep. Truly asleep. His face (usually animated by a constant stream of jokes and deflections) was still. The faint morning stubble on his jaw caught the light, turning the dark hairs into gold dust.
He is beautiful, she thought, the realization settling in her chest like a comfortable stone. When he is quiet, he looks... more beautiful.
She shifted imperceptibly, closing the inch of distance between them without touching him yet. She wanted to savor the proximity. She wanted to memorize the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks.
Her hand moved of its own accord. Her fingers (trembling slightly) hovered over his face.
She touched his cheek. Her fingertips grazed the rough skin, feeling the heat beneath. His breathing remained deep and even, a slow tide that pulled her in.
She grew bolder. She traced the line of his eyebrow, smoothing a stray hair. She ran her thumb over the bridge of his nose.
He belongs to me, the thought echoed in her mind possessively.
She leaned in.
She brought her face close to his. She could smell the faint residue of sandalwood that seemed to cling to his skin even through the night, now wrapped in the intoxicating warmth of sleep.
She hesitated for a split second, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Then, she pressed her lips to his cheek.
It was a soft kiss. A featherlight pressure. But to her, it felt like shouting a secret into a canyon.
Aryan shifted. A small hum vibrated in his throat.
Panic flared.
Wanda pulled back instantly, squeezing her eyes shut. She grabbed the duvet, pulling it up to her chin and buried her face in the pillow, feigning deep sleep. Her heart was beating so hard she was sure it would shake the mattress.
She waited.
One minute. Two minutes.
There was no movement from him. No change in his breathing pattern.
She opened one eye.
He was still asleep. His head was turned slightly toward her now, as if seeking the source of the touch, but his eyes were closed.
She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.
He didn't wake up, she thought, relief and a tiny bit of disappointment warring in her mind.
She moved her hand again. This time, she placed her palm flat against his chest, right over his heart. She felt the steady thump thump beneath the fabric of his t-shirt.
"You are safe," she whispered, the sound barely audible.
She slid her arm around his waist, pulling herself flush against him. She tucked her head under his chin, inhaling his scent.
"And you are not going anywhere," she murmured.
She closed her eyes, letting the rhythm of his heart lull her back into the dark.
[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
I woke up to the sensation of hair tickling my nose.
It was a good sensation. A great sensation. It beat the hell out of waking up to the smell of ozone and burning cities.
I kept my eyes closed for a moment, just taking inventory.
Left arm: Numb. Pins and needles were currently throwing a rave in my elbow.
Right arm: Wrapped securely around a warm body.
Heart rate: Calm and happy.
I opened my eyes.
Wanda was asleep on my chest. Her hair was spread out like a copper fan, strands of it catching in the morning light. Her hand was resting over my heart, her fingers curled slightly into the fabric of my shirt.
Take a good look. You're seeing a man (that's me, obviously) who has won the lottery. No, scratch that. The lottery is just money. I have won the metaphysical jackpot. And stop staring so hard, your jealousy is starting to make the air feel heavy. Just sit there and be grateful I'm letting you watch.
I carefully (slowly) moved my numb arm. I winced as the blood rushed back in, but I didn't make a sound. I brought my hand up to her head.
I brushed a lock of hair away from her face.
She stirred, mumbling something unintelligible against my sternum, but she didn't wake up.
I looked at her face. She looked… absolutely beautiful.
I leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. It was a lingering kiss.
"You're okay," I whispered to her sleeping form. "I've got you."
I played with the ends of her hair, twirling a strand around my finger. It smelled like the shampoo I bought… the expensive stuff with the botanical extracts.
I should get up, I told the audience. It's Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Time has lost all meaning.
I looked at the window. The sun was high. It had to be late.
But getting up means moving her, I reasoned. And moving her is a crime. It's disturbing the peace.
I settled back into the pillow.
I'm staying, I decided. I am exercising my right to be lazy. I am a god like entity, I can take a morning off.
I closed my eyes again, enjoying the weight of her against me.
GROWL.
The sound vibrated through my chest. It came from her stomach.
I froze.
Then, a laugh bubbled up in my throat. I tried to suppress it, but it came out as a shaking chuckle.
Wanda lifted her head slowly. Her hair was a mess. Her eyes were sleepy slits.
