[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.