"Did you..." she started, her voice raspy. "Did you laugh at me again?"
"I laughed with you," I corrected, grinning down at her. "Or rather, with your internal organs. They are very vocal again this morning."
She groaned, burying her face back into my neck. "It is a betrayal. My body has no loyalty."
"It has loyalty to breakfast," I said, rubbing her back. "It's crying out for sustenance. It's singing the song of its people."
She giggled into my skin. "Be quiet, Aryan."
"I'm just translating," I defended.
We lay there for a while longer, tangled together. Neither of us made a move to get up. The urgency of the day seemed miles away.
Finally, Wanda sighed. A reluctant sigh.
"What time is it?" she asked.
I craned my neck to look at the clock.
"11:15," I announced.
"Eleven?" She shot up, bracing her hands on my chest. "We slept until eleven?"
"We needed it," I said, putting my hands behind my head and admiring the view of her shock. "We had a big day yesterday."
"Eleven," she repeated, shaking her head. "I have never... I am lazy. You have made me lazy."
"I have made you relaxed," I corrected. "There's a difference. Lazy is neglecting responsibility. Relaxed is recharging for the next round of being awesome."
She looked down at me. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"You have an answer for everything, don't you?"
"It's in the job description," I winked.
She rolled off me, sitting on the edge of the bed. She stretched, her spine popping.
"Bathroom," she announced. "Then food. In that order."
"Agreed," I said, swinging my legs out on my side.
Chapter 57: Magic of the Heart (2)
New
3 days ago
We stood at the double vanity. The mirror was slightly fogged from the humidity of the house.
I grabbed my blue toothbrush. She grabbed her pink one.
I squeezed the toothpaste onto her brush.
"Service," I said.
"Thank you," she mumbled, taking the brush.
We brushed in companionable silence.
Brush, spit, rinse.
I watched her in the mirror. She was leaning over the sink, scrubbing diligently.
I spat and rinsed. I grabbed a towel and wiped my mouth.
"So," I said, leaning my hip against the counter and crossing my arms. "Since we are officially embracing the lazy lifestyle today... shower schedule?"
Wanda spat and rinsed. She stood up, wiping her face. She looked at me in the mirror.
"I am going first," she declared. "My hair is... a situation."
"It's a majestic situation," I argued. "But fair enough. Ladies first."
I paused. I looked at the audience, then back at her.
"Unless..." I started, a mischievous glint in my eye. "You need help? Back scrubbing is a delicate art. Hard to reach places. It requires a professional."
Wanda turned to face me. She leaned back against the counter, mimicking my pose. Her eyes narrowed playfully.
"A professional?" she asked. "Do you have a certification for 'Back Scrubbing'?"
"I have a medical degree," I pointed out. "I know anatomy. I know exactly where the stress accumulates."
She tapped her chin, pretending to consider it.
"It is a generous offer," she mused. "Very... selfless."
"I am a giver," I said solemnly.
She stepped closer. She reached out and flicked the collar of my t-shirt.
"I will consider it," she whispered.
Then, she turned and walked out of the bathroom.
"Consideration is good!" I called after her. "I'll take a 'maybe'!"
I stood there, grinning like an idiot at my reflection.
"She didn't say no," I told the mirror. "Progress."
I showered in my own bathroom (alone, tragically, but hopeful). I dressed in the clothes she had bought… the dark jeans and the forest green flannel.
I went downstairs.
The kitchen was quiet. Wanda was still upstairs.
"Okay," I said, opening the fridge. "Lunch. We need something substantial. Something that says 'I forgive you for making us sleep until noon'."
I pulled out the chicken breasts I had bought.
"Chicken Piccata," I decided. "It's bright. It's zesty. And it fits the theme."
I started prepping. I pounded the chicken flat. I dredged it in flour.
Sizzle.
The smell of butter and browning meat filled the kitchen.
I squeezed the lemons.
"For the Queen," I muttered, whisking the juice into the pan.
I heard footsteps on the stairs.
Wanda walked in. She was wearing leggings and a cream sweater again. Her hair was falling in loose waves around her shoulders. She looked clean and soft.
"It smells..." she inhaled. "Tart."
"Chicken Piccata," I announced, plating the pasta. "Your favorite fruit is the star of the show."
She sat at the island. "You cooked?"
"Someone had to," I said, sliding the plate toward her. "You were busy 'considering' my offers."
She laughed, picking up a fork. "I am still considering it."
We ate.
"This is good," she said, twirling the pasta. "The lemon... it wakes you up."
"That's the idea. We can't be sleepy all day. We have... sofa sitting to do."
"Ah yes," she nodded seriously. "The strenuous activity of sitting."
After lunch, we moved to the living room. I sat on the left side of the L shaped couch. Wanda sat on the right.
We were reading. Or, pretending to read. I was scrolling through a medical journal on my tablet, but mostly I was watching her read a physical book from the library pile.
Ding dong.
We both looked up.
"Popular house," I noted.
"I will get it," Wanda said, marking her page.
She stood up and walked to the door. I followed, leaning against the archway of the living room.
She opened the door.
Standing there was Dottie.
"Hi!" Dottie said, holding a casserole dish covered in foil. "Sorry to intrude!"
"Hello, Dottie," Wanda said warmly. "It is not an intrusion."
"I just wanted to drop this off," Dottie said, handing the heavy dish to Wanda. "Tuna Casserole. It's a thank you. For yesterday."
"Oh," Wanda said, taking the dish. "You did not have to… "
"Nonsense!" Dottie waved her hand. "The whole street is buzzing. You two are the talk of the town. 'The Doctor and the Witch'. It sounds like a fairy tale."
She leaned in, looking past Wanda at me.
"Hello, Aryan!" she waved.
"Hi, Dottie," I called back. "Thanks for the... tuna."
Dottie turned back to Wanda. Her expression turned conspiratorial.
"Listen," she said. "We're having a thing tonight. At Sarah's house. Just a small gathering. A toast to the heroes. We want you both to come."
Wanda hesitated. "Tonight?"
"Yes! 7 PM. Bring the husband!" Dottie winked at me.
Wanda froze.
Husband.
She looked at Dottie. She looked back at me.
I held my breath.
"We would love to come," Wanda said smoothly. "And I will bring him."
"Perfect!" Dottie clapped. "See you at seven!"
She marched down the driveway.
Wanda closed the door. She turned to me, still holding the casserole.
"Husband," I repeated, testing the word.
Wanda walked past me into the kitchen to put the dish away.
"It is... simpler," she said over her shoulder. "To let them think what they want."
"Simpler," I agreed, following her. "Right. Simpler."
I am currently doing a victory lap in my mind. She didn't deny it. She didn't correct her. I am practically engaged by neighborhood law.
We went back to the living room.
Wanda sat down next to me. Closer this time.
"So," she said. "We have plans."
"We do," I said. "Another party. You think we can handle the fame?"
"We handled a medical emergency in the mud yesterday," she murmured. "I think we can handle Sarah's hors d'oeuvres."
She picked up the book she was reading. She handed it to me.
"Finish it," she said.
"The story?"
"Yes. You stopped at the dance. What happens next?"
I took the book. The Shepherd and the Star.
"Okay," I said, opening it to the marked page.
I began to read.
"After the dance, the Shepherd took the Star to the mountain peak..."
I read for an hour.
She sat with her knees pulled up, her chin resting on them, her eyes fixed on my face. It was a loving gaze. It felt like a warm blanket draped over my shoulders.
I'd look up occasionally, catch her eye and smile. She'd smile back, a secret thing.
She's looking at me like I hung the moon, I thought. And the terrifying part is, I think she believes I did.
Chapter 58: Magic of the Heart (3)
New
3 days ago
At 6:00 PM, the "getting ready" ritual began.
"What is the dress code?" I asked, standing in the hallway.
"Dottie said casual," Wanda mused. "But Dottie's casual is pearls and heels."
"So, smart casual," I translated. "No tie. But a jacket."
"Yes," she agreed. "Come."
She led me upstairs to my room.
She opened my closet.
"This," she said, pulling out the navy chinos. "And the white shirt. No tie. Top button undone."
"Scandalous," I teased.
"And the grey blazer," she added, pulling it out.
She handed the pile to me.
"Go change," she commanded. "I will be in my room."
I changed. I looked in the mirror.
The white shirt was crisp. The blazer fit perfectly.
"Not bad, Spencer," I told myself. "Not bad at all."
I went downstairs to the living room to wait.
Ten minutes later, I heard the door open upstairs.
I looked up.
Wanda was descending the stairs.
She was wearing a dress I hadn't seen before. It was deep forest green… the exact color of the flannel shirt I was wearing earlier. It hugged her waist and flowed down to her knees.
She had done something to her hair. It was half up, held back with a clip, the rest cascading down her back.
I stood up. I couldn't help it.
She reached the bottom of the stairs. She stopped.
"Well?" she asked, turning a little circle. "Is it too much? For a Wednesday?"
I walked over to her. I stopped two feet away.
"You look..." I breathed. "You look absolutely beautiful."
She smiled, a blush rising on her cheeks. "Are you sure? It is not the... lighting?"
"It's not the lighting," I said seriously. "It's you. You make the dress look good."
She stepped closer. She reached out and adjusted my lapel, even though it was straight.
"You look handsome, Aryan," she whispered. "Very handsome."
"We match again," I noted, touching the velvet of her sleeve. "Green."
"We are a set," she said.
Sarah's house was packed.
It seemed the entire neighborhood had squeezed into her living room. The air was thick with chatter and the smell of warm cider.
When we walked in, the room went quiet for a second.
Then, a cheer went up.
"The heroes!"
"They're here!"
Herb came over and shook my hand vigorously. "Doc! Good to see you! How's the hand? Sore from compressions?"
"…recovered," I smiled.
We were ushered to the center of the room. Someone put a drink in my hand. Someone else put a plate of cheese in Wanda's.
"A toast!" Sarah shouted, standing on a chair. "To Aryan and Wanda! For quick thinking and steady hands! To the Spencers!"
'The Spencers.'
I glanced at Wanda. She raised her glass.
"To the neighbors," she corrected gently, but she was smiling.
We drank.
The party fractured into smaller groups. I was pulled into a conversation with Herb and a few other guys about the local football team (which I knew nothing about, but faked brilliantly).
Wanda was swept away by Dottie and the ladies to discuss... whatever ladies discussed. Probably my lack of tie.
I was nodding along to Herb's rant about the referee when I felt a presence.
A group of girls. Three of them. Young. Very... sparkly.
They surrounded me.
"Hi," the leader said. She had dark hair and a smile that was a little too practiced. "I'm Jessica. We saw you at the park. You were... intense."
"I was doing my job," I said politely, taking a sip of my drink.
"You're a doctor?" the second girl asked, stepping closer. "That's so... impressive. What kind of doctor?"
"General practice," I said, looking for an exit route. " boring stuff. Colds and flu."
"I have a cold," Jessica purred, touching her throat. "Maybe you could... examine me?"
The other girls giggled.
Oh boy, I thought. This is uncomfortable.
"I'm off the clock," I said, holding up my hand. "And I don't do house calls."
"Make an exception?" Jessica pressed, putting a hand on my blazer sleeve. "Just one?"
She was persistent. And close. Too close.
I looked around for Wanda.
I saw her.
She was across the room, holding a glass of wine. She was looking right at me.
Her eyes were narrowing. Her jaw was set.
I saw the flicker. Just a tiny distortion in the air around Jessica.
Suddenly, Jessica's face changed.
"Ew," she said, looking at her drink. "This tastes like... onions."
"What?" her friend asked.
"My drink!" Jessica gagged. "It tastes like raw onions! And... wet dog!"
"Mine too!" the second girl squeaked.
"And my shoe feels... wet," the third girl complained, looking down. "Did I step in something?"
Jessica looked at me. Then she looked at her friends.
"I need to go," she said, looking green. "I feel... wrong."
They scattered. They practically ran to the bathroom.
I stood there, alone in my circle of personal space.
I looked across the room.
Wanda was sipping her wine. She looked at the picture of serenity. She caught my eye and raised her eyebrows innocently.
I fought back a grin.
She's possessive, I thought lovingly. And I like it.
I walked right up to Wanda.
"Hi," I said.
"Hello," she said. "You seem... popular."
"I have a fan club," I admitted. "Though they seemed to leave in a hurry. Something about onions."
"Strange," Wanda said, taking a sip. "The cider is delicious."
I reached out and took her free hand. I interlaced our fingers.
"You know," I said, leaning down so only she could hear. "Every time I look at you, you become more beautiful. What kind of magic have you done on me?"
She looked up at me. Her eyes sparkled.
"Are you sure it is magic, Aryan?" she teased. "And not your heart?"
"Well," I said. "My heart rate is elevated. My pupils are dilated. My serotonin levels are spiking. Clinically speaking... it looks like affection."
"Affection," she repeated softly.
"Maybe even... infatuation," I added.
"Maybe," she whispered.
She squeezed my hand.
"Let's go home," she said. "I am tired of sharing you."
"Agreed," I said immediately. "Let's go."
We said our goodbyes. We escaped into the night.
Chapter 59: Wine Stain Strategy (1)
New
3 days ago
[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
The walk home was a study in gravitational physics.
Technically, we were two separate entities walking on a paved sidewalk. But practically, we were a binary star system collapsing into each other.
I held her hand. I had my fingers laced through hers, my grip tight, pulling her arm so that her shoulder was constantly bumping against my bicep.
"You are walking very close," Wanda noted, her voice drifting up from somewhere near my shoulder.
"I am optimizing body heat retention," I lied smoothly, squeezing her hand. "It's dropping below sixty degrees. Hypothermia is a silent killer, Wanda. I'm saving your life."
"It is sixty eight degrees," she countered, looking at the sky where the stars were putting on a show just for us. "And you are warm."
"I run hot," I admitted. "High metabolism. It's the burden of the energetic."
"Or the burden of the ego," she teased.
I stopped walking. I turned to face her on the sidewalk, pulling her hand so she swung around to face me. The streetlamp above us hummed, casting a cone of amber light that isolated us from the rest of Westview.
"My ego is fragile," I said, leaning down slightly. "It took a beating tonight. I was objectified. I was viewed as a piece of meat by the youth of America."
Wanda's eyes narrowed. A flash of that beautiful possessiveness flickered in the green depths.
"They were... persistent," she said, the word dripping with a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.
"They were annoying," I corrected. "And they had terrible taste in beverages. Who drinks a punch that tastes like onions?"
A satisfied smile touched her lips. "People with bad intentions."
"Remind me to always have good intentions," I whispered, lifting her hand to my lips and kissing her knuckles.
"You usually do," she murmured.
We continued walking. I pulled her even closer this time, wrapping my arm around her waist, my hand resting on the curve of her hip. She leaned into me, her head resting on my shoulder.
We reached the house. It stood dark and quiet, a sanctuary waiting for us.
I unlocked the door. We stepped inside.
We walked into the living room. I shed my blazer, draping it over the back of the armchair. Wanda took off her scarf, folding it meticulously and placing it on the side table.
She sat on the sofa. She sat in the middle, leaving space on either side.
She looked at me. Her expression was unreadable, but I knew that look. It was calm before the storm. She was still thinking about Jessica. She was still thinking about the way those girls had touched my arm.
"Stay there," I said. "I have an idea."
I went to the kitchen. I opened the wine fridge. I pulled out a bottle of Pinot Noir.
I grabbed two crystal glasses. I pulled the cork (pop) and poured the wine. The liquid glugged into the glasses.
I walked back into the living room.
"Here," I said, handing her a glass. "To the victors."
Wanda took the glass. She swirled the wine, watching the legs run down the side of the crystal.
"To the onions," she said dryly, taking a sip.
I sat down next to her. I took a sip of my own wine.
Then, I sighed. I put the glass down on the coaster with a heavy clink. I brought my hand up to my temple and rubbed it.
"Ouch," I whispered.
Wanda looked at me instantly.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Headache," I lied. "A migrainous aura. It's the lights. Or maybe the small talk. My brain isn't built for that much social lubrication."
I looked at her with my best 'wounded puppy' eyes.
"It's throbbing right behind the eyes," I added for dramatic effect.
Wanda set her glass down. She shifted on the couch, turning her body toward me.
"Do you need a pill?" she asked. "Water?"
"No," I said. "Pills take too long. I need... pressure and circulation."
I looked at her lap. Then I looked at her eyes.
"Could you...?" I gestured vaguely.
Wanda smiled. It was an indulgent smile. She knew. She definitely knew I was milking it. But she patted her thigh.
"Come here, patient," she said.
I swung my legs up onto the couch and laid my head in her lap.
It was better than any pillow. Her legs were warm under the velvet dress. I looked up at her face. From this angle, she looked like a goddess.
"Is this acceptable?" she asked, looking down at me.
"It's medical grade," I sighed, closing my eyes.
She reached down. Her fingers found my temples.
She began to massage.
[Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]
She looked down at him.
He was smiling. A secret smile that he thought he was hiding.
He is faking, she thought. He just wants to be petted.
And she was more than happy to oblige.
She moved her fingers in circular motions against his temples. His skin was warm. She could feel the pulse beating steadily beneath her fingertips.
Mine, she thought again.
She moved her hands up, threading her fingers through his hair. It was thick and soft. She scratched her nails gently against his scalp.
He let out a low groan of pleasure.
"That," he murmured. "Right there. That is the spot."
"You are very tense," she noted, her voice low.
"It's the stress," he claimed. "Being handsome is hard work."
She laughed softly. "You are ridiculous."
She smoothed the hair back from his forehead. She traced the line of his hairline.
She looked at the glass of wine on the table next to her.
A thought occurred to her. A playful thought.
He was too confident. He thought he had won the evening with his fake headache and his charm.
She reached out with her left hand and picked up her wine glass. She kept her right hand in his hair, keeping him distracted.
"Are you feeling better?" she asked, taking a sip.
"Much better," he mumbled, eyes still closed. "I think I can see the light."
"Good," she said.
She moved the glass. She hovered it over his chest.
She tilted her wrist. Just a fraction.
"Oops," she whispered.
The wine spilled.
The dark red liquid cascaded out of the glass and splashed directly onto the center of his shirt.
Chapter 60: Wine Stain Strategy (2) [18+]
New
3 days ago
[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
Cold.
Wet.
Shock.
My eyes flew open. I shot up, scrambling into a sitting position.
"Whoa!" I gasped, looking down at my chest.
My shirt (my beautiful shirt) was now tie dyed in the shade of 'expensive mistake'. The wine was soaking through my skin.
"Oh no!" Wanda gasped. She put the glass down hurriedly. Her hand flew to her mouth. "Aryan! I am so sorry! My hand... it slipped!"
I looked at her.
Her eyes were wide. She looked horrified.
But the corner of her mouth... it was twitching.
She did that on purpose, I realized. The Scarlet Witch just dumped wine on me.
"It... slipped?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"I was... distracted," she said, reaching out to dab ineffectively at my chest with her hand. "By the... massage. I am so clumsy today."
"Right," I said slowly. "Very clumsy."
I pulled the wet fabric away from my skin. "Well. This is ruined."
"We must wash it," she said immediately. "Now. Before it sets. Red wine stains are... permanent."
She stood up. She grabbed my hand.
"Come," she commanded. "To the laundry."
She pulled me off the couch. She dragged me through the kitchen, toward the small utility room at the back of the house.
Her grip was firm.
The laundry room smelled of detergent and confined space.
Wanda let go of my hand and turned to the washing machine. She opened the lid.
"Give me the shirt," she said.
I stood there. The wine was cold on my chest.
"You want the shirt?" I asked.
"Yes," she said, turning to face me. "Take it off."
I reached for the buttons.
Button one. My fingers felt clumsy.
Button two.
I watched her watching me. Her gaze followed my fingers.
I undid the buttons. I shrugged the shirt off my shoulders. I pulled my arms out of the sleeves.
I handed her the sodden mess of cotton.
I was shirtless.
I'm not flexing. Okay, maybe I'm flexing a little. Just standing up straight. Posture is important.
Wanda took the shirt. She threw it into the machine. She poured in the detergent. She hit the start button.
The machine began to hum. Water rushed in.
She turned back to me.
She reached for a clean washcloth sitting on the dryer. She walked over to the utility sink and turned on the tap.
She wet the cloth. She wrung it out.
She turned to me.
"You have wine on your skin," she said softly. "It is sticky."
She stepped into my personal space.
She was so close I could feel the heat radiating off her.
She raised the cloth.
She pressed the cool fabric against my collarbone.
I inhaled sharply.
She dragged the cloth down.
She wiped the hollow of my throat. She wiped the center of my chest. She moved in slow circles.
"Wanda," I breathed.
"Shh," she whispered. "I am fixing my mistake."
She moved the cloth lower. Over my pecs. Down my sternum. Across my abs.
Her eyes were locked on her hand. She was focused.
My skin burned where she touched it. The contrast between the cool cloth and the fire in my blood was maddening.
"You missed a spot," she murmured, moving the cloth to my side, near my ribs.
I couldn't take it anymore.
I reached out. I caught her wrist.
I stopped her hand.
The room went silent, save for the rhythmic swish swish of the washing machine.
Wanda stopped. She looked up.
Her eyes met mine.
They were the eyes of a woman who was done waiting. They were full of a naked desire that mirrored my own.
"Aryan," she whispered.
I took the cloth from her hand. I dropped it on the floor.
I looked at her. I looked at her lips.
I stepped closer. One inch.
She tilted her head up.
I brought my hand up to her face. I cupped her cheek. My thumb brushed her lower lip.
"You did that on purpose," I whispered.
"Yes," she admitted. "I wanted to see you."
"You see me," I said.
"I want more," she said.
I lowered my head.
Our lips met.
As soon as my lips touched hers, a circuit closed. The energy that had been building between us for days ignited.
She tasted like red wine and desire.
She made a small sound in her throat, a whimper of need and opened her mouth to me.
I groaned, deepening the kiss. I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her so tight against me that I couldn't tell where I ended and she began.
Her hands flew to my bare shoulders. Her fingers dug into my skin. She pulled me down, demanding more.
We stumbled back. My back hit the washing machine. The vibration of the spin cycle hummed against my spine, matching the frantic rhythm of my heart.
I lifted her up. She wrapped her legs around my waist instantly.
I kissed her jaw. Her neck. The sensitive spot behind her ear.
"Aryan," she gasped, her hands tangling in my hair.
I carried her out of the laundry room. I didn't break the kiss. If I stopped kissing her, I felt like I would stop breathing.
We moved through the kitchen. We knocked a chair over. Neither of us cared.
We reached the stairs.
I took them two at a time.
We reached the hallway.
I kicked my bedroom door open.
I walked to the bed. I lowered her onto the mattress.
I followed her down.
The room was lit only by the moonlight and the faint glow of the streetlamp outside.
I hovered over her.
She looked up at me. Her hair was spread across my pillow. Her lips were swollen. Her chest was heaving.
She looked like a masterpiece.
"Hi," I whispered, breathless.
"Hi," she whispered back.
She reached up and pulled me down.
We kissed again.
My hands roamed over her body. The velvet dress was soft, but I wanted the skin underneath.
"The dress," I murmured against her lips. "It's... in the way."
"Take it off," she challenged.
I found the zipper at the back. I pulled it down slowly. The sound was loud in the quiet room.
She shrugged the dress off her shoulders. It pooled at her waist.
I looked at her.
"You are..." I shook my head, unable to find the words. "You are perfect."
She smiled, a beautiful thing.
I ran my hand down the curve of her spine. She shivered, pressing closer to me.
"Are you sure?" I asked, looking into her eyes. "Wanda, are you sure?"
She reached up and touched my face.
"I have never been more sure of anything," she said. "I want you."
"I am yours," I promised. "I have always been yours."
I kissed her.
As our lips met, the world around us faded into a haze of warmth and shared breath, the soft sheets beneath us a cradle for our entwined bodies.
My hands slid up Wanda's sides, tracing the curve of her hips with a reverence that belied the fire building inside me, her skin like silk under my fingertips.
She arched into me, her breasts pressing against my chest, nipples hardening into tight peaks that brushed my skin with electric sparks.
Her lips parted against mine, deepening the kiss with a hunger that pulled a low groan from my throat, her tongue dancing with mine in a rhythm that echoed the pulse of our racing hearts.
I could feel her desire in the way her fingers dug into my shoulders, nails leaving faint trails of sensation that made my cock twitch against her thigh, already throbbing with need as it nestled against the soft curls of her mound.
Wanda's eyes fluttered open for a moment, locking onto mine with that piercing gaze that always stripped me bare, her breath coming in heated gasps that mingled with my own.